Another thing that I've been thinking about lately is the AO3 tagging system. I know fanfiction has a different culture around it to published literature and that most of us are writing for fun. I'm writing fic for fun as well, of course, but I do like to engage critically with my own writing, original, fanfic or otherwise. Evaluating and discussion of fic is an aspect of fandom I really enjoy, though I only do this privately as fanfiction culture and etiquette generally advises against unsolicited criticism. Which makes sense! It's totally fine to not want unsolicited feedback from total strangers on something that you just do for fun!

Anway, the reason I mention this is that increasingly engaging with literary criticism has kind of turned me off extensive tagging. AO3 has a fantastic tagging and filtering system with so many options, and I appreciate that there's already an option for me to hide the extra tags. But I don't love tagging my own work extensively. I like leaving ambiguity, showing the reader something and letting them draw their own conclusions. This is one of the funnest parts of reading for me, and sometimes tagging things like 'dubious consent' or 'unreliable narrator' makes debate and discussion impossible. By directly revealing plot twists or character traits, by choosing to explicitly define relationships or scenes, it removes the nuance and ambiguity that's so fun to discuss. Was this character meant to be morally grey? Or are we supposed to view them as a hero? I'd rather not define these answers - sometimes I don't even know myself.

I don't really know where I'm going with this, expect perhaps to say that from here on out, I'll likely strip back the tags in my work. I know that this will make my fics less visible and probably less accessible to those who prefer extensive taggings and warnings. And as usual, I'll provide extensive taggings and warnings to anyone who requests them offsite. But fanfiction is an indulgent hobby, and I want to indulge my own desires. If you can't write fic you enjoy, what's the point?

Stalking to Thy Sullen Grave
PhD candidate Xiao Xingchen visits rural Hungary to research his folklore dissertation and runs into a snag on the very first night — the inn recommended by his advisor has been replaced by a morgue. Luckily, the charismatic mortician allows him to stay regardless. Xue Yang is a bit eccentric, but achingly funny and an alltogether agreeable housemate. But as Xingchen collects more horror stories from the locals, he begins to suspect that their terrifying folklore may not be myth after all, and worse still; Xue Yang appears to be at the centre of it.

tags: XueXiao, Modern AU - 1990's, Horror, Romance

谁去谁留 | Who is gone, who remains
Having lost his entire family in a tragic accident, fourtee-year-old Zhang Chengling finds himself in the care of a gruff and reclusive thirty-something named Zhou Zishu. They appear to have little in common, but Chengling as the weeks idle by, Chengling realises that the pair are united by uniquely tragic circumstances.

Set in modern Sichuan, the prose and tone of the piece is inspired by the empty quality of Sichuanese poet Ouyang Jianghe.

tags: Zhou Zishu & Zhang Chengling, Modern China, found family, grief and mourning, poetry
 
 

This was not the first time that Wu Xi had been ripped from his roots and replanted in unfamiliar soil, expected to flourish. He was four years old when he was selected as successor to the Great Shaman (Lu  Ta was around the same age in the extra. From canon, it seems like the Shamanet has little, if any, contact with their birth family, to the point that he referred to Jing Beiyuan as his father. Based on this, I'm writing this fic with largely the same 'rules' and social customs discussed in my previous, non-Omegaverse fics, particularly; 《倾城倾国 | a beauty that could collapse cities and countries》and《情侣之间说的话 | words between lovers》), to become an envoy to the Great Deity Gazh and one day inherit the vast, disparate plains of Nanjiang. Later, he would wonder had marked him for this honour. How could the Great Shaman stare into the innocent eyes of a child and find the future leader of his people?

Leaving behind his birth family was easy. Although he would relinquish all ties to his former clan and family when he was officially anointed as the Shamanet, they still considered it a great honour to have produced the next heir to the country. They would be handsomely compensated for his loss, while he would move on to embrace a greater, higher purpose. It was easy to get embroiled in the atmosphere of celebration and excitement, to forget that every gain begot a loss he was too young to comprehend.

But leaving Nanjiang was not easy. There were no triumphant celebrations, no three-eight banquets on his behalf, no delighted chatter thrumming through Taihe city. As they prepared for his departure, the Great Shaman’s wife retired her rapeseed yellow robes (Rapeseed was being cultivated in India as early as 4000 B.C. and it spread to China and Japan 2000 years ago, so is a period-appropriate comparison. This is something that bugs me quite a lot when I'm writing fics in ancient China; I'm always scoring out comparisons to my local flora or anachronistic verbs like "drilling the instruction into him" etc) (Yellow was the colour of Royalty in many Han dynasties, but was a common colour for Yi people. Yellow and red were considered prosperous colours.) and donned a swathe of sombre blues, the colour of an empty cloudless sky or a still, clear river. Funeral blues (the Liangshan Yi People dress their dead in blue for their funeral. Red and yellow are avoided, as it's thought that they'll tempt ghosts.), as though she were sending him off to the underworld rather than the neighbouring empire. He was to spend the next ten years in that unknown country, a number equal to the sum of the years he’d spent on earth.

It was incomprehensible. People assured him that ten years were hardly any time at all, that they’d zip by in a blink, like a kingfisher (I've placed the area of Nanjiang that Wu Xi lives in Yunnan, which is a paradise for ornithologists! There are 848 different species of bird native to the area, which make up almost 9% of the birds recorded in the world and 65.5% of those in China. The Common Kingfisher [or Eurasian Kingfisher] is just one of these birds. They've been flitting about China for over 2000 years, as evidenced by the plethora of beautiful Chinese Kingfisher artwork and jewellery. They're a true blink-and-you'll-miss-it bird though; I've only ever caught sight of one once, and it dove across the water and disapeared within a few short seconds. Beautiful bird, though! One of my favourites!) skittering over the river. Wu Xi nodded numbly at their promises. Even this summer had been a slow, crawling creature, a never-ending haze of muggy heat and blistering sun. And that was only a few short months (I don't specify a specific number of months here because the Yi calendar is ten months long compared to the traditional Han Chinese twelve month calendar calendar). How could he believe that an entire ten years would rush by before he could even notice their passing? It was preposterous, a meaningless lie concocted to comfort a naïve child.

Wu Xi was a child, but he was not naïve. He was the heir to Nanjiang, the venerated Shamanet, an envoy to the Great Deity Gazh himself.

Half a month before his departure, the Great Shaman took him aside with a taught grimace. He placed his hands upon his shoulders and stared into Wu Xi’s charcoal black eyes. They were unusually still for a ten-year-old, or at least, that’s what people said. He heard their harried whispers in court when he turned his stare towards them. The young Shamanet had intensity in his eyes, an endless black like the pit of a deep, dark well.

But the Great Shaman never flinched from his gaze. He held Wu Xi’s stare with delight, cradling the curiosity and concentration in his pupils. Today was no different, and he met Wu Xi’s eyes with an acute, piercing stare of his own.

‘Wu Xi,’ he said. ‘I have one last lesson I must impart upon you.’

Wu Xi nodded resolutely. He was already a serious child, but even he was chilled by the disquieted glaze over the Great Shamans words.

The Grand Shaman put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come with me.’

He steered them through their estate and out to the mountain path (As I write Nanjiang as roughly analoguos to Nanzhao, their capital would be Taihe, which in the modern world is known as Dali. I place the Shaman's estate partially up Cang Mountain. It's close enough to the capital that you could keep an eye on everything, but not dead centre to still afford peace and privacy. It's also just a stunning location to describe when writing fic, and has the startling beauty that befits the Great Shaman's estate.) keeping his warm hand in place the entire time.

Eventually, the dense fog of trees gave way to a waterfall. There were many waterfalls on the eastern slope of the mountain, (Due to the tropical nature of its location, Cang Mountain and the surrounding range are mostly covered by trees and other flora, with the white snowcaps only really prevalent towards the peak. Waterfalls are especially prevalent along the eatern face.) but this one often featured as the backdrop to their divinations. It was a peaceful space; white fog diffused between the trees, which stretched up and over the waterfall like a great green canopy. The waterfall trickled gently, a rhythmic flow which controlled the tempo of the sweet birdsong and rumbling frogs nearby.

Away from the frenetic streets of Taihe, the Great Shaman’s scent settled all around him. He had a comforting zhongyong aroma, a balanced fragrance where each note of yin was layered with a corresponding note of yang. Every whiff of earthy black pepper (a moderately yang scent) was followed by a subtle undercurrent of lotus (lotus roots are moderately yin), every sweet scent (generally sweet scents are very yin, like sugar) riposted by the smell of exposed roots in wet earth (rich, earthy smells are very yang). He was perfectly proportional, an unwavering leader who was unmoved in any one direction, like a straight rod of bamboo defiant in the wind. 

At ten, Wu Xi was still too young to present his secondary gender. Traditionally, a divination ceremony would be held when the Shamanet turned twelve, and the entire city would ignite with fireworks and music. But Wu Xi would turn twelve in obscurity within the Great Qing, and his secondary gender would remain a mystery until puberty naturally revealed it. He had no particular inclinations towards one gender over another. His status as the Shamanet would supersede any responsibilities that would befall him, whether he was a kunze, a zhongyong, or a qianyuan.

The Great Shaman bowed to the waterfall, so low that his black hat (Another reason I went for Nanzhao over Dali when trying to decide on an analoguos culture for Nanjiang was the Bimo, the Shaman-Priests of the indigenous religion of the Yi people. They are masters of the Yi language, and seem to conduct a lot of the ceremony and other matters that the Shamans of Nanjiang would oversee. Also, their traditional dress is a black robe and a black hat. No veils, but I don't think that the Nanjiang people of the original text were modelled off of any one specific non-Han culture.) lurched forward and his forehead grazed the ground. He whispered a plea for forgiveness, for protection, and then turned to face Wu Xi with his eyes closed.

Wu Xi had expected this. The people of Nanjiang consulted their local Shaman for decisions of all magnitudes (taken from the customs of Nanzhao, though many Yi people consult their Bimo today for similar situations), whether they sought a fortuitous date for their child’s wedding or were simply wondering what flowers they should give their intended. It was only natural that the Great Shaman would consult the Gods before he sent his young apprentice into the snarling jaws of an enemy state.

There were over twenty orthodox methods of divination conducted by the Great Shaman (and over twenty traditional methods of divination passed down to the Yi people today), and countless more strewn across the wider plains. Animal parts were common; omens of the future could be found in the wet, stringy tendons that clung to a fresh sheep spine, or within the thin, purple veins of a swollen pig’s bladder. Chickens were an especially useful animal, with their brittle white bones and their smooth, warm eggs. (These methods were used by the Yi people specifically, but were common across various ethnic groups in China. Bone, coin, and grass divination were also popular.)

It surprised Wu Xi to see the Great Shaman produce two chicken eggs from the pouch at his waist. He had already blackened and boiled them to prepare them for the reading. (This is a genuine method of divination. The eggs were blackened [though there's no clarification on what this entailed, so I've assumed that maybe it meant they were coated in ash?] and boiled. Then either the cracked shells or the inner egg were examined for omens of the future) This method was more common in fertility related rituals. (this is just something I made up for the fic. The egg method was used for a multitude of queries, but in this Omegaverse where fertility is a more tenuous topic, I've just decided that eggs, being a symptom of fertility, are also generally used for divination and rituals of that nature.)

‘Forgive this humble one’s impertinence,’ the Great Shaman said, raising the eggs to the sky. His eyelids fluttered as he spoke, revealing two milky white crescents. He handed the eggs to Wu Xi, who took them in his hands warily.

Was the Great Shaman really going to violate divine law? Was it so important to ascertain Wu Xi’s secondary gender that he would dispense with all orthodoxy and ceremony to do so? 

The eggs were warm in his palm, still holding onto a residue of heat from their earlier preparation. He rubbed his thumb over the shell, watching the black ash flake away to leave a dark smear on his thumb.

‘Go ahead,’ the Great Shaman gestured. Although he had permission, it still felt wrong. He’d spent the last half-decade impressing the importance of adhering to tradition and honouring their culture, and now he was instructing Wu Xi to abandon it all, to discard his teachings like the two fragile eggs he was about to throw to the ground.

The Great Shaman waved his hand again, urging Wu Xi to hurry. He took a deep breath, inhaling that comforting zhongyong aroma, and dropped the eggs on the wet rock.

They dropped heavily, like stones in the water. One hit the rock with a dull crack and the shell fractured into a dozen tiny shards. The other bounced once, twice, and then a single branching fissure crept across the surface.

The Grand Shaman lunged to take the first egg in his hands, cradling it precariously to prevent any further cracking. He muttered under his breath as he swept the surface for a sign, too quickly and frantically for Wu Xi to discern any of it.

Then he stopped. The muttering sputtered and then died in his throat, like a waterfall choked by a displaced rock. He stared at the eggshell hollowly before he cast it aside and crunched it under his heel.

Had the egg foretold bad news? The ritual wasn’t designed to give that sort of answer, only to reveal which of three secondary genders the participant was inclined toward. None of the three held any more opportunity or prestige than the others, and the entire ritual was largely an excuse for celebration and sartorial extravagance.

The Grand Shaman scooped up the second egg, which was adorned with a more defined, deliberate crack. His expression remained grave as he ran his finger across it, smudging the ash over the thick white line. 

‘What is it?’ Wu Xi demanded, stepping forward to grab the intact egg. ‘What’s wrong?’

The Great Shaman could not reply, repeatedly clearing his throat and blinking back the shiny tears that threatened to dribble over his cheeks. Something bristled at the back of Wu Xi’s throat and he turned the egg over in his hands, scanning it for any ominous signs or omens of death.

But there was nothing. Only a single, curving crack that curled to the right and then dropped sharply, like a hook. It was clear, it was unmistakable (In Nanzhao, it was most likely only the elite that were literate in the Yi script, and the Bimo were most definitely literate. There's debate over whether the majority in Nanzhao were Yi or Bai ethnicity, but there's certainly evidence that the elite wrote in Yi script. There are several different Yi languages, but Nuosu, sometimes called Northern Yi or Sichuan Yi, is the current prestige language and is the easiest to find translation for, so that's the language I made analogous to "Central Nanjiang", the most common of the six dialects of Nanjiang. The word that Wu Xi and the Great Shaman see in the egg is: ꃀ (pronounced mop) which means 母；雌；女（性), or female [of the species]), and it did nothing to clarify why the Grand Shaman had reacted with despair.

Kunze, it said. Wu Xi was a kunze.

He did not understand why this knowledge evoked such grief.