As the Crows Fall | ONC 2020 Grand Winner

v | Whatever You Do

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Lying is an art.

Like any art, some people are born into it and others learn it. Mu'en doesn't know which he happens to be, only that once he starts, he doesn't stop, and if lying is the only art he knows, then he has tailored it to perfection.

Dishonest tales slip through the cracks of the narrative of his life, dying words on the tip of his tongue, falling just short of anything honorable, and he wonders, sometimes, if anyone will call him out on it. But no one does.

Not anymore.

Mu'en does not lie lightly.

But he lies at Shiyuan's burial.

He lies when he tells Zihao he can walk with them to the woods. That today is a good day. In truth, every step sends sharp pain down his spine. His knees ache terribly, an awful, burning making its way up his legs, and he thinks he may pass out from pain. He's lost feeling in his feet, but he says nothing because it is nothing compared to the numbness deep inside.

He lies because he'd rather say he isn't hurting than to admit he'd take any pain over the wretched, tearing anguish in his heart.

And that too, he lies about.

He lies with every stoic expression turned towards Shiyuan's grave, with every word he whispers with no hurt in his voice, with every breath and heartbeat that he's not so sure he feels anymore. He lies today, not with all the things he does, but rather with everything he doesn't.

He lies with every tear he does not shed.

And above all, he lies to himself.

He vows that he will find the one who took Shiyuan from this earth, that he will take them and lay them in the ground, but he knows, deep down, that he does not have that fire anymore.

There was only one person Mu'en couldn't lie to, and now there is no one left.

Yes, lying is an art.

And like any art, sometimes you just can't do it anymore.

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Shiyuan's funeral is gentle.

Mu'en expects it to be angry and bitter, but it is not.

It is peaceful.

Only Zihao, Manuel and Limei, his assassin, join him. Usually he would call all his men to the burial, their silent bid of farewell an honor reserved for those in his ranks, but nothing about Shiyuan allows for 'usually'.

It is a small burial halfway up the mountain behind the warehouse. Mu'en can almost see the river from here, if not for the trees blocking the view. The soft sound of wildlife prevails in the forest, the crows settling restlessly in the trees, but when the last spot of earth covers Shiyuan, it is quiet, and when they leave, the silence is deafening.

A small part of him wishes to take that silence with him, wherever he goes, but he steps back into that warehouse and it all comes rushing back to him. The rough grating of crates against the floor, the barked cursing of his men at one another, the slow rush of air from the fans overhead.

But in the midst of it all, it is the whispers that pierce him the most.

It starts with his men, soft tones exchanged with shifting eyes. It bleeds to the wildlife about him, the crows with low caws grasping for attention from men with none to give. And it ends with —