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Jinzha doesn't remember much from his childhood.
Well. That's a lie, if he has to be honest.
He remembers too much of his childhood.
He remembers, for example, his mother.
As far back as he's capable of remembering, her sweet smile. Her tired eyes, dark from exhaustion. Her soothing voice as she sings to him, braiding a ribbon into his hair.
As a child, he's always wondered why she's so exhausted. It isn't like he’s a miserable child, compared to the wildcards that were his two brothers.
He was always obedient, sitting when asked. Obeying every word spoken.
Now he knows. He knows too much.
He remembers his father.
His father is less kind than his mother. Less lenient.
He also isn't as exhausted, somehow. His mother is always so tired, so sad, but his father is energetic.
Well. Not energetic, per se, but he's better off than his mother.
And it's always been so weird to him. To Jinzha, as a child.
Because his mother is better off than most women, really. Li Jing is wealthy, a general. He has no concubines and a multitude of servants at his beck and call. There are treasures not even an average mortal general could dream of, things from stories that mortal women would tell each other, as they wonder and tease about the perks of living with immortal beings.
Pearls, heavy earrings, bracelets ladened with gold. Diamonds, emeralds. Rings with sapphires and other jewels he can barely remember.
And that's only a small portion of it.
His mother, Lady Yin, belongs to a human family. A mere human government official with not much to his name is her father.
But somehow, for some miraculous reason, she catches the eye of his father. She catches Li Jing’s eyes.
So why isn't she happy?
Jinzha remembers sitting in his courtyard, working on his calligraphy with pursed lips. He remembers wondering, why is his mother always so sad, and remembers being ignorant enough to wonder if she wants more?
Li Jing isn't the most affectionate, that much is given. But isn't his mother better off than most women? Isn't she lucky?
He's heard the servants gossip, on days he's too tired to continue studying. They share stories and giggle as they hang the silk robes and clear the night soil, murmuring to each other about how they as they are was as lucky as Lady Yin.
She never wants for anything, Lady Yin. She has everything a woman can dream of ― a wealthy husband with fame and fortune at his fingertips, a prodigal son (not to be a narcissist, but Jinzha's more than aware of his own talents event at such an age), and furthermore, she never needs to worry about her status as the di wife! She never needs to wonder when Li Jing would bring another woman into their home, nor worry about her maidservants warming his bed! She never needs to fight or bicker with other women, nor ever worry about her children (plural, Father says the larger their family, the better) fighting for status or attention.
“Maybe she's ungrateful,” one of the maids would comment, slapping her hands against a particular silk robe that belongs to his mother. The fabric is soaked wet, and the gems sewed into the fabric gleam in the sunlight.
(It's his favorite, this robe of his mother's. Jinzha likes the gold thread on its hems, how it's the first thing that catches ones eyes. There's a frayed end on one of the sleeves ― his mother claims that's his doing, from when he was much, much younger, and still wet behind the ears. He would chew on her sleeves while she rocked him to sleep, and she couldn't bare to mend it when he liked it so much.
He doesn't chew it anymore, though. Jinzha's much too old to waste his time doing something so silly.
But he does like playing with it, on the occasions he's allowed to visit his mother's courtyard, and she wears the robe he used to chew on. He likes to tug on the frayed ends while she tells him a story about her childhood, or when she scolds him for not eating enough.)
“Oh, how I wish I was a spoiled minster's daughter,” another servant girl complains, her voice mournful. “To have my hands as soft as feathers instead of rough and worn from washing.” She spares her batch of clothes a glare, one that Jinzha doesn't miss. “She's so lucky, that Lady Yin. You know, I heard a few ministers from afar has offered the Master their daughters hands.”
The first maid sighs. “And?”
“And the Master rejected them.” The second one sniffs. “See? The Lady is blessed with such good fortune, and she's still unhappy. Why, if I were in her place, I would serve my husband hand and foot like the Emperor himself.”
“But you aren't in her place,” the first corrects, and wags a finger at the second. “And you should watch your tongue. If Master hears you gossiping about his marital affairs, he'll stuff you in a pig basket and drown you for the disrespect.”
Jinzha takes that as his opportunity to quietly leave.
He spends the next few days eying his mother, repeating the maids words in his mind.
His mother should be happy, should be more than satisfied, but she isn't. Her skin is pale, there are dark circles visible under her eyes, and is it his imagination, or does her cheeks seem sunken?
But why? Jinzha stares at his calligraphy.
He's gone off the script again, a dark ink blot bleeding through the material and causing a stain against his desk. The mark makes his eye twitch, his brush clenched between his fingers.
His mother never wants for a meal, for there's nothing his father can't provide. Everyday is a feast, and her allowance is plenty. She never needs for materialistic things, and though Father is busy, he always spares her his time.
But she's still so unhappy, and Jinzha can't understand why….
Li Jing doesn't have those dark circles, though he spends most of his time in his office, or patrolling Chentang Pass, or training.
He does, however, have what the maid servants describe as a fixed scowl, as if trouble is always brewing on the horizon. Jinzha supposes that maybe there is.
Li Jing is…complicated, to Jinzha.
He's not, cruel, if that should be a term he's allowed to use.
Sure, like he's said, Li Jing isn't the most affectionate. He doesn't tell Jinzha that he's proud of him, or smiles when he does something well.
(Actually, Jinzha thinks once while staring at his father's arm. Wrapped in bandages as he's given a cup of tea by an official visiting, he doesn't believe his father can smile at all.)
But he…cares. Maybe….
Though, when he's older, Jinzha can't put a finger on a time Li Jing has shown he cares, but he's sure he does. A father always loves his children, in his own particular way.
“Don't disappoint me,” Li Jing says.
It's a memory that Jinzha remembers distinctively.
He's four, showing amazing prowess for a child his age, and his father already has plans for him ― scholars and martial teachers, an immortal who will accept him as a disciple at that age.
(It's strange. He doesn't remember seeing his mother, back then. It's almost as if she hadn't cared that her child, her first born, was so talented and blessed with good fortune.
Or maybe, Jinzha thinks, she had been occupied with his little brother, Muzha.)
This particular memory, Li Jing is overseeing his studies for the day. It was one of the rare days when he was allowed to be at home. The entire night prior, rain had fallen so much the horses couldn't trudge through the mud and grime on the paths, and thus, Jinzha's teachers couldn't make their appearance.
But it was fine. Li Jing didn't mind teaching his son.
He looks up, strands of chestnut brown hair falling over his forehead. He's occupied, at that time, with the scroll he has to study ― something about history, or whatever. It's not his fault he can't remember, okay?
“What?”
Li Jing looks much younger here. Though, he hasn't changed at all, maybe. His expression is still stern, a corner of his lip arched. He's staring at Jinzha, across the low table.
“You are my son,” says Li Jing in a tone that leaves no room for arguing. Not that Jinzha would dare to do as such. “And, my first born. You are the pride of our family, the face that represents us. My legacy depend on you.”
Jinzha's gaze flits to the parchment before him. The words are mush, a mix of symbols his brain doesn't feel like understanding.
“You wouldn't disappoint me, would you, Jinzha?” Li Jing repeats, and a finger hooks under his chin. Jinzha stares into his father's eyes, very much unlike his own, and he wonders if he's imagining the gentle gleam in them as his expression softens.
“I will have many sons,” Li Jing muses. “But you are my first. My pride.”
“And I won't let you down,” Jinzha answers.
Jinzha wants to believe he's kept that promise to his father. He wants to believe that he has done his duty, as his father asks him too.
He never slacks off. Even when he's sick, he studies and trains until his vision is but a blur, and his mother sends a servant to send him to bed.
He never backtalks. Never disobeys, even when his father's demands seem near impossible (honestly, who asks a six year old to copy over three thousand rules in one day…?) or when his teachers are too rude.
He's obedient. He listens.
That's…that's enough, isn't it? Shouldn't it be enough?
“Da-ge, I hear you'll be picked soon for cultivation.”
Jinzha spares his brother a glance. They sit together, on the rare instance their schedule happens to match, and eat cakes one of the servants made for them, seated in the verandah in Muzha’s room.
His younger brother's courtyard is..nice. The feng shui isn't bad, and if you ignore the drab grey colors that his brother seems so fond of and the scattered weapons and armory, it's not…so bad?
It's duller than Jinzha's though. Father has always allowed him free reign when it comes to decorating his own courtyard. Perhaps he should give his brother some advice…
“Really?” He stares into his cup, his reflection broken by the ripples that break across the tea’s surface.
“Really.” Muzha's voice is tight, though he keeps his expression blank. The way his lips twist at the corners reminds him of his father.
(“You have your father's talents, but your brother has his looks,” rings the voice of an official that had once visited their home.)
“I heard Father talking to Mother,” Muzha continues, his voice tinged with envy, probably. He tries to hide it, but it's not that hard to tell. There's only a year difference between them, and anyway, what kind of brother would Jinzha be if he couldn't read his own brother's emotions? “He's planning a celebration for you, before he sends you off. Maybe even invite the ministers too. An entire party, just for you.”
“Mmh.” Jinzha smiles faintly. “And what do you think, er-di?”
Muzha stills. “What would you want me to think? Isn't Father's opinion enough?”
He can't argue with that.
Mother does not look at him when he takes her leave. Her expression is unreadable, a false smile painted on her expression.
He's noticed, for a while, that his mother has stopped looking at him. She still smiles and pats his head, but she never looks at him. At least, not to make eye contact…
He bids his farewell, and stays silent.
Nezha. The Third Son.
Jinzha is not surprised when his father hurries him back home to meet his new brother. He's also not surprised to see Muzha there, nor is he surprised to see the weary look on his father's expression.
He is suprised to see the look on his mother's face. Tired, but happy, as she holds the bundle that is his brother.
He's given the opportunity to hold him.
“Meet your brother,” she says, her voice hoarse. “Nezha.”
Jinzha isn't aware if he should laugh or cry. Nezha, his san-di, is a literal ball of flesh, with only a pair of eyes that blinked up at him, and a weird little mouth that coos.
“A monster,” he hears his father spit as that ball of flesh escapes his arms, slipping past the running guards and shrieking maidservants to the lotus pond outside.
“Our little brother is lovely,” Jinzha quips to his mother, even as he hears Li Jing yelling for a weapon. “You have once more blessed our family with another…healthy, son.”
He notices, now, how small her smile is.
“My son is too kind.”
And they leave it at that.
“Your cultivation is going well, I take it?”
Jinzha perks up. After the initial incident of his brother's rather…peculiar circumstances, Li Jing had all but stormed back to his room, his expression mauled with a fury no one wanted to test. For the life of him, Jinzha can't understand why―isn’t it a good thing that his brother is destined for greatness? Sure, the circumstances of his birth are….peculiar, and it is jarring to see this day-old child walk around on two legs….but that's fine! Another son to make him proud!
Isn't that would Li Jing wants?
“Yes.” He thinks back on his master ― Guangfa Tianzun ― is odd. He reminds Jinzha of his father in terms of personality, but he's also more lenient in comparison. “My master has taught me everything I should need to know.”
Li Jing ‘mmhs’ and rubs his wrist. Jinzha isn't sure if it's his imagination, but it feels as if his father has aged overnight.
“Good. At least you have some worth.”
Jinzha keeps his lips sealed shut, even if he's more than aware that he is the only one his father has asked to speak privately with. Even if he's aware that Muzha has been waiting for an opportunity to prove his worth as well, training twice as hard as Jinzha has to be accepted by an immortal.
He wants to argue, maybe. That his brothers (yes, including his newborn san-di) have some worth. That they have their own talents if given room to grow….
“When will you be returning?”
“Huh?”
Li Jing's expression is annoyed. Probably because he expects Jinzha to remain focused at all times, and he swears it's an accident. He's really only wondering about his little brother―
“Your master will expect you back, won't he?” Li Jing turns his back on him. He's staring out the window, where the moon has just risen on the horizon. At his master's cave, Jinzha used to spend his time staring up at the moon, and envies the Lady who dwells there.
His gaze shifts to the opposite end of the room. Scrolls sitting on a shelf, knick-knacks of sorts that Li Jing has never bothered with.
There's a straw doll that sits in a corner of that shelf. As far as he's remembered, it's been sitting there, beady black eyes staring lifelessly back at him.
“Well,” he hestitates. “I was…well, this son of yours was hoping to, um, with your permission, of course―”
Li Jing spares him a glance. “Unless your tongue has been torn from where it sits in your mouth, then I suggest you speak clearly.” He sniffs. “No son of mine should be stuttering like some woman.”
Jinzha feels his face burn. He coughs against his closed fist, and tries again. “I want to stay a little while longer. Catch up with Mother, and our little brother.”
Li Jing isn't looking at him again.
“Your mother is healthy. As is that th―your brother.” He says in a miffed tone. “There's no reason to slack on your training.”
Jinzha deflates.
“But, as it has been a long time….and your master has granted you permission.” Li Jing raises a hand at him. “Do as you please. As long as you continue your training, yes?”
He bows his head and nods. “Yes, Father. You have my word!”
Muzha does not want to spend time with him.
“My master insists I return right away,” he mumbles, bowing before his elder brother. “Forgive me, da-ge. Perhaps another time.”
That's…fine. Disappointing, but fine. Muzha only wishes to please his father, and Li Jing is a difficult man to please already. Jinzha can only wish him luck.
His mother also does not wish to spend time with.
Lady Yin grants no excuse. Her maids are the ones who apologize on her behalf, saying she needs to rest. Three years of pregnancy can take its toll, especially on a mere mortal woman.
He's not upset, really! He gives her his best wishes and doesn't stay to bother her any longer.
Nezha does not―
His youngest brother squats at the edge of the lotus pond, a net in his hand. His previously cleaned dou-dou is covered in mud, as are his face and tiny little hands.
As Jinzha kneels besides him, he takes note of the pink ribbons that are tied into his hair. The hairstyle is, and if he's being honest, girlish, and cute, but he's more interested in those ribbons that he swore he's seen in his mother's jewelry box.
“What are we doing?” He asks, his voiced hushed.
Nezha doesn't look at him. He wrinkles his cute little nose (a habit Muzha also has, how sweet) and sniffs. “None of ya’ business.”
Ah.
“It's not polite to be rude to people,” he says kindly.
“And it's not polite to get chopped by a sword.” Nezha finally looks at him. His eyes are like their father's, dark and unreadable, but his face reminds him of their mother's. “What do you want?”
“I'm not allowed to spend time with my little brother?”
Nezha's mouth forms an ‘o’ shape, as if realization has struck him. He tilts on his heels, eyes narrowed as he rakes over Jinzha's (he hopes) smiling form.
“Oh,” he says then, and uses a muddy hand to push at his knee. Jinzha's glad it's his disciple robes he wears (he's pretty sure his master would faint with shame at the muddy handprint visible on its fabric). “You look like our mom.”
So he's been told.
Jinzha gently reaches a hand out, testing the waters, but when Nezha stays still, he places that hand on his head.
“I do, don't I?” He muses, watching the smaller boy out. Then adds, “I'm Jinzha.”
“I know that. I'm Nezha.” Nezha swats his hand away and returns his attention to the pond. “But you know that too, right?”
“Mhm.”
“And I have another brother. Muck-face-zha or whatever.” Nezha reaches a hand out towards the rippling pond water. Jinzha grabs him back by the scruff of his neck, unable to hide the smile on his lips that the nickname.
At least, he's glad Nezha has become acquainted with Muzha. He'd been worried they would never have met, what with Muzha's determination to train until he's, hopefully not, dead. It wouldn't do for the three sons of General Li Jing to not be acquainted, not when they were born of the same womb, no?
“What are you doing?” Jinzha asks, again, because he is slightly curious. This brother of his isn't exactly normal, if he has to be honest.
But Mother certainly likes him. Maybe moreso than her previous sons, because he recalls that these ribbons were special to her, their mother.
“They were the last gift my family had given me,” rang her words from his cbildhood. “I'd much rather have them tucked away than to ruin them, don't you agree?”
They're certainly not clean now, Jinzha thinks and drags his brother back to the shore once again. “The pond is dirty. What are you trying to do now?”
Nezha sounds offended as he writhes in his hold. “Frogs! I'm catching frogs! Unhand me, vile woman!”
“I'm a man.”
“Vile man!”
Jinzha leaves him to throw himself into the pond, even as he stays near the surface to ensure he doesn't die on the same day he's born.
(He'd be a fool to not notice how Lady Yin treats him. Her Nezha.
There's a part of him that feels jealous…before he pretends not to notice it.
Jealousy is an evil emotion. It would do him no good to feel it.)
“Flog him.”
Jinzha flinches.
He's trying, he's trying not to stare at his brother, bound hand and foot before him, his expression written with pure rage and hatred.
He's trying not to stare at his father, injured, hiding in his master's caves, and he's certainly not trying to catch his master's eyes, not at the switch in his hands.
For the first time in his life, Jinzha almost wants to disagree. That he doesn't want to hit his brother, his san-di, violent as he is, that maybe such a punishment is too extreme. He's just a child―
“Hit him.” Master's voice is firm. His hand rests on his shoulder, and he squeezes. “Unless, you wish for him to hurt your father?”
Jinzha remains silent.
“General Li almost killed himself because of the boy that stands before you. Though you share flesh and blood, is Li Jing not your father do? Is it not his blood that runs through your veins?”
But so is my mother's, Jinzha thinks, and he spares Nezha a glance.
Because, he's heard of it. What happened at Chentang Pass, Nezha's death and his mother's mourning.
And he's happy to know that his brother isn't dead, really, but he also wishes that they could've reunited in different circumstances.
Jinzha clenches the switch until splinters dig into his palms.
“Jinzha. You may have many brothers, many siblings. But only one father in this lifetime.”
He exhales.
(He can't look at him. He can't look at the welts that are visible on his skin, or the tearstains on his cheeks. He can't look at him, not without hearing his sobs.
Nezha has always had such tender skin, just like their mother's. Jinzha can't look at him when his injuries are so visible.)
Li Jing thanks him. Of course he does.
What a filial son Jinzha is, that he willingly flogs his brother for his father's sake.
To teach him discipline, they say.
He's just a child, Jinzha wants to argue.
But he shouldn't. Filial children don't argue, only and obey and serve.
Even as he so desperately wants to see Nezha. To apply ointment to his wounds and apologize for hurting him. And to his mother, for not protecting him. He has to sit still, listen to the praises Li Jing sings him for being so loyal.
He's too sick to visit them when he finally leaves Li Jing's office.
No one stops him as he takes his leave.