Title: an unexpected end
Fandom: Guardian (TV)
Rating: G-rated
Length: 877 words
Notes: Inspired by an exchange on sid_guardian about decoupling goodness/intelligence and beauty, and by a discussion on my journal of second person POV. From yabla.com’s pinyin dictionary: qīng wā CL隻|只[zhi1] frog (slang) ugly guy
Tags: Original Youchu character, Zhao Yunlan, Shen Wei, Chu Shuzhi, Guo Changcheng, Outsider POV, First and Second Person POV, Youchu character death, Compassion, Handwavy Post-Canon, Oops this was supposed to be a drabble.
Summary: Curled and weak on my bed of rough sacking, looking down through a jagged hole, I can only hope you won’t find me. I’m already dying; let my existence end peacefully.



You enter the shadows with flashlights held high, beams of light dancing over the rubble. Four of you. I count your ringing footsteps.

“Hei-laoge, I know that stench,” you say.

“Youchu,” you say.

“Changcheng, do you have your baton?” you say.

Curled and weak on my bed of rough sacking, looking down through a jagged hole, I can only hope you won’t find me. I’m already dying; let my existence end peacefully.

Long ago I knew a lonely old man with cataracts. Ma Fang didn’t care who I was. He endured my smell and taught me to read so I could be his eyes. In rough, stumbling syllables, I read his daughter’s letters aloud. She was a gardener and a poet.

Soon after Ma Fang died, the letters stopped. No humans have seen me since. I’ve lived alone, shunning my vicious cousins, scavenging for wildlife, finding companions in books. It’s been many decades now, and I’m weary.

Your footsteps grow louder. An instinctive roar swells in my throat, but I gulp it back.

“Was there a library here, Chief Zhao?” you say. “Oh, Chu-ge, have you read this one? It’s really good.”

“Focus,” you say.

Fear sparks deep inside me. My treasures! You can’t take them! But I’m too weak to protect myself, let alone my treasures.

“Someone was living here,” you say. “If the Youchu got them—”

You don’t finish the thought, but the threat is as sharp and clear as a winter wind.

You climb the stairs in a clatter of shoes.

“Maybe a homeless scholar? Shen Wei, you’d know—do scholars read trashy romance novels?” you say.

“It’s not unheard of,” you say.

In desperation, I crawl under the sacking. The concrete beneath is bruising-hard. My tumours pulse and ache. And it’s too late anyway. Your beams of light flash through the doorway

Panicking, dragging my bed with me, I shuffle back towards the bookcase housing my most precious volumes. It’s agony, but I daren’t make a sound.

Your steps fall quiet. A blade sings. I peek out from beneath my bed.

“You, of the Youchu tribe,” you say, sternly. “You have gone beyond your boundary—”

“Hei Pao daren,” you call from the next room, “there are animal bones here, but no human remains.”

“Yes, I don’t think it’s been hurting anyone,” you call. “I think it’s been reading.”

You hand off your torch and crouch near me.

“Zhao Yunlan, take care,” you say, standing, directing the beam.

Slowly you fold back the sacking to bare the rest of my face. “A Youchu scholar, hey? Now I’ve seen everything. Do you have a name?”

Remembering Ma Fang’s words, I gulp for breath. My full voice had scared the old man at first, so now I whisper. “Qing Wa. I’m dying.”

I look up. Your four faces form a collage of shock, revulsion, and pity.

The blade vanishes. You drop to one knee and, with one hand, make a glinting ball of darkness which you push into my chest. Sure it’s an attack, I brace for annihilation, but the sensation is soft and gentle. My pain dulls, and my breath eases. I close my stinging eyes, unable to express my gratitude.

“Qing Wa,” you say, “you are right: your end is very near. I’m sorry.” You stand again.

“Lao Qing,” you say, “this is no place to die. Would you like us to take you somewhere more comfortable?”

Alarmed, I open my eyes and shuffle back. “Stay here with books.”

These stories are my friends. I don’t want to die alone.

You nod and say over your shoulder, “Xiao Guo, Lao Chu, see what we have in the car.”

You clatter away in a flurry of movement.

“Qing Wa,” you say, seriously, “are there others like you?”

“Don’t know. Been alone for—” My breath fails me.

You stand up and dust off your jeans. “It’s something to consider,” you say. “Time for a romantic get-away to the forbidden place?”

“Don’t joke about that,” you say.

Hurried footsteps approach.

“Ah,” you say, “here we go.” Grimacing, you peel away the sacking completely and cover me with a soft blanket. You feed me small pieces of sweet dried meat. I struggle onto my elbow and wash them down with sips of clear water from your red plastic cup.

You wander around browsing my books, and when you pick one up, you glance at me and say, “Oh, sorry. May I look?”

I whisper, “Yes.”

I’ve always been jealous of them before, but now it’s good to know that, after I’m gone, my friends might find new friends.

“Qing Wa, thank you,” you say. “You have taught us something important today.”

That kindness enters my heart. It’s the last living thing I hear. The cup falls from my grasp and clatters to the floor, as my elbow slides out from under me. My world empties. My energy fails. I feel myself slipping away.

Before I disperse completely, something reaches for my spirit in the emptiness: a soft white glow. It pulls me into focus, inviting me for one last moment to share my past—my rough mindless childhood in the wilderness, escape into the sunlight, Ma Fang’s kindness, my life here, my many books. It feels a blessing to be seen, all of me, from start to finish.

And then I, Qing Wa, am no more.



END