Bring Your Wonder (Lose Your Faith) - kianspo - 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian will give Wen Ruohan one thing—the wine he serves at this abominable celebration is excellent. No Emperor’s Smile, of course, but…

He cuts the thought off by force.

He isn’t drunk, though gods know he’s been trying ever since the start of the banquet. The mere sight of food is turning his stomach, but the wine—the wine is a different story. The wine has no master, the wine is a slu*t, loyal to everyone and no one. Wei Wuxian ardently wishes to get drunk as quickly as humanly possible. Maybe then he’ll pass out and make himself someone else’s problem. He’s good at that, isn’t he?

Maybe, even, he can drink himself dead. If only his damn tolerance didn’t get in the way. To think that he used to be so proud of it.

To his left, Jiang Cheng is grinding his teeth loudly enough to be heard by those surrounding them. His jaw is clenched so tightly that Wei Wuxian can’t imagine he’s capable of getting so much as a morsel of food into his mouth, but it will be an insult to their hosts if he doesn’t. They so very much don’t want to insult their hosts.

Jiang Yanli is sitting with her eyes demurely down, but she’s a maiden and she’s allowed. Jiang Fengmian is eating mechanically, face entirely blank, as if he’s engaged in deep meditation. He’s clearly visible, but it doesn’t feel as if he’s really there.

Madam Yu is talking to a young woman in Wen red, the tone of the conversation even and business-like, as though they’re discussing best practices of running a household or cultivation techniques best suited for young disciples. Every so often, Madam Yu sends a pointed glance to her family members, the order in it unmistakable.

Jiang Yanli makes an attempt to reach for her chopsticks—one of them falls, and she doesn’t pick it up. Jiang Cheng eats another bite with the air of someone chewing on a stone. Jiang Fengmian keeps... not being there.

Wei Wuxian, by now drunk enough, lifts his cup with his left hand and salutes her. Madam Yu’s eyes flash an angry purple, and he smiles or smirks or—something. He isn’t sure what exactly his mouth is doing, but it makes her look away. It must be to avoid committing murder.

She shouldn’t have bothered. That would have pleased their hosts, probably.

Across the hall, Nie Huaisang, also dressed in Wen red, laughs at something his tablemates say and hides his face behind a fan. At the sight, Jiang Cheng grips his chopsticks so hard they splinter and cut into his hand. Blood runs down his wrist; he doesn’t seem to notice. Wei Wuxian shakes his head and pours himself more wine.

Trophies are displayed on the floor in front of them. The huge head of a beast that used to be mounted on the gates to the Unclean Realm is cut clear in half. Beside it, there’s a pile of metal shards emitting resentful energy—wailing, if one has the ear to hear them—the famed Nie sabers, in pieces.

A little further away is a mountain of what appears to be pieces of torn cloth. Wei Wuxian closes his eyes briefly. He doesn’t need—want—to see clearly, but he has an archer’s eye, so he doesn’t have much of a choice.

Ribbons. They’re ribbons. All are white, some of them with a blue cloud pattern. Stained in blood, singed, torn. Ribbons. So many… too many. All of them.

A servant delivers another jug of wine to his table, and Wei Wuxian nods, honestly grateful. He drinks straight from the jar, ignoring Jin Guangshan’s voice as he expounds on something or other from where his clan members are seated en masse. The Jiangs are the same—every member of the family, and all senior disciples. Nightless City has a remarkably large banquet hall.

Wei Wuxian drinks. He wishes, he really does, that he could be more like Uncle Jiang, who appears to have mastered the art of seeing nothing and hearing nothing at will. Wei Wuxian is the opposite. He hears and sees everything, and can’t disassociate no matter how hard he tries.

He wishes he’d never made it out of the Xuanwu cave. Let him have died there, with his body still intact, with his head in Lan Wangji’s lap, with Lan Wangji’s voice seeing him off to the next life. He had been humming that beautiful, haunting love song that Wei Wuxian had never heard before, but Lan Wangji had learned somewhere, and was singing so perfectly, because he was perfect, because he was…

He was.

Wei Wuxian straightens up in his seat and boldly lifts his right arm to call for more wine. The empty sleeve falls on his face at the awkward motion.

Chapter 2 Chapter Text

Sometime during the month he’s spent mostly delirious with blood loss and fever, Wei Wuxian tries to figure out the exact moment when everything had gone terribly wrong.

It’s not that things had been fine before—they hadn’t, not for a while. Many minor clans had already suffered terrible losses or been eliminated entirely, victims of Wen aggression, and some of the not-so-minor ones had also been in a precarious state. Cloud Recesses had already been burned to the ground, the Lan disciples scattered and demoralized—at least, those who had survived that first attack.

Lan Wangji had been dragged to the horror show of an indoctrination camp run by Wen Chao as a living demonstration of the cost of resistance. Wei Wuxian had hated that, even more so when they’d been marooned in a cave with a mythical monster without any concern for their sects retaliating or avenging them. As if they already didn’t count. As if it wasn’t a consideration at all. And it wasn’t.

But that was just it.

They had made it out of the cave. They had killed the unkillable monster, and then Jiang Cheng had come and gotten them out, and Lan Wangji had gone back to whatever was left of Cloud Recesses to join his sect—wounded and bleeding, but alive—and Wei Wuxian had gone home to his shijie’s soup and gentle hands, Uncle Jiang’s kind eyes, and Jiang Cheng’s temper, familiar to the point of soothing.

It was a hopeful moment. Obviously, a storm was coming, but they were together, and alive, and in the wake of an impossible feat. Wei Wuxian had never been one for needlessly catastrophizing. They would kick the Wens’ asses, along with other sects, who would unite and stand together. It was in the air, it felt inevitable. Uncle Jiang had left to begin forging that very alliance, and then…

It had gone wrong, Wei Wuxian thinks, the day Wen Zhuliu had come to Lotus Pier at the head of the Wen force.

Later, Wei Wuxian will think, if only Wen Ruohan had sent anyone else. Wen Xu, his too-forceful firstborn. Wen Chao who acted like someone who’d never heard of manners. Better yet, Wen Chao’s girlfriend, whose obnoxiousness was too much even for Wei Wuxian. Literally anyone else, and it might have gone differently.

But Wen Ruohan is arrogant and apparently bloodthirsty beyond measure, but also pragmatic to the bone, and had sent Wen Zhuliu.

The first thing Wen Zhuliu does is bow respectfully, greeting the mistress of the house. Wen Zhuliu, who didn’t learn etiquette in some fancy place like Cloud Recesses but who lives and breathes by the honors of old, carrying it in his very blood—he is the type to remember that a defeated enemy must be allowed to save face. There is no honor in gloating over a victory.

“Wei Wuxian had transgressed against the Wen Sect,” Wen Zhuliu says, once the numerous and appropriately-executed formalities are out of the way. “It is an insult my master will not suffer.” His eyes meet Madame Yu’s, unwavering. “He belongs to your household, Madam Yu. He is your responsibility.”

Jiang Cheng protests, loudly and at length, but Wei Wuxian doesn’t. What does it matter if he’s bed-ridden for another month? Zidian doesn’t do any permanent damage, and what is pain to him? He can handle that and more, if it means getting the Wens off their land. He does now, with everyone watching.

Madam Yu doesn’t appear to be pulling her strikes. Even through his agony, he can see in her eyes that a part of her is viciously enjoying it. She has never liked him, has always detested him, but she has also never unleashed all of her anger on him quite like this. She never had a legitimate reason that would have justified it, but now she does—and she takes it.

Good, a part of him thinks. Maybe after, she will—maybe…

After, while Wei Wuxian is gasping on the floor and Madam Yu is panting—more from anger than the physical exertion—Wen Zhuliu observes the scene dispassionately, then says, “I’m afraid that won’t do.”

A terrible silence falls.

Madam Yu turns toward him slowly. “What do you mean? He won’t be able to stand for a month, maybe two. What more could you want?”

Wen Zhuliu says calmly, and so very, very reasonably, “It is not a matter of what I want, Madam Yu. It is more about what would be satisfactory to my master.” His gaze remains steady, unmoved and unfathomably deep.

“Wei Wuxian has raised a sword to the sun. He must lose the hand that held it.”

Wei Wuxian is abruptly grateful for the pain in his body—at least that way, he knows his body is still here. His heart goes cold and silent in his chest, panic rising. Even Madam Yu’s eyes widen for a split second. She’s never been a kind woman, no, but she’s not a sad*st. As much as she hates Wei Wuxian, breaking the bodily sanctity of anyone in her household, much less the Jiang Sect’s first disciple, for such an infraction is clearly too much even for her.

Or, perhaps not. She takes a step forward, tearing her eyes from Wen Zhuliu and focusing on Wei Wuxian.

“Mother, no!” Jiang Cheng half-sobs, falling to his knees next to Wei Wuxian, trying to shield him. “Please, it wasn’t as he says!” He glares at Wen Zhuliu. “Wei Wuxian doesn’t deserve this!”

“Out of the way, A-Cheng,” Madam Yu orders, still breathing hard, eyes glued to Wei Wuxian’s face. She appears both terrifying and terrified.

As if sensing her hesitation, Wen Zhuliu steps closer.

“Madam Yu,” he says quietly. “My master has no use for this boy. If you fail to act, I will simply dispose of him.”

“You’ll kill him?!” Jiang Cheng instinctively grabs his brother’s shoulders. Wei Wuxian winces for a moment in blinding pain, clenching his jaw against it.

A-Cheng, A-Cheng—sweet, grumpy A-Cheng. Do you still not see what’s going on here?

Wen Zhuliu ignores the outburst, speaking only to Madam Yu.

“The task will not trouble me, Madam Yu, but you will have failed to prove your loyalty to your chief cultivator, and I’m afraid that, for such an occurrence, I do have orders. You heard what happened to Cloud Recesses. Do you wish the same fate for Lotus Pier?”

Madam Yu flinches and half-turns toward him, her face ashen white and, for once, an open book.

“Think of your clan,” Wen Zhuliu says. “Think of your family. Is one boy—one who is not your blood—worth it?”

“Mother!” Jiang Cheng wails.

“Quiet, A-Cheng,” she snaps with no real feeling.

She looks almost dazed.

“Jinzhu, Yinzhu. Hold him.”

Wei Wuxian thinks, at first, that the order is for him, and only understands when Madam Yu’s maids drag Jiang Cheng off him, pin him against the wall, and hold him there, ignoring his indignant shouts. Jiang Cheng is not an easy man to hold down—Wei Wuxian would know—but these two appear to be part-demon and aren’t letting him move an inch.

Wei Wuxian looks at Madam Yu then, wondering why he isn’t restrained—then wants to laugh. She knows him, knows he won’t move, that he’ll extend his arm willingly. And he does, mouth nearly agape with pain—his whole body is still shaking with the aftershocks of the whipping.

“Scum,” Madam Yu hisses as she approaches, pulling Zidian back and drawing out her sword. “You’re nothing more than trash, Wei Wuxian. My husband showed you immense kindness when he took you in, and how did you repay us? Years and years of feeding and clothing you, teaching you, and what do we get for it? Trouble! Endless trouble, morning to night! You don’t think before you act, do you?! You know nothing of respect, nothing of gratitude! You should be working day and night to repay your debt to my family and what do you do instead?! We are all in danger now, thanks to your idiocy! A-Cheng! A-Li! Are you finally satisfied, Wei Wuxian, now that you’ve brought us so close to ruin?!”

It takes enormous effort for Wei Wuxian not to move, not to pull his arm back or attempt to escape. Everything in him is screaming for him to run, but he stays where he is, not bothering to hide his fear or the shudders it produces. He wishes she’d be done already; he can’t hold on forever! What’s the point—

Abruptly, he looks up at her face and—

Her lower lip is wobbling.

Now, only now, does he really know mind-wiping fear. She can’t do it, he realizes with a start. She’s berating him to try and convince herself that this is something that has to be done—that he is no one worth fighting for, that it’s the only way to save them all. She’s building up her defenses, her strength, and she’s failing, and any second now, she’ll—

His mouth goes beyond dry when he realizes, heart seeming to stop with its intensity.

He’ll have to help her.

Every hair on his body stands on end, he’s seeing black spots before his eyes, but he has to. There’s no one else, Jiang Cheng is still shouting, struggling to get free, the maids are busy holding him back, and Madam Yu…

“You never liked me anyway!” Wei Wuxian blurts out—with what voice he doesn’t know. He can’t see, can’t hear, has no idea what he’s saying. “Uncle Jiang likes me because he liked my mother! She was beautiful, wasn’t she? And very talented! That’s why I rank higher than Jiang Cheng on every list, and it’s not my fault that my mother was simply better—”

HEAT.

Nothing, yet everything, stops.

Wei Wuxian stares at his right hand, uncomprehending that it’s done—is it done? It’s not connected to his arm anymore, which has been cut just below the elbow, but he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand. He still feels it.

That’s... a lot of blood. Wow, that’s a lot, that’s…

With a roar, Jiang Cheng throws off the women holding him and slides across the floor toward him, screaming, “WEI WUXIAN! WEI WUXIAN!”

He blinks – in this suspended state, it takes what feels like days—and then he’s out.

Madam Yu’s prediction about him not being able to stand for a month comes true. He hadn’t fully recovered from fighting the Xuanwu when he was whipped with Zidian, albeit not at full strength, and then… Well, he lost a lot of blood. His core is very strong, but his body has limits.

He grapples with a fever from hell through most of the month, barely breaking the surface of dark, hot delirium, and finally emerges weeks later, exhausted and—not whole. He’d thought at some point that was part of a dream, too, but...

Jiang Yanli brings him soup and attempts to smile.

“Ah, Shijie.” Wei Wuxian smiles and waves the stump of his right hand at her. He has yet to look at it directly. In some of his dreams, it had grown a head. “You’ll have to feed me—see, I really can’t use my hand this time! Good thing you—”

Jiang Yanli’s face crumples and, with a whimper, she lets go of the tray, covers her eyes with her sleeve, and dashes out of the room. Jiang Cheng swears and catches the tray just in time, the dishes clanking in protest.

“—had practice,” Wei Wuxian finishes and blinks. “Uh. Too soon?”

“Idiot.” Jiang Cheng glares at him. “Do you have any idea how distraught she’s been?! She cried every time she came in here! Today was the first day she didn’t, because she was looking forward to this, and you just had to—”

He trails off, setting the tray down. Wei Wuxian’s shoulders slump.

“I didn’t mean to,” he mutters. “I thought it’d make her laugh.”

But he didn’t, not really. He didn’t think at all, had just blurted it out, trying to outrun his own mounting hysteria. His hand is gone. His whole hand is just… gone. He can’t think about it, not now, not yet.

Not ever.

Jiang Cheng gives him a long look, but says nothing, only sighing as he sits down.

“Eat,” he grumbles eventually. “I’m not feeding you. You can use your left hand just fine.”

Wei Wuxian tugs the tray closer. He’s never been fully ambidextrous, but it’s true that he can use his left hand pretty deftly; certainly enough to hold a spoon. He reaches for it. It’s a little awkward, and he has to concentrate more than usual, but doable.

Yanli’s soup—his favorite soup—tastes like nothing.

Jiang Cheng watches him for a moment, then looks out the window, a frown darkening his face. It’s not his usual frown—not a storm on the horizon, promising a good drenching. This one is… bad.

“What are you looking at?” Wei Wuxian asks, between slow, awkward bites.

“The sun,” Jiang Cheng spits.

Wei Wuxian pauses, then slowly pushes the tray away and leans back against the cushions.

“Tell me.”

Jiang Cheng speaks in the clipped tone of someone who can only get the words out if he doesn’t stop long enough to taste them.

After Wei Wuxian had passed out and been dragged from the hall, Wen Zhuliu acted as if none of it had just happened. He announced that Wen Ruohan demanded access to Lotus Pier on a permanent basis. A supervisory office of the Wen Clan was to be established there, with an accompanying watchtower.

The Wen watchtowers were an interesting piece of cultivation engineering. Ostensibly created to respond to any kind of supernatural trouble bothering the common people, they had long forgotten their purpose. Now, they were used as an instrument of control for the Wen Sect. Manned by a small contingent of Wen guards, at the first sign of an uprising, the tower would emit an energy surge, suppressing the spiritual powers of any not-Wens for kilometers around. It would also, naturally, send out an alarm to summon the Wen army.

Installing one in the citadel of an undefeated or unallied clan was an insult too grave to speak of. Still, Wei Wuxian can see the tower right outside their residence, some two hundred meters away from the main gates. The banner with the Wen sun floats in the wind.

“How?” he croaks.

Jiang Cheng glances at his right arm before he can catch himself.

“Wen Zhuliu told Mother it was too late to back out. If she refused, it would have been the same as refusing to punish you—they’d burn Lotus Pier, kill everyone in it, and then build the tower anyway. He also said” — Jiang Cheng grimaces — “that, if she agreed, Wen Ruohan would leave us alone. Sure, we’d have to report to him and acknowledge him as our superior, but he wouldn’t stick his nose in our business—Father would be left to run the Jiang Sect as he sees fit. As long as we didn’t cause trouble and allowed the tower, we’d be able to… live as we always have,” Jiang Cheng finishes, unmitigated disgust coloring his words.

Wei Wuxian sinks back into the cushions, the flavorless soup leaving a bitter aftertaste. He can see the scene so clearly. Wen Zhuliu must have been so respectful; so sensible.

Abruptly, he looks at his right arm, at the stump in place of his hand. He’d wondered why Wen Zhuliu, of all people, would have insisted on this. Someone like Wen Chao, for the simple sad*stic pleasure of it, yes, but Wen Zhuliu…

He gets it, now. It was never about him. Wen Zhuliu had had to break Madam Yu, to push her in so deep that she wouldn’t be able to stop without making everything that had preceded it worthless. If she was going to fight, to risk turning Lotus Pier into ashes, she should have done it straight away, before the momentum was lost. First the whipping, then his arm—it was all part of a bid to save her family, but it still wasn’t safe, still demanded another concession.

Wen Zhuliu didn’t break her will—he subverted it. Who’d have expected that, from a chained dog of the Wens?

“There’s more,” Wei Wuxian says lifelessly. “Isn’t there?”

Jiang Cheng closes his eyes and nods.

Jiang Fengmian had returned to Lotus Pier a week and a half in, his daughter having accompanied him, and learned what his wife had done. Not many people had ever seen Jiang Fengmian angry, but he was that day, even though he’d never raised his voice. He looked his wife in the eye, called her ‘Ziyuan’ instead of her title, and asked, ‘Why?

‘You have made us traitors to the entire cultivation world.’

She’d yelled, ‘I will not see my children’s ashes scattered for the sake of a cultivation world that can’t take care of itself! A world that doesn’t even exist anymore!’

They had stopped speaking to each other entirely, and the tower had already been built. The Wens had long since arrived, and the time to rebel was lost. By that time, had Yunmeng chosen to resist, it would have stood alone.

Wen Ruohan didn’t waste time. The moment the Jiangs were neutralized, he’d moved his major forces on Gusu and razed it to the ground. The Lan Sect, once numerous, had been eradicated as if it never had existed. Qinghe had swiftly followed, unable to withstand the Wen forces unsupported. Lanling Jin remained the only great sect that didn’t have a Wen presence established in its territory, but Jin Guangshan had only ever cared for his own interests and had never shown any inclination to rebel against Wen Ruohan.

Wei Wuxian listens to Jiang Cheng’s account in a kind of stupor. He hadn’t stopped listening, but he’d stopped really hearing anything somewhere around the moment Jiang Cheng told him of Gusu’s fate.

He can’t process.

Gusu means Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan had gone back to Gusu. If Gusu was no more, Lan Zhan—

No. No. He can’t do this.

But why? What is this buzzing in his ears? People die—that's the truth of life. Wei Wuxian’s parents died. Many other people died. Nie Huaisang is probably dead, since Qinghe was obliterated, and Nie Huaisang had been his friend. It hurts to think of him, but he can, he can, so why is it that every time he tries to contemplate a world without Lan Wangji in it, his mind recoils like a tiny woodland creature, whimpering and curling into a ball?

Lan Wangji wouldn’t even let him get close. Lan Wangji had gotten so mad when Wei Wuxian had pulled his forehead ribbon off. Both times, even though Wei Wuxian had had a good reason the second time! Lan Wangji was such a fuddy-duddy, such a stick in the mud, who would even want to be his friend anyway—

“Are you crying?” Jiang Cheng asks, clearly uncomfortable.

—not Wei Wuxian, certainly not, Wei Wuxian has plenty of friends, everyone likes him, he’s never had to chase anyone to convince them to like him and he never will, he can take a hint, so what if he had never chased anyone so hard in his entire life, he couldn’t stop, it’s not his fault, he spent a whole day catching rabbits even though they hate him, he gave Lan Wangji rabbits, are the rabbits also dead, or did Wen Ruohan spare them, or did he eat them like Wei Wuxian had once threatened to, and the look on Lan Zhan’s face, and his stupid golden eyes, who even has eyes like that, why is it allowed, and he knows he f*cked up about the ribbon the first time! He knows, all right, no need to—

‘Then sing to me.’

And Lan Zhan did! He did. What was it? That melody, it was so… Wei Wuxian only ever learned to play the flute. He needs both hands to play it, and he only has the one. Where can he get another?

“Hey, Jiang Cheng.” He cuts him off mid-word. “What’s so special about Gusu Lan ribbons anyway?”

Jiang Cheng stares at him for the longest time, the way one would look at someone going mad and unraveling in front of their eyes. Like he’s seen it before, knows precisely what it looks like, but is clinging to his denial, because he can’t be angry about it, and he can’t take one more person doing that to him.

“There are no more Gusu Lan ribbons,” Jiang Cheng says, and suddenly he just looks crushingly, end-of-the-world tired. “There is no more Gusu Lan.”

Wei Wuxian nods like he understands, like it makes sense, when, in fact, it doesn’t—and then he realizes that, this whole time, he’s been trying to pick up the spoon again with his non-existent right hand.

The next month is quiet in the Jiang household. It’s split roughly in two: those who think Madam Yu had done the right thing to protect her family and the entire sect, and those who think she’d made the worst mistake imaginable, that it would have been better to die than to submit.

But it doesn’t matter where anyone stands. The Wens are already here, and so is the tower, and now they are all hostages of their agreement. Even if someone would personally prefer to strike out and be struck down, there are none who would risk the consequences for the rest of them. Whether people agree or disagree, there is no changing anything.

Wei Wuxian spends his time drifting between various stages of numbness. His sister’s soup was just the first precursor. He can’t taste the food, no matter how much spice the cooks have used. He senses no smells unless they’re rotten. He is perpetually cold, no longer from blood loss.

Wen Zhuliu had sent Sandu and Suibian over to them as a twisted sort of courtesy shortly after he left, and Jiang Cheng drags Wei Wuxian out to the practice field to relearn the sword forms for someone left-handed.

Wei Wuxian goes obediently, but he soon forgets why he’s there. He can forget in the middle of a fight, can simply get distracted by a thought, and forget to block, and only comes to his senses when Jiang Cheng, who’d nearly mauled him as a result, is screaming bloody murder in his ear.

“There’s no point, Chengcheng,” Wei Wuxian would say, and really—

Nothing matters anymore.

He hates the Wens, so what? Everyone hates the Wens. What’s the point in training, or retraining? What’s the point in anything? Who cares? The world around him is colored in shades of grey, uninteresting and redundant, and should just fade away. What’s the point of learning to wield his sword again? Who cares?

The household, the entire sect, is also drowning in guilt. They get to live when so many have died. Even those who didn’t choose it, even those who would have chosen otherwise—they all get to live, and by that virtue, they are all guilty.

Wei Wuxian had helped make it happen, had helped Madam Yu, because he’d thought he was protecting his family, his sect—because he hadn’t thought that far ahead, he never thought far ahead. He should feel the guiltiest of them all, but he feels—nothing. What’s the point?

So he doesn’t have a hand; why should he care? There’s nothing to care about anymore. The entire world is a flavorless, odorless soup. He’s beginning to forget that it had ever been different.

The invitation—rather, the summons—arrives at the end of the month. Chief cultivator Wen Ruohan wishes to celebrate the eradication of the rebel clans and invites the most prominent remaining sects to attend. The Jins and the Jiangs are, of course, to be guests of honor—the rest of the assorted sects are minor and have neither clout nor any actual power.

“Father, you don’t seriously intend to go?” Jiang Cheng blurts out as soon as the doors close behind the messenger. “Does he really think we would celebrate something like this?”

Jiang Fengmian’s expression doesn’t change. He’s taken to staring gravely into the distance for long periods of time lately, no matter what is happening around him.

Now, he stands up and says, as if he hadn’t heard his son speak, “Make arrangements for the journey.” With that, he leaves the room.

“What?!” Jiang Cheng exclaims. “Father, wait! You can’t—”

“A-Cheng, do as your father says,” Madam Yu snaps. “Get yourself ready.” Her eyes shift. “You too, Wei Wuxian.”

Wei Wuxian bows at her with mocking politeness. She purses her lips, but says nothing, as she sweeps out of the room.

“You’re not going to argue?” Jiang Cheng whirls on him. “You, of all people—you want to go bow to Wen Ruohan?!”

Wei Wuxian presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“Jiang Cheng, do you really think Wen Ruohan wants to throw us a party?” he asks, already bored again. When his brother just blinks at him, he rolls his eyes. “We’re not guests of honor, you idiot. It’s a show of force—a demonstration. The pros and cons of pissing off Wen Ruohan. Why do you think he demanded such a large crowd? We’re all hostages against one another.”

Jiang Cheng huffs, snappy about having to be led to the correct conclusion. “Then why do you have to go? Asked for by name, no less! As far as he’s concerned, you’re not even family!”

Wei Wuxian smirks bitterly on his way out of the hall. “Of course I’m not family, and of course I have to go.” His expression doesn’t waver. “Don’t worry; you’ll get there.”

“What the f*ck are you talking about?”

Wei Wuxian stops in the doorway and waves the stump of his hand cheerfully, without turning. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jiang Cheng recoil, and something inside him twists viciously.

“I’m the most important Jiang guest of all, Jiang Cheng.”

I’m the symbol of our submission.

Chapter 3 Notes:

I'm afraid there's not going to be a definitive schedule with updates, though the story is mostly done. But my access to the archive is not something I can take for granted anymore, so I decided to post updates as soon as they become available. Thank you all who hopped on this ride. ♥
Some extremely unpleasant things (extreme humiliation) will happen in this one. I really don't know what to tell you (?)

Chapter Text

It’s not until they arrive at the gates of Nightless City—an exhausted caravan in their finery, throats parched and eyes painfully dry from the ash—that the reason why they’d been instructed to come on horseback becomes clear.

“A-Li, don’t look,” Madam Yu snaps quietly, and Jiang Yanli obediently lowers her head. She’s been looking wan and pale throughout the last few hours of the journey anyway, unused to such exertions.

Heads on pikes.

Some said the barbaric tradition originated from the demon land of Dongyin, but more believed it came from the oases of the Great Desert and the mostly mythical, savage lands to the west, where people were more like wild beasts than people. Looking at the wall, Wei Wuxian can believe it.

Wen Ruohan has liberally adorned every meter with such macabre decorations that, had Wei Wuxian had any food in his stomach, he’d be retching now. He doesn’t look away.

Many heads have the characteristic braids of the Nie Clan, expressions ferocious even in death. A few have loquats and peaches stuffed between their teeth as a final degradation.

The faces closer to the gates are different—paler skin, smoother features. And there, right in the center, the crown piece—

The head of esteemed teacher Lan Qiren.

Even Madam Yu goes pale at the sight, visibly shuddering, before reprimanding Jiang Fengmian, who is looking up with an expression of open grief. Wei Wuxian suddenly doesn’t know which irks him more.

He pulls his numbness over himself like a blanket and stares into Lan Qiren’s forever-unseeing eyes. They don’t look stern—they look… He looks old suddenly. He wasn’t that old in life. Sure, they called him ‘Old Man Lan’—ungrateful, obnoxious brats—but Lan Qiren was Uncle Jiang’s age. It was his personality that earned him the moniker more than anything.

The protective lack of feeling slips suddenly, and Wei Wuxian bites his lip hard. They’d known about the Lans, of course they had, but somehow, he wasn’t ready for... this. Lan Qiren, whom he didn’t like and yet liked all the more for it, only now realizing it. Lan Qiren, who was, in many ways, as fun to tease as his youngest nephew.

Hey, Lan Zhan? I never got to tell you that I think your uncle is fun. Do you think we can shave his beard?

They must have, all of them, stood there for too long, because eventually, Jiang Yanli breaks the silence with a whisper. “Who is he?”

Jiang Cheng whirls on her in his saddle, angry at his sister for the first time in his life. Jiang Yanli recoils from him, and he immediately slumps back, ashamed of himself.

That’s right, Wei Wuxian thinks. Jiang Yanli had never been to Cloud Recesses, had never met Grandmaster Lan. Now, she never will. Now, all they can do is hurt each other about it.

Jiang Fengmian gently prods his horse onward. “Come, everyone. Let’s not delay. A-Li, do as your mother tells you. Don’t look.”

It’s not better, going forward.

Wei Wuxian has never understood how the Sun Palace got its name. It’s hot in here, yes, but it’s the heat of a brooding volcano, desiccating the lungs of anyone trying to breathe its air. Qishan had never been a fertile land; is that why the clan it spawned is so aggressive?

Each of them is called by name, even Wei Wuxian, which only confirms his theory as to why he’d been invited. They are shown to the banquet hall, placed to the right of the steps that lead up to Wen Ruohan’s throne. The placement is an honor, a threat, and a not-particularly-subtle insult all in one. The usually boisterous, lively Yunmeng Jiang Sect moves in quietly, offering no opinion.

Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng are the last to be shown to their seats and suddenly stumble over a rather short Wen attendant. He instantly apologizes, very un-Wen like.

Very much like Nie Huaisang.

It feels as if none of them were quite prepared for this encounter. Nie Huaisang, smothered in maroon silk with a black sun on it, goes pale, eyes darting between Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng.

“J-Jiang-xiong…” he stammers. “I—”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw locks. “Did you hear someone speak?” He addresses Wei Wuxian as if Nie Huaisang isn’t there. “I’m sure I don’t know this person.”

Nie Huaisang sways slightly at this, but Jiang Cheng moves past him. Wei Wuxian gives Nie Huaisang a look, but in the end, he has nothing to say.

He catches up with Jiang Cheng and murmurs, “Pace yourself, Chengcheng, or you won’t make it through the night.”

“He’s a traitor,” Jiang Cheng hisses, incensed.

Wei Wuxian shrugs with some macabre humor. “Aren’t we all?”

Jiang Cheng whirls on him, grips his wrist hard. “It’s not the same!” he whisper-shouts. “We did not betray our own clan!”

That’s rather a matter of opinion, Wei Wuxian thinks wryly, but doesn’t say. His brother needs someone he can hate more than he hates himself right now. It’s the least Wei Wuxian can do for him.

Wei Wuxian himself finds that he feels no hatred for Nie Huaisang. After all, what was xiao Sang supposed to do? His cultivation is so weak, it’s a wonder he’d managed to form a golden core at all. He could barely lift the saber he was supposed to wield. And he’s always been scared of seemingly everything. Jiang Cheng wanted a man like that to resist Wen Ruohan when Madam Yu couldn’t?

At least Nie Mingjue’s head wasn’t on the wall. Rumor had it that the last sect leader Nie, upon being defeated, had thrown himself off the wall of the Unclean Realm, smashing his skull against the rocks. Maybe it was true. Or maybe not having his brother’s body desecrated and displayed was the price for Nie Huaisang’s allegiance.

The banquet itself is a long, miserable, and tense affair. The Jins, who have taken up the place of honor opposite the Jiangs, are clearly trying to act as if they’re here voluntarily and even enjoying themselves. Jin Guangshan complains about the lack of dancers—not too loudly—and his wife makes sure to direct her frowns at him and at him only. Jin Zixuan looks like he’s having difficulty figuring out where he is and how he got here, but that’s scarcely worth noting. He sends a furtive glance at Jiang Yanli, quickly looking away.

The assorted smaller clans seem to be scared out of their wits, half-incredulous to have been invited. They fall into arguing amongst themselves and talk very carefully and diligently around where some of their neighbors would normally be.

Wei Wuxian feels like a bad actor—one who had learned his part but could barely be bothered to play it. He doesn’t feel anything as he is forced to bow to Wen Ruohan, along with everyone else. Jiang Cheng is shaking with rage and doing a horrible job of hiding it, but Wei Wuxian feels… nothing.

He will say one thing for Wen Ruohan, though; the man serves good wine. Wei Wuxian takes full advantage of this and proceeds to drink himself into a stupor.

The hours stretch.

He doesn’t register it at first.

Wen Chao has been loud and obnoxious the entire night, so when some kind of intent appears in his behavior, it takes a while for Wei Wuxian to notice.

“…don’t let it be said that we kept you starved for entertainment!” He catches Wen Chao’s most recent drawl, eyes barely focusing on him stepping to the center of the hall. Wen Chao splays his hands stupidly, his grin equally absurd. “My father told me to provide, and I will oblige. Bring him in!”

The Wen guards wheel in an abominable construction—two wide wooden planks nailed crisscross to each other with a man tied to them, arms and legs spread apart. There’s a rope around his neck, too, fixing his head in place and digging cruelly into the skin. He looks disheveled, clad only in a shift and pants, the fabric stuck to him in places by dried blood and torn in others. His hair is entirely loose, completing his fully indecent state.

Jiang Cheng is swearing under his breath, but no one is paying attention—the entire room seems to gasp as one. Wei Wuxian feels as if he’s been punched in the gut, as if all the air has been abruptly ripped out of him, tearing the numbness to shreds and forcing a terrifying clarity onto his struggling mind.

The prisoner is Lan Wangji.

He isn’t breathing. Is he breathing? His chest is moving, so he must be. He is? Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan!

Jiang Cheng’s fingers close around his left arm like a vice. “Stay put, you idiot,” he hisses. “What are you trying to do?”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t know. Suddenly, everything is too much. The sounds are too loud—laughter, chewing, liquids pouring, clothes moving, metal shifting. All kinds of scents hit his nose that weren’t present a moment ago—fried meat that makes his stomach roil, something sour, something burning. The temperature is too high, the colors too bright, the numerous Wen robes making him want to squeeze his eyes shut. Everything is too much, all too abruptly, assaulting every sense he has and getting in the way! He’s trying to get a good look, he’s trying—

Lan Wangji is definitely breathing, and his eyes are open, but he doesn’t seem to be cognizant of what’s happening around him or… present. He’s like a life-size statue of himself that seems… vacant. His spiritual powers are clearly sealed, but it’s more than that. He feels like...

An empty shell.

Desperation rises in Wei Wuxian’s chest so sharply, so loudly, that it overwhelms him. The last months had made him unused to feeling too much of anything, and he is struggling not to drown as he drinks in the sight in front of him. He doesn’t know if he wishes Lan Wangji alive or dead at that moment—he just knows he can’t stand him being here and like this.

“This one here is my personal prisoner!” Wen Chao is boasting across the hall, waving his arms as if presenting a remarkable exhibit. “Tonight, I generously donate him for your enjoyment!”

Cheers—mostly from the assorted Wens, but some of the other clans join as well. Wei Wuxian feels both his hands, existent and not, curl into fists.

“I present to you—the illustrious Second Jade of Lan!” Wen Chao crows. “His reputation is nothing; the Lans were all liars. He does have one talent, though—he’s really good at imitating a big, stupid rock!”

Laughter. Even Jin Guangshan’s lips twitch, though Jin Zixuan is wearing an expression of open outrage on his face. Nie Huaisang all but disappears behind his fan.

“So here’s the game we’re going to play!” Wen Chao announces. “You can do anything to him. If you get him to respond, you’ll get a bag of silver. If you get him to cry, you’ll get a coffer!”

Wei Wuxian jolts in place amidst all the cheers, but Jiang Cheng must have expected it, because he jerks him back, nearly breaking his arm.

“You can’t!” he hisses. “You’ll die if you go out there!”

“I don’t care!” Wei Wuxian hisses back. “Let me go!”

Jiang Cheng pulls him back violently. “My parents are here! A-jie is here! Do you care what’ll happen to them if you challenge Wen Chao now?!”

Wei Wuxian grits his teeth and breathes out harshly through his mouth as he sinks back into his seat. Jiang Cheng is right, as unbearable as it is. Wei Wuxian doesn’t give a f*ck about his own life. There may have been some poetic justice in dying here now trying to save Lan Zhan, or perhaps even taking him down with him, the ultimate escape.

But he can’t risk shijie’s life.

He almost howls in unspeakable frustration. They’re all f*cking hostages here, ensuring each other’s compliance. He hates this. He hates this.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t let go of him, both his hands clenched on Wei Wuxian’s arm like a vice. He probably doesn’t realize his grip tightens every time someone new approaches La—the prisoner.

The first few are all Wen, who seem to take Lan Wangji’s non-responsiveness as a personal offense, and so hit him as hard as they can. Those who have golden cores imbue their blows with spiritual power.

Lan Wangji doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t react at all. Not when blood starts trickling from the corner of his mouth; not when one of his eyes begins to swell shut. The rope digs into the unprotected paleness of his neck and must make it hard for him to breathe; still, he reveals nothing.

The next wave is more... creative. One of them tears Lan Wangji’s shirt apart, baring his chest, and starts carving on his skin. Lan Wangji doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t so much as blink or change the rhythm of his breathing, as a blood-limned Wen sun appears on his chest. More blood still pours freely from deeper cuts, but there’s no reaction.

Other guests join the game. One of the Jin cousins, whose name Wei Wuxian doesn’t know but whose face he commits to memory, suggests using the prisoner for target practice. Lan Wangji is pelted by whatever was on the tables until the Jin cousin throws a knife aiming for his groin, already crowing in victory. He’s only foiled by Jin Zixuan leaning into him, seemingly by accident, making the knife lodge itself in Lan Wangji’s thigh instead.

The reprieve is brief.

“You’re going about it all wrong.” A middle-aged man emerges from the smaller clans’ rows and ambles closer, unsteady on his feet, slurring. “Lans were such sanctimonious bastards. Give me that!” He snags a plate of meat from the nearby table. Wen Chao frowns but doesn’t stop him, watching with interest. “What would your uncle say to that, pretty boy? Not so saintly now, are you?”

It takes some doing, but he eventually manages to pry Lan Wangji’s jaws open and stuffs his mouth with pieces of meat, juices running down his chin. Lan Wangji’s eyes water, yet he gives no response.

Much to everyone’s amusem*nt, Nie Huaisang faints. For a few moments, it draws the attention away from Lan Wangji, whose mouth remains forced open, meat stuck between his jaws, creating an obscene display.

“Drag that trash out of here!” Wen Chao orders, chortling with laughter, as he points at Nie Huaisang. “Who’d his father even f*ck to make him? A mouse?”

The man who’d been pushing meat into Lan Wangji’s mouth finds this hilarious and can’t keep his feet, watching Nie Huaisang being dragged out of the hall.

“A mouse!” he cries, chortling and wiping at his eyes. “A mouse! Ahaha!”

He doesn’t need his left arm either, Wei Wuxian thinks. He can chew it off, let Jiang Cheng keep it. He’ll kill Wen Chao with his teeth if he has to. He flickers a look at his brother, picking an angle—but stops.

Jiang Cheng has gone white with rage, and that brings Wei Wuxian short for just a moment. Jiang Cheng has never, never liked Lan Wangji, never had a kind word to say about him, yet now he looks like he wants to tear Wen Chao apart limb from limb. He looks like, if Wei Wuxian were to make a run for it now, he might be not far behind him.

The meat lover is now helped to his feet by someone—his son, by the undeniable if unfortunate resemblance. The boy looks to be no older than sixteen and seems beyond alarmed as he tries to pull his father away. His face turns white as another man staggers toward them, the resemblance yet again inescapable—probably the oldest son, then. That one seems even drunker, swaying as he moves.

“Ahaha, Father, you’re going about it all wrong!” he crows, laughing and fumbling for his robes. “Bet I can make him react! Bet I can—”

At first, Wei Wuxian doesn’t even understand what the man does—even after everything that’s already happened, it seems unthinkable. For several crucial moments, his mind refuses to make sense of what he’s seeing.

He’s relieving himself. Directly at the prisoner.

He has pulled his prick out in full view of everyone in the hall and is pissing a steady stream, aiming all over Lan Wangji’s restrained body.

At that moment, Wei Wuxian doesn’t feel human any longer, but a wild, rabid animal. He’s snarling, foaming at the mouth, any semblance of rational mind displaced by feral rage. He keeps throwing himself forward, angered by the fact that something’s holding him in place. He doesn’t have the mind to understand what it is, and it only angers him further, to the point where he feels his skin might burst, unequal to the task of containing his spirit gone mad.

He feels a stirring in his right hand that is no longer there and, for just a moment, almost sees it like a snatch of darkness, sharp and deadly and thirsting for blood.

He finally looks down in incomprehension, and it takes him a while to make sense of what he’s seeing.

Jiang Cheng had thrown himself across his lap, nailing him to his seat with every ounce of power he possesses, even though Jiang Cheng is snarling and yelling, too.

It goes unnoticed in the crowded hall, where an outright pandemonium has broken out, with people yelling, laughing, throwing things—as if some kind of spell has removed every presence of civility from people who normally prided themselves on manners and conduct. They’ve been transformed into demons before their very eyes.

Wei Wuxian thinks he may have blacked out for a moment, because when he even distantly knows himself again, Jiang Cheng is slumped against him, panting and exhausted. The meat lover and his sons have disappeared in the crowd, Wen Chao is still laughing as if this is the best day of his life, and Lan Wangji…

Lan Wangji remains as unmoved, unresponsive, and vacant as he’s been all along.

It hits Wei Wuxian, at that moment, then that he might be too late. There is no way anyone could have withstood that—treatment without some kind of reaction, much less Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji, who didn’t ever touch strangers, who only tolerated physical contact from members of his own family, who had never appeared in public in fewer than five layers of clothing, never with a hair out of place, who was indeed a peerless jade, perfect and untouchable—for Lan Wangji this had to be the most degrading, the most intolerable experience of all, and he just—

Nothing. There’s nothing.

Wei Wuxian feels numb again in the worst way, his rage suffused with cold, crushing fear, draining his muscles of any hint of strength. To have hope returned, suddenly, and then to lose it just as swiftly—

He’d accepted that Lan Wangji was dead before he came here, or thought he’d accepted it, at any rate. To see him alive, and now—is he really?

Wei Wuxian knows exactly how hard it is to get a rise out of Lan Wangji, and to have him hang there, restrained, beaten, bleeding, and covered in filth, and give nothing? His heart becomes a frozen, dead weight in his chest as the barbaric feast goes on around him.

“Not so pretty now that you’re all broken, Second Jade?” Wen Chao gloats, drunk and mad with it. “Don’t worry, when we’ll catch the other one, we’ll break him, too, even better than you!”

In the new wave of excitement that pronouncement elicits, three people stand out.

Wei Wuxian goes absolutely still as he sees, for the first time that night, as Lan Wangji’s lashes tremble minutely. For a split second only, his glazed-over eyes become alive as he flickers them at an oblivious Wen Chao. It’s there and gone so fast, it could have been a mirage. Wei Wuxian knows that it wasn’t.

He’s still alive in there, he realizes. The Lan Wangji he knows is still there. He didn’t know his brother was still alive, and now he does. Neither his mind nor his will has been broken. And his heart remains true.

Oh, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, you impossible man! How very you of you!

The third person to take notice is Wen Ruohan, who, for the first time that night, frowns at his youngest son.

Internally, Wei Wuxian crows. Wen Ruohan didn’t want the others to have that information! Indeed, the Wens have so loudly claimed a complete eradication of the ‘rebel’ Lan and Nie clans that to have it out there that they didn’t, in fact, capture the heir—no, the current leader of one of those clans—does nothing for the Wen reputation of being all-powerful. Lan Xichen may not, in fact, still be alive, but the one certain thing Wen Chao’s slip had exposed is that the Wens don’t have him.

In a flash of insight, Wei Wuxian knows just why Wen Ruohan had allowed this grotesque display to begin with. Intimidation, yes, but he wants it known that Lan Wangji is still alive and treated abominably. That’s the only reason Second Young Master Lan is still alive—

To serve as bait.

Wei Wuxian bites his lip. He hopes that Lan Xichen, if indeed he still lives, won’t take it. But Wei Wuxian fully intends to take it. Wei Wuxian intends to drown every single Wen in their own blood for what had happened here tonight. He swears an oath as silent as it is irrevocable.

Heaven and hell be my witness, I will free you, Lan Zhan. And I will bring you every single one of their heads.

At a signal from Wen Ruohan, Lan Wangji is wheeled away from the hall soon after. The young Wen woman who’d been speaking to Madam Yu at the beginning follows him in the wake of the guards, while Wen Chao goes up to the throne to receive what looks like a reprimand from his father.

The banquet goes on, both livelier and somehow less intense than before, as everyone is aware that the peak of the night has passed. The Jiangs are profoundly demoralized and do what they can to conceal it.

Jiang Fengmian appears to have gone catatonic, which Jiang Yanli is trying to cover for by chattering away and serving him food. Madam Yu sits with her face oddly frozen as she watches them. Jiang Cheng keeps clenching and unclenching his fists under the table.

Wei Wuxian claps his shoulder as he stands up.

“I need some air,” he says, pressing Jiang Cheng down when he tries to either follow him or object.

Moving swiftly towards the exit, Wei Wuxian doesn’t look back.

Of course, there’s no such thing as wandering unsupervised in the Sun Palace. Wei Wuxian is very aware of a couple of guards trailing him, so he does the most natural thing—clutches his stomach, loudly claiming to have drunk too much, and then bends over a balustrade, violently sick over the sharp volcanic rocks that cover the courtyard. Nightless City has no gardens. The guards make some disgusted noises and keep their distance after that.

He walks along the passageway, his head full. It’s incredibly tempting to go after Lan Wangji now, to at least discover where he’s being kept and maybe take his chances. But it’s reckless, and Wei Wuxian sees that. He hates it, but he won’t help Lan Wangji, or anyone else, if he throws himself at the Wens at the height of their power without any preparation or plan.

Still. Tempting.

A movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention. What—

The slightest ruffle. Someone is crouched just behind a huge decorative column—someone small.

“Please, wait a moment, Wei-xiong,” comes a soft whisper. “Don’t let them know I’m here.”

Wei Wuxian considers just walking past; considers, too, hauling Nie Huaisang by the scruff of his neck and throwing him at the guards.

In the end, he does neither. He stands still, pretending to admire the night sky.

“Quite the performance you gave there, Nie-xiong,” he says, barely moving his lips. “What a weak stomach you have. For a traitor.”

For a moment, Nie Huaisang doesn’t answer. When he speaks, it’s not what Wei Wuxian expects.

“They have my brother.”

Wei Wuxian almost trips, somehow, and gapes at Nie Huaisang—or, rather, in his general direction.

“What?”

“Da-ge isn’t dead,” Huaisang whispers. “That’s just a lie they told everyone. He tried to protect me, and they captured him. He’s in the dungeon here somewhere, and Wen Ruohan tortures him every single night. But he won’t kill him, not for as long as he needs me.”

Nie Huaisang’s voice is even, flat, with none of its usual playfulness or joviality. It’s the voice of a man much older than his years.

“Needs you for what?”

A snort. “Accounting. Believe it or not, the Wens are staggeringly bad at it.”

That… is not something Wei Wuxian can currently contemplate.

“So you work for them, and—”

“—and they keep Da-ge alive, yes,” Nie Huaisang says, tone still threaded with tired anger. “Once a month, I’m allowed to see him. But he won’t talk to me.”

No, Wei Wuxian thinks. From what he knows of Nie Mingjue, he wouldn’t.

“What do you want, Huaisang?”

There is movement behind the column. Then, “You’re going to rescue Wangji-xiong, right? I saw your face in there. You’ll come for him, right?”

Wei Wuxian makes a non-committal noise.

“Let me help,” Huaisang urges. “Use me. I don’t know how I can help, but I’m right here. I’ll do anything you say. Just—just rescue Da-ge with him.”

“Nie-xiong…”

“I can be useful! They think so little of me, they didn’t even seal my core! I’m no kind of warrior, but there has to be something you can use me for. Please, Wei-xiong! I can offer you nothing but my life, but... please. Please.”

Wei Wuxian mills over this for a moment, but his mind is blank. Behind him, the guards are beginning to stir.

“Give me something of yours,” he whispers, words running together. “Something that’s been yours for a while; something the Wens didn’t give you.”

There’s a shuffle, and then something is pushed into his hand, the wide sleeve of the robes that Madam Yu had so thoughtfully commissioned to hide his disfigurement concealing the motion. A hairpin, by the feel of it. Wei Wuxian tucks it into his robes under the guise of straightening them and makes a show of stretching his limbs, his missing arm on full display. The guards stop, having caught sight of it again, their disgust palpable.

“I’ll try… I’ll try to look after Wangji-xiong in the meantime,” Nie Huaisang whispers.

“No,” Wei Wuxian says, sharp and cold. “Don’t do anything that might draw attention to you; you’d really be useless then. I’ll contact you.”

With that, he turns around and slowly makes his way back into the banquet hall, the guards following, not even trying to stay unobtrusive.

The plan comes together in the early hours of morning, during their third day on the road back to Yunmeng. It’s not much of anything, but Wei Wuxian doesn’t question it, doesn’t fall into doubt. He’s been gripped by a sense of terrible purpose. He can’t see two steps ahead or five steps ahead, but he knows what he has to do right now, and it’s enough.

It’s not exactly a surprise when Jiang Cheng catches him. It’s both a good thing and a bad thing—good, because that will make everything more plausible, and less so—because he’ll now have to do this.

Jiang Cheng looks over his horse, his meager supplies, and, finally, his face.

“So you’re running, then,” he states grimly. “To fight Wen Ruohan—you and what army? The man who had destroyed two of the great clans and is controlling the rest, who has troops by the thousands and cultivators by the hundred? You’re going to run away and what—kill him? All by yourself?” His lip curls. “All to save your precious Lan Wangji?”

Wei Wuxian could have said a lot in response. Yes, he knows it’s pointless, and no, he doesn’t have much—anything—to go on. As for why he’s doing it… He could say it’s not just for Lan Wangji. That he’ll fight for the world he believes in, for the world where he could walk around with his head held high, unashamed to be alive. For all the innocent people who’d died already. For justice, which he’d once sworn to uphold.

He could say all of that, and it would all be true, but it wouldn’t convince anyone, himself least of all.

He says nothing at all.

Jiang Cheng nods, as if he’d expected it. “The last time you went to save Lan Wangji, you nearly lost your life.”

It was the other way around. Lan Wangji hadn’t had to stay for him; he could have saved himself, and didn’t. But it doesn’t matter. Jiang Cheng isn’t after specifics.

Again, Wei Wuxian says nothing.

Jiang Cheng purses his lips, then steps forward. “f*ck it. I’m coming with you.”

Immediately, Wei Wuxian looks up. “You can’t.”

“Watch me,” Jiang Cheng retorts. “What, only you get to be the hero?”

“Jiang Cheng, no.” Wei Wuxian reaches to catch his brother by the wrist, pulls it away from the reins. “You can’t leave. I’m not a member of the family, and I’m damaged goods—I’m nothing. If I run away into the night, the Wens aren’t going to care. Not much, anyway, though we should probably stage a fight just in case.”

“f*ck you you’re not family, shut up before I—”

“Jiang Cheng! You’re the heir! If you run away to fight Wen Ruohan, what do you think will happen to Lotus Pier? Your parents? Shijie?!” His voice rises despite himself. “You can’t leave!”

“f*ck YOU, WEI WUXIAN!” Jiang Cheng bellows. “JUST f*ck YOU!”

He whirls on his heel and crashes his fist into a nearby tree, splintering its bark. He freezes that way, muttering, “f*ck you, f*ck you,” quieter and quieter, until he falls silent, the fight draining from the tense line of his shoulders.

Wei Wuxian bites his lip. He’s never been good at comforting people, not even in the best of times. This isn’t something he can fix by dunking Jiang Cheng into a lake.

“I will need you in Yunmeng,” he says, improvising on the spot. “I have a plan, and it’s—”

“The f*ck you do,” Jiang Cheng spits, knuckles scraping over the tree trunk.

“All right, so I will have a plan,” Wei Wuxian amends, placating. “And I’ll need you where you can help me.”

Nothing.

“And you can look after shijie. Someone has to.”

Jiang Cheng sighs. Eventually, he turns around slowly, and looks Wei Wuxian over. His eyes are red, but dry.

Wei Wuxian tries to grin at him, but it ends up being more of a grimace. “You’ll have to tell them you tried to stop me, but I beat you up and ran away.”

Jiang Cheng scoffs. “As if you could.”

Wei Wuxian grins wryly. “We’ll test that some other time, and you’ll be forced to accept that I’m right, but now, we have to make it look good. Really good. I don’t want the Wens coming after you.”

The corner of Jiang Cheng’s mouth jerks, but he nods. “Well, get it over with, Wei Wuxian. It’s my injuries that are going to matter. Not yours.”

“Ah, Shidi.” Wei Wuxian smirks. “You know I can’t hit a man who doesn’t fight back. Do your worst.”

It’s a little eerie, how they do it in silence. At some point, Jiang Cheng forgets, inevitably, that Wei Wuxian can’t block from the right. He stops his sword in time, and it’s a grazing if painful wound against Wei Wuxian’s ribs.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t make a sound as Wei Wuxian breaks his sword arm. Another person might see some kind of poetic symmetry in it, but really, it was a reflex from his street urchin days that he seems to have reverted to, now that he’s so physically unbalanced.

They stop the fight after that, and Jiang Cheng holds on to his shoulder, watching Wei Wuxian swing himself into the saddle. Their eyes meet as the sun begins to rise.

“You promised,” Jiang Cheng manages. “Remember, Wei Wuxian. You promised.”

Wei Wuxian nods. “Take care of yourself, Jiang Cheng.”

His brother returns the gesture. “Same to you, asshole.”

Chapter 4: Interlude

Chapter Text

The Wens, it turns out, care.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t really understand this, though, being on the run, he’s swearing up a storm every waking moment. With his hand cut off, he’s neither the archer nor the swordsman he once was—he’s definitely no longer the first disciple of Yunmeng Jiang, so why the hell are the Wens still after him? Sure, Wen Chao is a bastard, and sure, Wei Wuxian had been mean to his girlfriend, but f*ck, do they really have nothing better to do than chase him all the way to Yiling and beyond?

Wei Wuxian is supposed to be figuring out a plan right now. He’d thought he would start with investigating the Wen watchtowers—the spellwork behind them, the nature of their control. He could sabotage them then, and then—and then—something. Details, second stage, whatever.

But he can’t even get to the first stage. He sleeps in caves and hollowed-out tree trunks, and whenever he has a few hours of breathing room, he’s trying to figure out some illusion charm, because he needs to be able to go into town, any town, to get news, and being one hand short makes him too distinctive a target.

So far, he’s only been able to overhear that there’s apparently a price on his head, and Wen Chao has been personally tasked with obtaining it. He has Wen Zhuliu with him, and there are no two people Wei Wuxian hates more in the world.

But he can’t do anything about them—not right now, not like this. He’s worn out, tired, and he hasn’t been warm or dry in days, hasn’t had any kind of meal in too many days. He’s debilitatingly sleep-deprived, and he still only has one hand. He can’t think like this. It’s beginning to look more and more like he not only won’t be able to save Lan Wangji—he’ll soon be captured himself.

If that ends up happening, he intends to get himself killed. He’s not as good as Lan Wangji at turning into jade.

That night, he sleeps in an old cemetery. He doesn’t think the Wens will look for him here; no sane person would want to spend the night in a place like this, but Wei Wuxian is hardly sane and very, very tired. At this point, if a resentful spirit gets him, he might welcome it. Perhaps he can help Lan Wangji better as a ghost.

He sleeps on the ground between two graves, like no human being ever should. The voices that invade his dreams aren’t particularly ominous, more repetitive and monotonous, and knowing no fatigue.

You’re ours.

Join us. Join us.

You’re ours.

We can help.

You’re ours. Be ours.

Stay.

He jerks himself awake as dawn spills over the horizon, teeth chattering and body overcome by violent shivers.

He can still hear them.

He starts losing himself after that.

The very ground in Yiling is saturated with resentment, and it only grows further away from the city. Wei Wuxian can’t tell if it’s feeding on him or if he’s feeding off of it. He feels like a ghost, and he’d believe himself one if it wasn’t for the hunger. He’s pretty sure ghosts aren’t supposed to starve in this very human sense, with stomach cramps and weakened limbs.

And he can feel it—his right hand—more and more, day by day, and that’s where he begins to suspect that he’s definitely lost it. It terrifies him. Losing his life doesn’t feel like that big a deal, but losing his mind…

Is it arrogant of him to be so attached to it, so proud? It’s what he always had. Back when there was nothing else—no parents, no home, no stability or comfort—he’d always had himself and his best weapons: quick wit, sharp eyes, and steady hands. He knows, has always known himself through those things, grounding himself in being capable, more capable than anyone else he knew.

Then he met Lan Wangji, and thought, for the first time, oh, here’s someone who can keep up with me, someone he might work to keep up with. A true match. An equal. It was exhilarating, stretching himself to the limit against someone of matching strength, pushing into every corner of his abilities, of himself, and feeling himself grow, expand, become more.

Now… His hand is gone, and his mind feels on the brink of breaking.

He knows what this is. He’s smart, and he reads, despite what every one of his teachers had suspected. It comes to him now, though, in the deep, stern tones of Lan Qiren, caution clinging to every syllable, didactic and factual and so very blunt.

Overexposure to resentful energy.

He knows. He feels oversaturated with it. Sleeping with the dead will do that and more if he doesn’t guard himself, and he hasn’t meditated in days. He could, but then there’s hunger, and exhaustion, and pursuit. And—

And a part of him doesn’t want to.

It’s the part that is filled to the brim with resentment of his very own. Red anger, black hatred, pain transmuted and warped until it’s not recognizable anymore, and it feels so good to surrender to it, to stop resisting—to become it fully and never look back.

The temptation is overwhelming, and there are moments when he wakes up raw with wanting to give in, clawing at the ground like an animal with how much he craves it.

But he still has them, and so he can’t—Shijie’s gentle lilac, a soothing lullaby; Jiang Cheng’s vivid purple of a fresh bruise; Uncle Jiang and even Madam Yu, a palette in muted violet.

And then, brighter than everything else, there’s him, burning white, barely blurring into a soft, light blue along the edges.

Lan Zhan.

Wei Wuxian can’t let go. He doesn’t understand it. He has many friends. He’s always made friends easily. Lan Zhan wouldn’t even call the two of them friends if pressed, but Wei Wuxian can’t let him go. He doesn’t know why. Does it matter? Lan Zhan is important. The most important one of all, he just knows.

Is that not enough?

Later, Wei Wuxian will never know if he meant to get into the Burial Mounds or if Wen Chao’s dogs forced him there. Perhaps neither, or both. All he knows for sure is that he’s bone-deep exhausted of being hunted, and of the chorus of dead voices in his head that never shut up.

It’s almost a relief to stumble into the narrow valley drowning in resentment, except it burns everywhere it touches him—acid on his skin, fire in his hair. It’s so dark he can’t see clearly—eyes open or closed, shadows and shapes dance before him, reaching, grabbing, latching on.

He can’t see, but he can feel his right hand moving, and it’s the only part of him that feels all right. Like it’s at home here. Like it’s stronger.

It appears he’s lost his battle for sanity.

Time has no meaning here, but at some point, he is aware, all at once and out of nowhere, of facing her, the deepest, darkest consciousness in all of existence. She gazes at him with a myriad of eyes, each one invasive, intrusive, cutting into him like a knife. He lifts his head up, stands up straighter.

He doesn’t ask, ‘Who are you?’

He asks, “What do you want?”

Her will coalesces into an answer, soundless and deafening at the same time.

YOU.

He smirks. “I’m not for you to have.”

HAVE WHAT YOU WANT.

“Oh? And what’s that?”

REVENGE. PUNISHMENT. I HELP. POWER. I GIVE. SAVE HIM. I DO. KILL THOSE WHO TOUCHED HIM. I DESTROY.

So she can read him, he observes indifferently, and coughs up blood. She can read him, and knows where to push.

He wipes his mouth, the blood evaporating before it can stain his skin, and pulls himself upright again. He didn’t even notice he’d sunk to the ground.

“What do you want?” he asks, swaying on his feet, but not giving in. “What do you really want?”

Silence.

Then,

OUT. OUT. I WANT OUT. STARVING. WANT OUT. FEED.

He blinks, forcing himself to think, to process.

This resentment is ancient, existing here since before memory, trapped. The wards that guard Luanzang had been set up by the first cultivators, long before any of the present-day clans had come into existence. She is all-powerful, compared to the resentful energy of today, but she’s trapped here. She can’t cross those wards unless someone lets her in and carries her out.

He frowns. He hates the world as it is, but not to the point of unleashing her on it.

“We’re making a deal,” he says, tasting blood again, his core straining to keep him breathing.

DEAL?

“I’ll take you out of here. But you stay tethered to me. Obey me. And I will give you a feast beyond your wildest dreams.”

LAUGHTER.

He feels as if his very bones are eroding.

NO HUMAN HAND CAN LEASH ME. WEAK. CAN’T COMMAND ME.

He smirks, chin tilting up. A challenge. No, better—a dare. He could never resist one, and he has never failed.

“I’ll make a leash you can’t break out of.” He laughs, manic. “And you will listen, if you want food.”

With that, he closes his eyes and throws himself headfirst into his own darkness, his own ocean of resentment that he’s been trying to ignore, to outrun this whole time.

He thinks of Lotus Pier overshadowed by the black Wen sun.

He thinks of Madam Yu’s sword, and her ashen white face, and her wobbling lip. Of Uncle Jiang and his broken spirit. Of shijie’s tears. Of Jiang Cheng’s helpless rage. He thinks of the people of Yunmeng, turned by their guilt and grief into living ghosts.

But most of all, he thinks of Lan Wangji—trampled, tortured, ridiculed by creatures who did not deserve to breathe the same air as him, who could not even be called people.

His resentment swings fully into black hatred then, and he shouts it—his bottomless, all-consuming rage—and throws his right arm up in the air.

The pain is worse than anything he’s ever known. The skin covering his stump splits, and new bones begin to grow—black, ice cold, yet somehow burning. Centimeter by centimeter, a skeletal hand takes shape as he continues to channel his resentment through his core into the hand he can’t see yet, but can sense there—evil, powerful, and dead.

Sinew, muscle, and finally skin, ghost-pale and stone cold. His throat is bleeding, black blood running down his chin, as he shouts the last of his air out, along with the incantation his mind has only just completed. Untested, untried, yet seen in his dreams, over and over again, whispered to him by the part of his mind that has Lan Zhan’s face, his pale lips and sunken eyes.

The real Lan Wangji would be horrified if he’d learned of this sacrilege, but Wei Wuxian can live with that.

As long as he gets what he wants, he can live with anything.

With a growl, he opens his eyes to look straight at her, and finds her uncertain, waiting.

He laughs, then, and draws the sigil in the dead air with his new right hand, a part of her forever merged with him now; a part that’s his to command.

She wails.

They say no one can enter the Burial Mounds and come out the same, if they come out at all. One day, a man had walked in, and when he’d come out, unspeakable darkness had come out with him.

That was the day Wen Zhuliu, the Core-Melting Hand, had died—horribly, though he’d not uttered a sound as the freshly risen dead had torn into his flesh. On that day, the legend of the Yiling Laozu was born.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t care about legends. He swears and rages, because Wen Chao had managed to escape, and takes it out on any Wen in sight. He can’t really feel his new right hand, though it obeys him as his old one used to. He can’t hold a sword in it, but that hardly seems important.

He wanders the streets of Yiling, unrecognized, and tries to feel the sun on his face. He discovers that only the spiciest food still retains a bit of taste, and that no amount of alcohol will get him drunk any longer. He carries a black flute at his hip, though he rarely plays it, and his hunger only spikes when he hears music streaming from the spring houses late at night. He’s starving for melodies, but none of them are quite right, somehow, and he leaves, unsatisfied and craving.

He heads east, and then north, and only looks at the sun from the wrong side of dawn.

Chapter 5 Chapter Text

Most people are fortunate—or unfortunate, depending on how it goes—to go through a life-altering event just once. The kind where their entire worldview shifts, and they reassess everything they’ve ever known about themselves.

Meng Yao has gone through not one, but two such upheavals in only a few years. He has yet to determine if that marks him as fortunate.

The first one was when he’d taken the pearl his mother gave him and headed to Koi Tower to present himself to his father, Jin Guangshan. It… hadn’t gone quite how he’d envisioned, and his worldview had shifted drastically by the time he’d reached the bottom step of the stairs from which he’d been kicked down.

His father, it turned out, was nothing like what his mother had made him out to be. The only good thing about that discovery was that she didn’t live long enough to learn of it.

Until that moment, Meng Yao, like many young men, had had dreams. His biggest dream had been to take a place of honor in the cultivation world at his father’s side.

After that day, however, Meng Yao had realized that dreams were impractical. Plans were much better. And if he wanted something, he should make it happen. Any lingering sentimentality would only get in the way.

He stays in Lanling as a humble bookkeeper, observing, listening, and learning. Everything he sees, hears, and witnesses becomes building blocks of his new, much more solid plan.

He still wants to be a prominent figure in the cultivation world, but now, he no longer wishes to do it at his father’s side. He intends to do it in his father’s place. He also intends to climb much higher than his father ever dared.

He could, after all, do so much more with what his father had and squandered.

Meng Yao is entirely pragmatic in his assessments and analyses. Due to a lack of proper guidance and training, his cultivation is weak and will likely not improve much. It cannot, therefore, become his main tool or weapon.

The next likely option—influence—he doesn’t have, as he is a nobody. Those who learn of his true parentage tend to laugh at him about it. His father’s insatiable lust is bad enough, but his mother was a prostitute. Even a servant would have been acceptable—someone of low standing, but still respectable, decent, and therefore accepted. Alas, his mother’s identity had closed that road for him, too.

Still, connections and influence could be gained, and being useful to someone even more powerful would be a good start.

Meng Yao considers his options as he stays put and collects information. Fairly early, he realizes that Wen Ruohan is his best bet. A major war seems inevitable, and if it isn’t, what’s to stop Meng Yao from starting the avalanche? He will make himself useful to the Wen Sect leader, then arrive at Lanling at the head of a Wen army, and the Jin Sect will be his reward. He’ll be a subordinate of Wen Ruohan, certainly, but that is a problem he can deal with at a later date.

Thus decided, Meng Yao spends his time gathering vital intelligence and biding his time until he feels the moment is right.

When the news spreads that Cloud Recesses has been burned and all the prominent sect heirs have been dragged to Qishan as hostages, Meng Yao realizes that the moment has come. He finishes his preparations, packs, and sets off for Nightless City.

He has not bargained on this being the second moment that will forever change the course of his life.

He sees the horse first, a gorgeous white mare that has to have cost a fortune. She looks at Meng Yao warily as he approaches but doesn’t budge from her spot, where she’s sort of… ah, shielding someone on the ground. Her rider, who seems to have slipped off the saddle from sheer exhaustion.

The horse neighs softly in alarm or warning, and the man slumped on the ground looks up.

Meng Yao’s impeccably well-rehearsed friendly smile freezes on his face as his thoughts come to a screeching halt.

sh*t.

He never forgets a face. He never forgets anything, but even if he could, even if he didn’t have this particular talent, he doesn’t think he would have ever been able to forget this face.

Zewu-jun, Lan Xichen, rightfully first on the list of the most handsome young masters.

Meng Yao lives and breathes lies and flattery, learned at his mother’s knee as a survival mechanism. Lan Xichen, he couldn’t flatter if he tried.

Abruptly, he’s thrown back a year—to a busy teahouse in Lanling, on the day a storm had hit the town. Meng Yao was busy being snubbed by a group of cultivators passing through, and Lan Xichen had stepped in, seeking shelter from the rain.

Meng Yao had stared at him and smiled like an idiot, like he’d never smiled at anyone in his life—just for a moment, he’d entirely forgotten himself. He’d gestured at a seat across from him, one of the few free seats in the house, and Lan Xichen had smiled back.

Then one of those imbeciles had intercepted him, bowing and simpering and throwing glances at Meng Yao, talking in rushed tones with solicitous expressions as they enlighten Zewu-jun on why he shouldn’t share Meng Yao’s table.

Meng Yao had gritted his teeth at the display. Could they even claim acquaintance with Lan Xichen, or were they merely seeking to ingratiate themselves to earn the privilege at Meng Yao’s expense?

He had watched, like a masoch*st, as the tips of Lan Xichen’s ears had turned red, and he’d thrown a quick glance at Meng Yao, who’d still stood there like a fool.

Then—

Lan Xichen had said something that made the men before him pale and hurriedly step back. And then he’d walked over to Meng Yao, bowed to him in the polite greeting of equals, and murmured, ‘Would young master mind terribly if I joined him?’

Meng Yao had pretty much gone speechless by then, but they had talked, however briefly. He has perfect recall, yet he can’t for the life of him remember a single word of it. Something about the weather, probably. Maybe something else.

And then the storm had ended, and Lan Xichen was gone, leaving another unbearably kind, sweet smile in his wake.

And now he’s here. On the ground, white robes wrinkled, sweat matting his brow and exhaustion clinging to every line of him.

Somehow, he’s still the most beautiful human being in existence.

Who is blinking now, and smiling uncertainly.

“I’m sorry, Young Master… We’ve met, haven’t we?”

“Meng Yao,” Meng Yao hears himself say, with a distant sense of disbelief and mounting panic. “This lowly one is flattered Zewu-jun remembers me.”

“Ah, please, don’t…” Lan Xichen shakes his head, fatigue dimming his expression. “There’s no need to—”

Meng Yao, meanwhile, runs a quick mental calculation. Cloud Recesses had been burned, and he’d heard Lan Wangji had been dragged to Qishan, along with the rest of the sects’ heirs. That means—

This man is a fugitive.

“Zewu-jun, you shouldn’t be here,” Meng Yao says, glancing around quickly. “You are on the run, correct? The Wen patrols are frequent in this area.”

Meng Yao had actually chosen this road for exactly that reason—he needed an escort to Nightless City. Now…

“You’re quite right, of course,” Lan Xichen agrees and, with a visible effort, gets to his feet. He leans against his horse almost instantly. “Only, I’m afraid—I don’t have anywhere to go.” He grimaces, barely. “You shouldn’t linger with me, Young Master Meng. I don’t want to put you in danger.”

No, Meng Yao shouldn’t linger. Meng Yao should take him to the nearest Wen patrol and earn himself not just an invitation to Nightless City, but the much-coveted reward of Wen Ruohan’s attention and good will. Fate is clearly rewarding him if she’s giving him this gift. He shouldn’t squander it. He should—

“I have a place you could stay at, Zewu-jun,” he hears his mouth say. “It’s well hidden, and not too far. I promise, no one will find you there.”

What are you doing?

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!

But Lan Xichen’s eyes brighten with sudden hope, and he looks at Meng Yao with such an expression that Meng Yao knows, irrevocably and all at once, that he would die to protect this man.

He likely will.

Meng Yao has a problem.

A very tall, very beautiful, out-of-this-world kind problem.

There’s a part of Meng Yao’s brain that wants to do nothing but sit at the problem’s feet all day, staring adoringly up at him without blinking. That part seems to be a feral cat.

There’s also a distinct and alarming possibility that Meng Yao is losing it.

He settles Lan Xichen in a tiny cottage, remote from any possible human activity—one of the three hideouts Meng Yao had so thoughtfully prepared for himself over the years. He travels back to the city every day for work and to gather news.

Lan Xichen… stays. He also talks. He keeps smiling at Meng Yao like he trusts him, which is obviously insane but somehow doesn’t lower him in Meng Yao’s eyes. Insult to injury.

And just like that, Meng Yao’s plans of marching over to Qishan, charming Wen Ruohan, and coming back to Lanling at the head of a Wen army have gone up in smoke. He can’t even remember the moment he’d made the decision. His plans are just gone, like they were never there. It took him several days to even notice. Horrifying.

Lan Xichen rips his clothes when he tries to wash them. He insists, embarrassed and blushing (adorably!) about it, that he knows how to do this, that he’s up to such a task. Meng Yao nods, smiles, believes. He can bet every piece of silver he owns that Lan Xichen hasn’t had to do anything like this in years.

He offers to take over and doesn’t know how to hide the fact that his hands are shaking slightly, just from touching the fabric that had touched a god. Maybe he’s ill. Honestly, that would explain so much.

The first time Lan Xichen tentatively calls him ‘A-Yao,’ the feral cat in Meng Yao’s head purrs so aggressively he doesn’t understand how his brain hasn’t leaked out of his ears. Unbelievable.

It’s not even carnal, his speculation about the strength of those arms notwithstanding. You don’t lust after a god unless you’re really, really depraved, or are more confident in yourself than a ghost king. Meng Yao doesn’t know which one a part of him it is—maybe both—but that part is easy to ignore.

It’s the other part that gives him trouble. The one that insists that Lan Xichen is a timeless work of art. That he should be framed as a precious painting, surrounded by beautiful things to highlight his perfection, so that Meng Yao could look at him, and converse with him, entirely through poetry, and invent a new way each day to bring out that gentle, soul-crushing smile.

All of this is incredibly problematic.

It would have been at any given time, but it’s especially so now, with reality being unequivocally horrifying to someone like Lan Xichen. Meng Yao has never had much to begin with, so he can’t quite imagine what it’s like to live under the constant, very real threat of losing everything.

Every day he goes into town, and every day Lan Xichen waits for him at—at home, breath bated for any news. He’s not a nuisance about it, seeming to appreciate Meng Yao’s precarious position more than Meng Yao himself, so he’s delicate, and non-pressuring, and quietly desperate.

The first time Meng Yao has actual news to bring him, he gets an earful.

Lan Wangji is a confirmed sighting in Qishan at the Wen indoctrination camp. Meng Yao knows how to get intelligence once there’s any to get, so he also knows what they don’t gossip about at the market or in any of the teahouses. Lan Wangji is injured, and Wen Chao had the gall—indeed, the wits—to confiscate everyone’s swords.

Lan Xichen pales at this, but Meng Yao isn’t prepared for the flood it unleashes. It’s painful, but not particularly informative, and mostly goes along the lines of:

“Oh, no, Wangji—Uncle should have sent you away, not me, what was he thinking, why did I let him, now he’s hurt, and all alone, and I’m useless, Wangji, Wangji, Wangji!”

Meng Yao, who’s never seen Lan Xichen being anything other than perfectly composed, is... at a loss. He attempts to break through… this, summoning every bit of knowledge on the younger of the Twin Jades he possesses.

“Xichen-ge, I understand your concern, but take heart. I’ve heard that Second Young Master Lan is a very capable cultivator.”

Lan Xichen gives him a miserable look, but he nods, seeming to take some solace in this knowledge.

“Wangji is very strong. Uncle failed him on purpose several times, as he did to me, just to test him, and he’d always come out on top. But he’s so young, A-Yao! And if he doesn’t even have his sword…”

He frets for a long time, and Meng Yao listens and makes soothing noises.

The conversation leaves him with two conclusions.

One, Lan Xichen is a doting older brother, the kind an older sibling should be but rarely is in reality. It leaves Meng Yao with a bitter aftertaste in his mouth when he thinks of his own situation—he has one confirmed half-sibling, and, by all accounts, he’s neither doting nor remotely pleasant. Gods know how many more are hiding in the woodwork, considering Jin Guangshan seemed to spill his infamous pearls like so much rain. Meng Yao doubts any of them are better.

Two, Lan Wangji, by Meng Yao’s estimation, is a sheltered and spoiled child whose talents and accomplishments are vastly overpraised. Lan Qiren had unquestionably made the right choice in sending his eldest nephew to safety and should have done so even if their seniority was reversed. Meng Yao approves.

Barely two weeks later, Meng Yao is forced to revise this. Lan Wangji, for all that they haven’t met, is beginning to annoy him.

Wen Chao had dragged a huge husk of a killed Xuanwu of Slaughter to Nightless City, claiming he’d been the one to do away with it. Meng Yao doubts anyone had believed him, but in the end, the Wen Sect couldn’t even save face. The Jiang and the Jin disciples—Meng Yao’s brother was apparently not entirely useless—had rescued the actual slaughterers—namely, the first disciple of the Yunmeng Jiang Sect Wei Wuxian and, of course since Meng Yao’s life is a joke, the heir to the Lan Sect, Lan Wangji.

Frankly, Meng Yao is impressed. The mythical tortoise was over four hundred years old and filled to the brim with resentment. He would have been impressed had Lan Wangji and his companion merely managed to survive the encounter. To have killed it is… Well.

Apparently Lan Xichen hadn’t just been his usual overly kind self, blinded by brotherly love. Who knew.

This is not technically bad news, but Meng Yao has gained some understanding of Lan Xichen’s character in these past few weeks, beyond the mind-boggling kindness, and he’s willing to bet every piece of silver he owns—again—that Lan Xichen will be more worried for his brother than proud of him.

He is almost right. Lan Xichen is so worried that pride doesn’t seem to enter his realm at all.

“I should have been there. The Xuanwu! Three days! And he was injured already! This is all my fault! It was me they were supposed to capture, not him. Wangji was hurt in my place, I can’t… Oh, gods, A-Zhan, are you well…!”

Meng Yao makes soothing noises again, then carefully remarks that Lan Xichen must be very close to his brother. Meng Yao himself honestly can’t imagine it.

Lan Xichen sighs, his shoulders drooping. “I… Wangji, we…”

This is where Meng Yao gets the entire picture, one he isn’t sure he’d asked for. How Lan Wangji used to smile when he was little; how he giggled and outright laughed when his mother tickled him, or when Lan Xichen chased him around her house, pretending he was a yao and wanted to eat him; how he had never seen his little brother smile again after their mother died. How Lan Xichen would have given anything to bring joy and laughter back into his life, but all that he and their sect had managed to accomplish was to make Lan Wangji into a cultivator worthy of Wen Ruohan’s personal notice.

Meng Yao prepares calming tea for him, talks him into meditating, and contemplates.

He shuffles these new pieces of information to the appropriate places inside his mind. Lan Xichen would never say anything disrespectful about his uncle, but it’s clear to Meng Yao that he was as good as a co-parent to his younger brother, despite being not even three years older. This… complicates things.

Normally, Meng Yao loves when emotions come into play. They make things easy—he reads people flawlessly, and emotions make them vulnerable, predictable. Susceptible.

But, considering his priorities have shifted enough to accommodate keeping Lan Xichen safe—and he shies away from dwelling on exactly how that had come to be—this is not a complication he welcomes.

Meng Yao is far from stupid. He knows by the general logic of the events so far where they are all headed—a major war is about to break out, and he can no longer join the Wens. He can’t leave Lan Xichen behind, unprotected, and he can’t show up with him in tow. He doesn’t have the clout to protect him from Wen Ruohan.

And now, this—Lan Wangji being not merely a sibling, but a bond that seems to be destabilizing Lan Xichen’s already anxious state. Meng Yao has had to talk him out of going back to Gusu in the hopes of finding his brother twice now. If new information doesn’t come in, this will only get worse.

Meng Yao… doesn’t like having so little control over the situation. He is aware of this particular shortcoming; he knows it doesn’t exactly serve him. But the universe is a system of checks and balances, and there has to be some payback for the enormous intellect he wields. He accepts that.

All that being said, this does not endear Lan Wangji to him in the slightest.

Lan Wangji seems to be on a mission of proving himself the most inconvenient little brother in existence.

Days go by, then weeks, and nothing concerning his whereabouts trickles in. There’s gossip about the Yunmeng Jiang disciple being up and about at Lotus Pier, but of Lan Wangji there’s nothing, as if he’d vanished into thin air. The assumption is that he went back to Cloud Recesses, but it doesn’t seem possible to get confirmation either way.

Then, out of the clear blue sky, a shocking announcement.

A Wen watchtower is installed at Lotus Pier. The Yunmeng Jiang Sect is supporting the Wens. There seems to be some kind of non-aggression pact between them. Rumors arise that it was Yu Ziyuan herself who made it—rumors, too, that the troublesome first disciple had lost his hand in the process.

Lanling buzzes like a disturbed beehive.

Meng Yao thinks.

He wonders who it was who brokered that deal, to bring the formidable Yu Ziyuan to not only allow the tower but destroy Yunmeng Jiang’s best weapon by her own hand. Meng Yao desperately wants to know the details, his inability to learn immediately how it was done driving him up the wall. It was masterful work. He admires the craftsmanship.

He also braces for impact, because he knows what it means. If he were in Wen Ruohan’s place, he wouldn’t have waited long before using this opportunity.

Wen Ruohan doesn’t disappoint.

Not a week later, the news comes that the Lan Sect has been exterminated. More than burning down Cloud Recesses, more than beheading—no Lan disciple or ally had made it out alive. Not the elderly, not the children, not those simply standing too close.

Before the bodies went cold, Wen Xu had already turned his force to Qinghe, and there was no doubt that he would prevail there, too.

Meng Yao tells Lan Xichen nothing.

He needs a strategy for this, and he doesn’t have one. Selfishly, he doesn’t want to be the one to deal that blow. More importantly, he can’t predict the consequences. He has no frame of reference for this, and his calculations are running into a wall.

Days go by, Lan Xichen’s eyes become quietly more desperate—

And then the decision is taken out of Meng Yao’s hands.

He knows something is wrong the moment he steps through the door.

Lan Xichen usually has tea ready around the time Meng Yao comes back, as well as a simple meal made for them to share. He insists it’s the least he can do, and Meng Yao doesn’t have the heart to stop him. He doesn’t exactly enjoy it, as it’s a terrifying and humbling experience and he doesn’t do well with those. But he’s been pretending all the while to be a great deal more normal than he actually is, lest he alarms his guest—what’s one more ruse?

Today, the house is quiet, the teapot is cold, and Lan Xichen is sitting by the window, motionless as a statue. He doesn’t turn at the sound of the opening door.

Meng Yao draws in a breath and releases it slowly.

“Xichen-ge?” he calls, aware already that it’s no good. “Is everything all right?”

Lan Xichen doesn’t acknowledge him for a while. When he speaks at last, it’s in the even tone of someone who’s barely holding back from screaming.

“I went to the springs today. I know you don’t like it when I go too far from the house, but I was too restless. I had to. I was careful. When I heard someone coming down that road, I hid.”

Meng Yao’s pulse speeds up without his permission. He takes a few steps closer, then stills.

“Wen soldiers,” Lan Xichen says, still looking into whatever abyss he sees outside the window. “They were talking. Stopped to water the horses. They talked a lot.”

Meng Yao wills himself to keep breathing normally.

“They seemed to be particularly excited about having eliminated the last of the Lan Sect. They burned Caiyi, though how, with all the water, I can’t fathom. They slaughtered my entire sect; they killed my family. All of them.” He stops, exhaling. “All except one.”

Meng Yao slowly sinks to his knees.

“My brother—” Lan Xichen’s voice breaks. He takes a few moments to compose himself enough to continue, but his voice is hoarse now, cracked all over. “They said Wen Chao had taken my brother prisoner. Dragged him by the hair, like a…”

Horrible silence reigns.

An eternity passes.

“Did you know?” Lan Xichen asks. He turns his head to look at Meng Yao finally, and his eyes are a shock of black, rimmed with amber. “Meng Yao, did you know of this?”

Meng Yao swallows. “Yes.”

“How long?”

“…”

“How long?”

“A few days only. Xichen-ge, forgive me.” Enraged that he’s left with nothing but honesty, he confesses, “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Lan Xichen’s eyes pin him in place for a few agonizing moments, burning the very skin off his flesh. Then he turns away, and his shoulders sink.

“No,” he says softly. “I wouldn’t have known how to tell me, either.”

Desperate, Meng Yao casts for something—anything.

“Xichen-ge—”

“I’m going to Nightless City.”

Meng Yao goes cold. “What? Why?”

“I must rescue my brother. He’s still alive. I have to save him.”

Speechless, Meng Yao stares at him for a moment, before mustering some sense.

“Xichen-ge, you can’t. How do you intend to do that?”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Lan Xichen replies with surprising calmness.

Meng Yao recognizes that mode. It’s the ‘everything is too horrible to process so I’ll shift to problem solving instead’ mode. He cannot, however, be remotely grateful for it. He would rather Lan Xichen had been hysterical and tearing his hair out in grief than say:

“I will go to Nightless City and offer Wen Ruohan a deal.”

Meng Yao blinks. “A deal?”

“Yes. I stay in my brother’s place. He is released. And when he is, when I know he’s safe, I will tell Wen Ruohan where I’ve hidden the books and scrolls I rescued from the Lan Clan library before it burned.”

Meng Yao digests this. It’s… a plan. Of sorts.

It’s a horrible plan.

“Xichen-ge,” he says carefully, inching closer. “Forgive me; I know how much your brother means to you. But this plan… Wen Ruohan will never release your brother. Surely,” Meng Yao pleads. “Surely you must see that?”

Lan Xichen appears unmoved. “If he doesn’t release Wangji, he won’t learn anything from me. I am… betraying my sect and all my ancestors by giving our knowledge, our most sacred texts to Wen Ruohan. It is unthinkable. But my sect is no more, and if this buys my brother’s freedom, I will gladly commit worse sins.”

Meng Yao bites his lip, trying not to panic. The sheer determination emanating from Lan Xichen is terrifying. He’s clearly in no state to think further, but Meng Yao must try.

“Xichen-ge,” he tries his best to approximate his usual even tone. “If you go to Nightless City, Wen Ruohan will simply capture you. Why would he need to release your brother? He will simply torture you until you either give him the location or die.”

And you will, of course, die.

Lan Xichen purses his lips.

“I understand the risk, but I must do this.” He peers over at Meng Yao. “A-Yao, I have no one left. Do you understand this? No one. My entire sect. My family. My uncle. My father, too, though I hardly knew him. My baby cousins, who weren’t even two! Everyone is gone. They were alive just days ago—just a moon ago, they were all alive, and now they don’t exist anymore! I can’t comprehend it! All those voices, forever silenced…”

His posture slips with a shudder, and then he’s on the floor, as if he’d fallen. Meng Yao doesn’t recall seeing the collapse.

“But Wangji,” he whispers. “Wangji is still alive. He’s all I have left, A-Yao. If there’s even a chance… I have to save him. I know the risks, but I have to try.”

Meng Yao swallows. He hates this.

“And what if,” he forces himself to speak, “Wen Ruohan doesn’t torture you for the information? What if he tortures your brother in front of you instead?”

It’s what Meng Yao would have done in Wen Ruohan’s place. It’s only reasonable.

Lan Xichen wails, briefly before cutting it off. He’s rocking from side to side slightly, attempting to master what must be overwhelming levels of pain.

“Then I will kill myself, and he’ll be left with nothing,” he whispers. “I know a way. I won’t need weapons or my hands to be free; I won’t even need my core. As long as I’m breathing, I can do it. It’s one of the secret techniques of my sect. I was supposed to teach Wangji, but I never did.”

He shakes his head, gaze seeking refuge in the view out the window again.

“He’s so young. And he… he feels things so deeply. People think him cold, but he… Every emotion is magnified tenfold for Wangji. He doesn’t always know how to handle them. In fact”—a weak smile touches his lips—“he hardly ever does. I was afraid… I was afraid, if I taught him that, he might… In a moment of intense despair, as he lives through things so strongly… I was afraid he’d use it. I thought, let him grow a bit more first. Let him settle into himself. Then, I’d…”

He looks at Meng Yao suddenly, eyes bright with tears.

“Did I make a terrible mistake, A-Yao? If I had taught him that… whatever they’re doing to him now, he… at least he could have escaped that way. But I… Am I selfish? Am I a terrible, unworthy brother, because even now, I’m so happy that I didn’t teach him that?”

“Xichen-ge, no, no!” Meng Yao leans forward, unable to help it, reaches to touch Lan Xichen’s arm. “You want your brother to live at all costs, of course you do! That’s not selfish at all.”

“But what if they…” Lan Xichen’s voice all but disappears. “I heard those soldiers. The way they spoke of Wangji, of his… beauty…”

Ah. Yes. Meng Yao can picture perfectly what those soldiers might have said.

“Wangji would rather die,” Lan Xichen whispers brokenly. “And I have left him defenseless.”

“Lan Xichen.” Meng Yao sits up a little straighter. “I understand your concern, your… fear.” If Lan Wangji looks even remotely like his brother, does he ever. “And this is war, and the danger is always there. But it might ease your mind to learn that Wen Chao is said to be roundly disgusted by men displaying such preferences. I think he would try to avoid even a hint of the appearance that he may be remotely so inclined. Xichen-ge.” He leans forward again, speaking gently. “Your brother will not be treated well, yes. But I believe he will probably be safe from that.”

Lan Xichen’s eyes slide closed briefly, and he sways slightly in place.

Meng Yao thinks of the Fire Palace. Of how Wen Ruohan keeps an entire staff of torturers for amusem*nt alone. Of how he’s been known to dismember living people just to look at their insides.

And all he can offer Lan Xichen is that at least his brother probably won’t be raped. As if people haven’t gone mad from incessant pain alone; as if Lan Wangji has a chance of recovering from whatever is inflicted on him instead.

As if hearing his thoughts, Lan Xichen straightens with renewed determination.

“I must go,” he says. “If Wen Ruohan won’t take the deal, so be it. But I have to try. Wangji is all I have left.” His shoulders set, his chin even. “If I can’t save him, there’s no point to keep living.”

Meng Yao watches him, a man transformed. He’s heard before that grief can drive people to madness, but he’s never witnessed it. Lan Xichen’s eyes are inhumanly bright, but there are no tears in them now. He’s alight with terrible purpose, and he will not—Meng Yao realizes, with horror—be stopped by reason of any kind.

And so Meng Yao makes a decision within a single breath.

He doesn’t try to stop him.

“I understand, Xichen-ge,” he says softly, giving Lan Xichen a sad, accepting look. “I’d do the same, for family.”

“Oh,” Lan Xichen breathes out. For the first time this horrible evening, a shadow of his real smile touches his lips, some of the tension leaving his frame. “Oh, thank you, A-Yao. I didn’t want us to fight on this last day, after all that you’ve done for me.”

“I would never dare fight with Xichen-ge,” Meng Yao says, returning the smile. “Are you leaving now?”

Lan Xichen nods and rises. “I only wished to see you before I went. To thank you.” He tries to bow, but Meng Yao, on his feet now too, catches his arms.

“Please, Xichen-ge,” he says—then, daring, “we’re too close for that.”

Lan Xichen nods, his gratitude palpable, a warm touch of pale winter sunlight on Meng Yao’s skin.

“I’m glad we part peacefully,” he murmurs, an air of determined calm settling over him like a cloak. “I hope A-Yao will take care of himself.”

“I wouldn’t dare go against such a wish.” Meng Yao bows. “Allow me to at least see you off?”

Lan Xichen nods.

Meng Yao steps out of the way, allowing him to pass beside him.

And the moment Lan Xichen’s back is to him, he presses his palm squarely between his shoulder blades, exhaling an incantation.

Lan Xichen instantly goes limp, but he truly is a magnificently powerful cultivator—he still manages to turn, eyes wide with hurt and betrayal, before they slide closed, and he sinks to the ground motionless, at once deeply, soundly asleep.

The spell is one that Lan Xichen himself had taught him, in case Meng Yao ever needed to slip somewhere unnoticed without hurting anyone. A simple spell for a Lan. Meng Yao finds his limbs slightly shaky.

“I’m sorry, Xichen-ge,” Meng Yao murmurs, gazing down at Lan Xichen’s now-peaceful face. The setting sun casts a gentle golden shadow over it, rendering it even more heart-wrenchingly beautiful. “Forgive this selfish A-Yao. Or, don’t forgive, but… I can’t let you march on to your death.”

Outside the door, the sun slips past the horizon, and Meng Yao’s little house goes dark.

Chapter 6 Notes:

Hi everyone, apologies for the long wait. I wasn't lying, the story IS finished, and my beta is working like a demon to make my usual disaster grammar readable to you -- and I'm being a TOTAL BRAT WITH NO PATIENCE to her about it, so please SEND HER SOME LOVE! ♥

Chapter Text

Meng Yao has a problem.

It—he—is more beautiful than ever, but that’s not the most problematic part. He would imagine that he is rapidly growing as a person, but he isn’t sure it’s in the direction he ever wanted to go. The problem’s fault, no doubt.

Meng Yao sighs.

He hides Lan Xichen in the back room of the cottage. He lays him out on the bed, beautiful and peaceful and completely still, except for the too-slow rise and fall of his chest that gives away how unnatural this slumber is.

If hiding a mobile and alert Lan Xichen was dangerous, hiding him in this state is near suicidal. He can’t be moved unobtrusively; he can’t run and hide; he can’t defend himself. If he is ever discovered here, that’s it.

That is to say, Lan Xichen may actually live a little longer, since Wen Ruohan will undoubtedly want to see him—though in a pinch, of course, his head will do. Meng Yao, however, will be killed instantly. The irony has not escaped him.

What’s more, the sleeping spell doesn’t last long when wielded by someone of Meng Yao’s humble capabilities. It has to be reapplied every day, on the hour, which means Meng Yao is effectively tethered to this little cottage in the middle of nowhere when things are happening.

This is… less than ideal.

It’s not so much the fact that he’d panicked and acted in the spur of the moment. Meng Yao is good at that; he trusts his instincts. He’s furious with himself, however, for not having foreseen it, and for having no contingencies in place.

He should have. Lan Xichen, for all that Meng Yao has some kind of weird feline-like response to him and is pulling this unhinged stunt because of it, is not that complex a man. It was entirely predictable that he wouldn’t take the complete devastation of his family and sect well, or that he would be desperately concerned for his little brother.

But, to Meng Yao, the notion of throwing your life away in the hope of saving someone you can never save—not that way at least—is no more comprehensible than sacrificing himself on the altar of some god in the hopes of them heeding your prayers. It was predictable, but he’d dismissed the possibility as something too far-fetched, and now he is reaping the consequences.

He does the only thing left to him, which is keeping his ear to the ground even more diligently than before. He’s reduced to waiting for others to make a move in the hopes that it will offer him a solution. Pathetic, and yet, he can’t quite bring himself to regret it.

When the news of the banquet in Nightless City reaches him, Meng Yao actually feels good about having put Lan Xichen to sleep. He would have had no hope of keeping him alive if Lan Xichen had heard.

Wen Ruohan is not subtle in his efforts to flush Lan Xichen out. One would wonder why he bothers, but Meng Yao knows. If he’d been in Wen Ruohan’s place, he, too, wouldn’t have been so sloppy as to leave the leader of a defeated great sect alive and free in an unknown location. Too unpredictable; too great a risk of being unpleasantly surprised.

Oh, what a mentor Wen Ruohan would have made. Had his plan followed its original course, Meng Yao would have relished the opportunity to learn from him.

Months creep by. One. Two. The Wens seem to be satisfied with their gain and appear to be settling. Yunmeng Jiang is an ally, however reluctant. Lanling Jin claims neutrality, then friendship. Gusu Lan and Qinghe Nie are exterminated, and the minor clans won’t dare raise their heads. A stable arrangement, it seems, has formed.

Meng Yao, however, isn’t fooled, and he doubts Wen Ruohan is, either.

Something is brewing. The air tastes of it, like over-steeped tea. Something vast, something undefined is coming, and the only question is which side of the scales it will tip. Perhaps it will knock the scales off altogether.

Meng Yao is a patient man, but he can admit to getting tired of being patient.

Month three is signified by a most peculiar rumor.

It doesn’t come from Nightless City, or any other place of note. Instead, it arises from the old, mostly forgotten backwater Yiling.

A necromancer has appeared; someone more feared than Wen Ruohan and his army. They may be cruel, bloodthirsty men, but men they remain. Flesh and blood. Human.

This necromancer is... something else.

Meng Yao goes to painstaking lengths to filter out exaggerations, impossible claims, and outright fairytales until something of a coherent picture can be gained.

A little over two months ago, a man—Meng Yao decides to stick to that until proven otherwise—came out of the Burial Mounds and immediately destroyed a moderate Wen contingent.

Meng Yao knows something about that, as he’s been diligent about keeping tabs on the Wen movements. That particular group had been hunting down the runaway first disciple of Yunmeng Jiang—a self-indulgent waste of time on the part of Wen Chao, as far as Meng Yao is concerned. The man, by all accounts, had always been a nuisance, but alone and a hand short, how much danger could he possibly present? The fact that Wen Chao deemed this worthy of his time and effort had only cemented Meng Yao’s assessment of the younger Wen heir as utterly useless.

Shortly after, a man had emerged from the Burial Mounds and sent out fierce corpses to tear the Wen squadron apart. In the process, he captured and killed Wen Zhuliu.

Even having stripped the horrified peasants’ tales down to bare bones, Meng Yao gets a very clear impression that Wen Zhuliu’s death had been gruesome. Wen Chao had barely escaped with his life and has been holed up in Nightless City ever since.

The necromancer hadn’t stopped there. He seemed to be keen on terrorizing villagers in the no man’s land between Yunmeng and Lanling, raising entire cemeteries and scaring the common folk witless. The walking corpses have been ferocious, driven by his will, tearing anyone they catch limb from limb. They move in the night, sometimes in eerie silence, sometimes accompanied by the barbaric screaming of a demonic flute. Spells follow, each more horrible than the last, and there’s even talk of a huge, red-eyed dragon made entirely of darkness itself.

Meng Yao listens and nods, making the appropriate responses—wide, terrified eyes, asking naïve questions, praising the storyteller’s bravery. It’s tiresome, painstaking work, but it pays off.

The necromancer—or rather, by certain details, a demonic cultivator—is not some random monster. What the common people are too scared to notice is that his attacks are targeted. Wen soldiers are always the victims—never the innocent.

Meng Yao notes, too, the scale of the attacks—limited. The direction—the vector points, albeit inconclusively, to the Qishan mountains.

And the most interesting detail of all—the demonic cultivator seems to command the dead easily, thanks to his ghost hand. The right hand.

Meng Yao analyzes, thinks, puts the pieces together. He desperately needs to test his theory, but that proves difficult, as he can never allow himself to be more than a day’s worth of travel time away from his dwelling. If Lan Xichen wakes up, he’ll go straight to Nightless City, and that, Meng Yao simply refuses to let happen.

He stews in his impatience and waits. Fortunately, the attacks are coming closer—he can predict the pattern fairly well by now, which means he’s not wrong about the identity of the perpetrator. And if he’s not wrong…

He pours more and more spiritual power into the sleeping spell as he goes hunting. He’s unsuccessful the first two times.

The third time, he is caught.

Being dragged around by the undead is not at all how teahouse storytellers make it out to be. Their grip on his arms isn’t bone-chillingly cold so much as revolting. They don’t smell of the mysterious scent of death—instead, it’s the unbearable stench of rotting meat. If he faints, Meng Yao wants it known that it was due to the smell, not fear. It’s impossible to be afraid when you’re that disgusted.

Four fierce corpses drag him to the edge of a bamboo grove, where a lone figure waits, shrouded in darkness. The image, Meng Yao has to acknowledge, is more than appropriately dramatic. Meng Yao can respect such attention to detail.

He is dropped unceremoniously before the human-shaped cloud of darkness and only just manages to keep his feet. For some reason, he’s glad for it.

“Who are you?” the darkness booms, a low, gravely tone—it’s surprisingly effective. A chill runs down Meng Yao’s spine. “You’re not a Wen dog, but this is the third time I’ve seen you at one of my… outings. Why are you spying on me? What do you want?”

Meng Yao swallows.

“My name is Meng Yao,” he says and bows, sensitive to every centimeter of incline. “And I’m an avid fan of your work,”—he takes a deep breath, feeling a little like jumping off a cliff—“Young Master Wei.”

The darkness in front of him stills. Meng Yao’s heart is beating too fast for his liking, but there is nothing he can do about that. This has always been a gamble. Either it’ll pay off and he wins big, or… he may die here tonight.

“What did you call me?” the darkness intones, at last.

Meng Yao forges on. “You are Wei Wuxian, formerly of Yunmeng Jiang, are you not? I admire these extraordinary new abilities you possess. That is why I have been… observing your operations. You’re going after Wen Ruohan.” He straightens to his full height. “I humbly wish to offer you my assistance.”

There is another horrible, nerve-wrecking pause—and then the cloud of darkness shifts, dissipating into wisps of black smoke.

Meng Yao allows himself a silent exhale. His gamble has paid off. He was right regarding the man’s identity and the way to get his attention.

Wei Wuxian is a tall man. Most men are, compared to Meng Yao, but Wei Wuxian is singularly so, almost Lan Xichen’s height. He was once ranked fourth on the list of most handsome young cultivators, and Meng Yao can certainly see why, even despite the aura of death that in his case is not at all metaphorical.

Wei Wuxian has the striking, in-your-face kind of beauty that is impossible to ignore. Even with his current, somewhat ghastly pallor, he is beautiful like a demon prince, all angles and luminosity. Underneath the billowing darkness, he has a swordsman’s body, broad shoulders and an absurdly cinched waist. His hair is pulled back into a ponytail with a blood-red ribbon, and his lips are the same color, stark on his white face. The smirk curling those lips is cruel, but it only adds to the breathtaking effect.

Meng Yao sighs again, this time inwardly. He can admit when he’s outclassed.

“What kind of assistance do you think I need, Young Master Meng?” Wei Wuxian asks, in a voice that is less otherworldly but still saturated with contempt. “If you know who I am, and you know what I can do… From where do you get the arrogance to interfere in my affairs?”

Meng Yao is under no impression that he should try this man’s patience. He knows the type. Power makes them unstable, and resentful energy is its own brand of destabilizing, corrupting the soul, beginning with temper. Meng Yao might be a weak cultivator, but even he can sense how the man before him is saturated with it. He seems to be in control of it… for now.

Meng Yao has a narrow window in which to lure in Wei Wuxian and would rather not become one of the prettier corpses in his undead army. If he misses his chance…

“Not arrogance only a common goal,” Meng Yao says—placating, but not too much so. From his read, he doesn’t think Wei Wuxian would respond well to simpering. “I, too, want Wen Ruohan gone. You have mastered a power no one else has, and I admire that. But I have also noticed that you are limited in how you use it.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes narrow. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course, of course!” Meng Yao allows hastily. “Only I noticed that, while you can raise any number of dead people, perhaps even all of them, you only attack with a relatively small formation? Could it be, perhaps, because you wish to avoid civilian casualties? And, while you can raise a legion, you won’t be able to observe them all, to make sure they don’t attack the innocent?” He pauses. “Is that not the issue?”

Wei Wuxian frowns deeper, and before Meng Yao’s eyes, he becomes a disgruntled student. The darkness around him recedes once more.

“I’m working on it,” he grumbles, pacing with his hands behind his back. Meng Yao surreptitiously eyes the right one. “Raising the dead is easy. Raising them with full consciousness is not, and without it, they’re liable to attack anyone in sight. The Wens”—he spits the name out like poison sucked from a wound—“sure like their human shields. But it won’t be for long. I’m going to teach my corpses to only attack the Wens. I haven’t figured out how yet, but I’m on it.”

Distantly, Meng Yao contemplates the bizarre concept of a demonic cultivator with a conscience, before telling himself off for the inattention. He can’t afford to puzzle over the wonders of the universe at the moment.

Instead, he smiles.

“I have no doubt that you will find a solution in time, Young Master Wei,” Meng Yao says. “Your reputation as an… unorthodox thinker precedes you.”

Wei Wuxian snorts.

“However, you are approaching this issue as a cultivation problem.”

Wei Wuxian levels him with a look. “It is a cultivation problem. A dark cultivation one at that.”

“Indeed. For myself, when it comes to cultivation, such talents are sadly lacking, and so the solution I have in mind is more mundane. However, I daresay it could be just as effective. It also has the advantage of being available immediately.”

Wei Wuxian stares at him through still-narrowed eyes. “I’m listening.”

Meng Yao smiles and splays his hands. “What if we make it so that there are no civilians between you and Wen Ruohan? I have a strategy to achieve that.”

Wei Wuxian is silent for a while, his expression impassive. This isn’t how men of his type are supposed to react. Meng Yao is beginning to feel nervous. Could it be that he was wrong in his assessment?

After a long pause, filled with Meng Yao quietly panicking and cursing himself for it in turn, Wei Wuxian tilts his chin to the side slightly.

“Who are you?” he asks in a strange tone. “You may have heard of me, but I’ve never heard of you. What is your interest here?”

Meng Yao swears inwardly. His real motivation is his weakest point, and somehow this mad demonic cultivator has nailed it on the first try. This... was not supposed to happen.

“I am merely someone who hates Wen Ruohan. Is that not enough?”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t seem impressed. If anything, his scrutiny intensifies.

“Many hate Wen Ruohan,” he says. “Although, admittedly, few would confess to it. Even fewer would have the guts to seek out a demonic cultivator and offer their help. In fact, no sane person would.”

At this, Meng Yao can’t help a smile. It’s likely quite demented.

“There you have it, Young Master Wei. What does that tell you?”

“That I can’t trust you,” Wei Wuxian says bluntly. “What you’re suggesting sounds impossible. And even if you do have some cunning plan, I can’t be a hostage to it. If all I wanted was to erase Wen Ruohan from the face of the earth, I wouldn’t need you, or anyone—I’d have already done it and gone to my next life, or eternal oblivion, happy. But Wen Ruohan has someone very, very dear to me, and I will see him free and dancing on the Wen dogs’ corpses.” His expression closes further. “Does your plan include survivors, Young Master Meng? If not, it’s of no interest to me.”

Meng Yao tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he rapidly processes this new information. He’s going through everything he’s ever heard about Wei Wuxian and every notable prisoner Wen Ruohan has taken, searching for a correlation. It doesn’t take long at all, and Meng Yao wants to scream.

Is everyone in the world obsessed with the man? His own brother is one thing, but now here’s possibly, potentially, the most powerful human being currently in existence going down the same road. What is it about Lan Wangji that inspires such single-minded lunacy? Is his body made of pure gold, or priceless jade, as it were? Does Chang’e herself cry when she sees him?

But now is not the time to give in to such resentments, no matter how exasperating the issue is. Now is the time to close on the only weapon that can conquer the world, and the man who wields it.

Meng Yao smiles.

“Young Master Wei, if your dear someone is Second Young Master Lan, then I can assure you that I have every reason to avoid his demise at all costs. I will swear on it. Is this satisfactory to you?”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes widen. For the first time tonight, Meng Yao has managed to surprise him.

“You know Lan Zhan?” he blurts out, and, at that moment, he’s no different than a small boy searching for the parents he’d lost in a crowd.

Meng Yao swallows his satisfaction. He has him.

“Only by reputation,” Meng Yao demurs. “But, for a number of reasons, were he to die, it would be as devastating to me as I imagine it would be to you.”

One reason. Only one reason. But the rest is indisputable, and Meng Yao still hasn’t made his peace with that.

The moment of vulnerability is gone, and Wei Wuxian is back to being wary, but he’s hooked now. By his heart’s desire, Meng Yao can lead him anywhere he wants. Wei Wuxian is fortunate, really, that their goals coincide. Meng Yao would not have hesitated to lie to him if they didn’t.

“You still haven’t told me who you really are,” Wei Wuxian prompts.

“I promise a proper introduction next time,” Meng Yao replies, glancing at the slowly-reddening horizon. “Along with some information I’m sure you’ll find valuable. It was exceptionally pleasant to make your acquaintance, Young Master Wei. If I prove valuable to you, perhaps next time you will not have your… underlings drag me over?” He bows again. “I’ll be in touch.”

He expects to be stopped at any moment, possibly in some permanent fashion.

But when he’s far enough away and yields to the temptation to glance back over his shoulder, the bamboo grove is empty, and Wei Wuxian is gone.

It takes three more midnight meetings, each progressively more gruesome in nature, and a great deal of information changing hands for them to establish some kind of rapport.

To his dismay, Meng Yao realizes he’s underestimated Wei Wuxian in a number of ways. That he is brilliant in cultivation had been obvious, but Meng Yao hadn’t expected him to be shrewd elsewhere. People of that type usually weren’t. The problem, Meng Yao realizes belatedly, comes from his attempt to place Wei Wuxian into a category he really doesn’t want to fit. This brings far too many surprises.

Meng Yao is supposed to be in full control of the information flow, but within a month, he’d been forced to make several concessions he had never planned on. This includes disclosing his parentage, which led to Wei Wuxian figuring out a significant part of his actual motivation. For a moment, everything had hung in the balance.

Then, Wei Wuxian shrugged and said, ‘I won’t shed any tears over Jin Guangshan’s fall from grace, and I doubt many would. But if you want to drag him into this, he’s your responsibility.’

Meng Yao relishes in studying people, and Wei Wuxian might be the most fascinating subject he’s ever had, but this may be the first time he begins to feel actual respect for one. It’s... intriguing.

For the first time in his life, Meng Yao feels like he might actually enjoy working with someone else.

Meng Yao had always known that his genius deserves an extraordinary master—one who would take care of Meng Yao, who would direct him in a way that would let him flourish and expand. Like a righteous emperor and his trusted first minister—one who holds all the power, but submits to one man; one who truly has the mandate of heaven. It would be as it has always been, and always should be.

For the longest time, Meng Yao had believed that man would be his father. But Jin Guangshan is little more than a stain on the face of the earth, and Meng Yao has no more desire to submit to him than to kneel and lick the boots of a teahouse servant. The disappointment Meng Yao had experienced had been so much more existential than that of a son rejected by his father. He’d despaired, for quite a while, of his entire life course.

Then, he’d stumbled over the man who was fit to be the heavenly emperor himself, submitted to him instantly, unprompted—and then put him to sleep for his own good.

Meng Yao… doesn’t feel good about that.

As for Wei Wuxian… One wouldn’t think it to look at him, but Meng Yao is beginning to suspect Wei Wuxian might not, in fact, be as dissimilar to him as he’d thought.

Wei Wuxian had left his home and had gone through hell, quite likely, to become a demonic cultivator. He had acquired power that will likely, ultimately cost him his life and soul. And the focal point of all that is not the desire to mete out revenge on people who maimed him, but the nonnegotiable need to save one man.

Oh, he goes on and on about ridding the world of the Wen curse, and it’s certainly not untrue. But Meng Yao is confident that, if a certain person had already been dead, Wei Wuxian would still be in Lotus Pier, learning how to hunt pheasants one-handed. He may eventually have gotten bored and found a way to self-destruct and take as many Wens as possible with him, but he would not have become the fearsome Yiling Laozu.

The power Wei Wuxian wields already serves someone other than himself. It has a master, whether Wei Wuxian himself realizes it or not.

Lan Wangji—the helpless, endlessly brutalized prisoner of Qishan—is more powerful than a ghost king, commanding the power of life and death of thousands right at this very moment. He just doesn’t know it.

Meng Yao wonders if he’ll be smart enough to claim it when he does or if Wei Wuxian will have to force it on him, much as Meng Yao has had to do with Lan Xichen. Something tells Meng Yao that Wei Wuxian wouldn’t be nearly as patient or understanding. Lan Wangji had better not ruin it, or the world might end anyway, by means of demonic cultivator tantrum.

Meng Yao really, really doesn’t like Lan Wangji, not one bit. But Lan Wangji is not merely useful, but vital, so he will have to—he sets his teeth—get over it.

Wei Wuxian shows up on the doorstep of Meng Yao’s humble cottage long after the sun has set. He looks more tired than usual, not doing any of his usual posturing, and slumps against the doorway. Perhaps he thought that showing up here uninvited would be message enough, and it rather is. Meng Yao had never told him about this place, let alone given directions.

“That abandoned Wen tower you told me to check out,” Wei Wuxian says, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. “It was useful.”

Meng Yao lifts an eyebrow and gestures him to sit. He has manners. “Enough for you to figure out how they work?”

“Not immediately,” Wei Wuxian grumbles as he lowers himself to face the table, posture atrocious and begging for a bamboo stick across his back. “But yeah, I’m pretty sure I can take it apart from there.”

Meng Yao nods as he sets the kettle over the brazier and goes about measuring tea leaves. He’s a good host, and tea is a requirement for any civilized conversation.

“That’s good, because that’s the essential first phase of the plan,” he says, setting out the cups—hardly jade, though they’re the same light green color. Lan Xichen had used those cups. Wei Wuxian should be honored.

Wei Wuxian fixes him with a look. “And what exactly is the plan? You keep talking around it, but I’ve yet to hear it. I have to tell you, Meng Yao, that if I find out you’ve been stringing me along this whole time…”

There’s an unsettling scratchy noise coming from the outside, like bones pawning at the walls. Wei Wuxian didn’t come alone, but then, he never is these days. Meng Yao had gotten used to the sight of his unnaturally pale right hand, had even trained himself to avoid looking at it any more or less that he would at any extremity. But it’s not as if he can forget its presence, or what it carries with it.

Meng Yao smiles. “Ah, Wei-xiong, you still feel the need to threaten me. And here I thought we were getting along so well.”

Wei Wuxian rolls his eyes. “Get to the point.”

“As you wish.” Meng Yao takes the kettle off the brazier before the water can boil. That would ruin the taste. “The first phase of the plan would be taking down the Wen watchtowers. All of them, at the same time, or else there’d be no point. Whatever specific spellwork this hinges on, I assume they control it from Nightless City proper, so we’ll have to find someone to infiltrate—”

“Already have someone,” Wei Wuxian interrupts rudely, chewing on a handful of nuts and speaking with his mouth full.

Meng Yao lifts an eyebrow. “You have someone at Nightless City?”

“Mhm.”

“And you can trust them to do your bidding? Even something so complex?”

Wei Wuxian shrugs. “It won’t be too complex by the time I’m done with it, and as for trust—sure. He’s got a personal stake in this, more than anything I can offer, so he’ll do as I say.” He reaches for the bowl from his undignified sprawl. “Or he’ll regret it.”

Meng Yao considers this, then pushes the bowl closer to him, reluctantly impressed. Poor manners are inexcusable, but he can forgive a lot for rising above mere competence.

“All right then,” he allows, taking a sip of his tea. “At the appointed day and time, we take the towers down. At the same time, Wen Ruohan will be forced to fend off multiple attacks.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes narrow. “Oh? From whom?”

“From every considerable force left on the board,” Meng Yao says. “First, the biggest non-Wen army still intact—the Jins.”

Wei Wuxian snorts. “Jin Guangshan is no one’s idea of virtue, but he’s not suicidal. There’s no way he—”

Meng Yao lifts a hand. “There is a way. I have not spent all this time in Lanling because I hoped my father would change his mind about acknowledging me. I have studied him and his pressure points, and I can get him to quarrel with Wen Ruohan. You’ll have to trust me here, just as I trust you when you say you have an operative in Nightless City.”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t appear convinced, but eventually, he nods. “All right, let’s say they fight. Wen Ruohan will simply swallow Lanling in a matter of days.”

“Ah, but Lanling will only be the beginning of his problems,” Meng Yao says, smiling. “Just as he gets tangled with them, there is going to be an uprising in Yunmeng. And the watchtowers, let me remind you, will be down.”

Wei Wuxian is silent for a long time, now. At last, he straightens, the previous ease forgotten.

“You want me to put Yunmeng on the line,” he says slowly. “I won’t do that. I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to, but I don’t. It’s too great a risk for them.”

Meng Yao splays his hands. “We can’t do it without them. Think about it, Wei-xiong—are the people in Yunmeng happy with the status quo? Do they enjoy the Wens having domain over them? Would they not, if asked, freely volunteer to help throw them off, even if it meant risking their lives?” He leans back slightly. “They are your people, Wei-xiong. You know them best. Would they prefer to die as heroes, if it came to that, or to live as cowards?”

Wei Wuxian looks up at him, a spark of red in his gaze. A shiver runs down Meng Yao’s spine, but his smile widens. This was always going to be difficult, and now they’re getting somewhere.

“Don’t try to be clever with me,” Wei Wuxian growls. It’s a low sound, but the threat is unmistakable.

Meng Yao shakes his head. “I’m only pointing out the truth. I wonder what Young Master Jiang would say, were he present for this conversation.”

The red bleeds out of Wei Wuxian’s gaze as he rolls his eyes. “He’d say, 'When and where?’” he mutters, face softening at the thought of his shidi.

Meng Yao leans forward slightly. “I understand your desire to protect your loved ones; I do. But, while you’d be preserving their lives, you’d also be sentencing them to a life of guilt, of walking the earth without being able to meet anyone’s eyes. That kind of thing can be more torturous than anything Wen Ruohan has on offer in his Fire Palace.”

Wei Wuxian says nothing, darkly contemplative.

“I know you care about them,” Meng Yao keeps his voice even, without the previous softness now. “But do you care enough to let them make the decision for themselves? I understand Madam Yu took it from them once. Will you do the same?”

Wei Wuxian actually recoils—it’s subtle, but it’s there, and his left hand darts toward his right elbow before he can catch the impulse. Meng Yao watches, and waits. Wei Wuxian takes control and forces his hands back into his lap.

“I’ll take it to Jiang Cheng,” he says at last. “Whatever he decides stands.”

Meng Yao nods. It’s a gamble, one he has to make without personally knowing the Jiang heir, but he also knows that it’s hard to remain still in an avalanche. From everything he’s heard, Jiang Wanyin has inherited his mother’s temper. It must be killing him to be under the Wens without a fight.

Besides, from how protective Wei Wuxian is acting, it is evident that the relationship between them runs far deeper than that of shidi and shixiong. It is unlikely Jiang Wanyin will be able to refuse his martial sibling, not when everything in him will be screaming to get onboard.

“Acceptable,” Meng Yao says. “Now we have Wen Ruohan fighting off on two fronts, which will be a great inconvenience to him, but nothing he can’t handle—yet. This is where we will have another force attack him from the east.”

“What other force?” Wei Wuxian retorts. “He destroyed Gusu and Qinghe.”

“But not most of the minor clans,” Meng Yao reminds him. “They are alive and well, as I believe you saw at Nightless City. Combined, their men would present a force comparable to that of Yunmeng Jiang. If we coordinate all those attacks in a single campaign, Wen Ruohan will be forced to engage most of his forces, and he’ll be thoroughly distracted. That would leave you with a clear path to Nightless City from the back, with no innocents standing in your way. I daresay the ground will be littered with corpses by then, so you won’t have to work very hard to raise your army.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes glimmer with interest this time as he follows the explanation. By the end, a familiar smirk curls in the corner of his mouth.

“Ah, Meng-xiong, that sounds—frankly, fantastic, and I mean that literally. Have you ever dealt with any of the minor clans? They’re always squabbling with one another over who’s the least minor of them all and can’t sit for five minutes at the same table without starting some kind of fight with their neighbor. They can’t agree on which direction the sun rises from every morning, and you think they’ll just—what, feel an overwhelming sense of duty to the greater good at the same time? When Wen Ruohan can squash any of them like bugs in an instant?”

Meng Yao smiles in appreciation. “I agree it will not be easy, but for the plan to work, we need to accomplish that. Without them—well, even with your power, the odds will not favor us at all.”

“So we need to get all of those petty children united and make sure, somehow, that they won’t sell us out to Wen Ruohan?” Wei Wuxian asks, full-on grinning now. “I think we’d have a better chance of Wen Ruohan accidentally stumbling and falling into one of his own firepits in the Sun Palace. At least I can picture him getting drunk. What you’re weaving here, on the other hand—”

Meng Yao calmly refills their cups.

“It is a complex task.”

Wei Wuxian snorts. “And which one of us, do you think, can come close to accomplishing it? You might be Jin Guangshan’s bastard—no offense, but, considering your father didn’t acknowledge you, so to those people, it’ll be nothing more than a very good reason to slam the door in your face. And me—” He barks out a laugh. “I’m the Yiling Laozu, the terrifying monster who desecrates their dead. I can just see them running off to Wen Ruohan, begging him to protect them from me!”

Meng Yao sips his tea. “I agree. It can’t be either one of us.”

Wei Wuxian tilts his head, studying him, clearly amused.

“Who then, do you suggest, we get to talk to them? To have so much as a chance, that magical person would have to have a number of unattainable qualities.” He starts ticking off on his fingers. “They’d have to be known to all, their reputation needs to be pristine—I’m talking Boddhisatva Guanyin levels of pristine here, not a speck of doubt on their righteousness and honor—and they would have to want to get tangled in these grisly mortal affairs. That leaves most of the immortals out, even if we could get any of those to hear us out.” Wei Wuxian shakes his head. “Honestly, if your plan hinged on us capturing a qilin, we’d have had more of a chance—”

Meng Yao sighs and sets his cup down.

“There is such a person.”

Wei Wuxian blinks and stares at him. “What?”

Meng Yao merely gives him a look.

“Meng Yao,” Wei Wuxian drawls in the tone of someone whose patience is being sorely tried. “Out with it. Who?”

Meng Yao glances away, biting his lip. He hates that it’s come to that, but any way he tried to think his way out of this has failed. It’s the only solution, and he knows it.

“I have a person who fits these requirements perfectly,” he admits, smoothing out his sleeve in a nervous gesture he’s still trying to eradicate. “But they may be… difficult to handle.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes flash red again. “Will you quit jerking me around? I’m not someone for you to work, Meng Yao, and I won’t be impressed by you playing coy, I promise you. Either you have someone in mind or you don’t, so say it plainly or I’m out of here.”

Meng Yao sighs again—he really can’t help it—and stands up.

“Come with me.”

The illusion charms concealing the door to the bedroom were a pain to put up and maintain, but undoing them is easy. They fall with just a wave of Meng Yao's hand.

Wei Wuxian stares at the suddenly-revealed door in suspicion, then narrows his eyes at Meng Yao.

“I thought you said you were a weak cultivator, Meng-xiong,” he says slowly, voice stuck between menace and befuddlement. “But I’m not, and I wasn’t able to even sense this.”

A spark of satisfaction flares briefly in Meng Yao’s stomach; he suppresses it. In a few moments, he’ll feel as far removed from smug as it’s possible to be.

“Let’s just say I can be resourceful when properly motivated,” he murmurs, and steps inside.

Wei Wuxian follows him in, and then everything goes still.

After a very long, very tense pause, the air in the room seems to darken. Meng Yao blinks, but it’s not fatigue. It’s actual darkness, the darkness, wrapping itself around Wei Wuxian, who’s gone unnaturally still.

“Meng Yao,” a low, gravelly voice saturated with resentful energy demands. “Explain. Now.”

Up until this point, Wei Wuxian had been occasionally unnerving, but Meng Yao had never been afraid of him. He is now, and his mind kicks into overdrive, informing him how this must look and helpfully reminding him that Wei Wuxian knows Lan Xichen, and has, in fact, every reason to find this… unsettling.

Meng Yao shivers, hating himself for the weakness, and explains as succinctly as possible. The accidental meeting; the hiding; the news of his sect being destroyed; Lan Xichen’s insane, suicidal plan.

“What did you do to him?” Wei Wuxian growls, eyes entirely red now. “Why is he in your bed?”

The full implication of the image slaps Meng Yao like a full-body blow. How did he not think..? Had he truly not..?

“It’s not my bed, and he’s sleeping!” Meng Yao explains hastily, throwing his hands up. “I’ve put him to sleep! He’s fine, he’s perfectly fine—I just couldn’t let him just walk out there to his death!” He’s suddenly angry and uses it to fuel his courage. “And who are you to judge me, Wei Wuxian? Don’t try to tell me that, if you were in my place, and this was Lan Wangji, that you wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing! I’ll never believe you!”

Wei Wuxian hovers over him, with soul-burning red eyes and resentment curled around him, for a few more breathless, brittle moments—

Then, suddenly, he deflates and steps back, running a hand over his face.

“Meng Yao…” he pushes out in his usual voice, exasperation clear. “How did you even—that’s Zewu-jun right there. Do you understand? How—no. Gods, no. Have you kept him here like this the entire time?!”

“What was I supposed to—”

“Oh dear gods! How’d that even work? Wake up in the morning, ‘Hi, Zewu-jun!’ Go to work, come home, ‘Hi again, Zewu-jun, still here, that’s fine then?!’ I’d ask if he at least snores back at you, but let’s face it, perfect beings like him wouldn’t have the audacity, so that’s a lot of one-sided conversations!” He rubs a hand over his face, not seeming to know whether to laugh or cry, “What the hell is wrong with you?! He is—no, I really can’t! He’s one of the most powerful cultivators of our generation, and you’ve turned him into a snuggle pillow?!”

“I’ve never touched him!”

“Oh, that’s all good then, is it?!” Wei Wuxian’s voice continues to rise, becoming uncomfortably high-pitched. “Do you want a reward for that?! Are you completely unhinged?!”

Meng Yao huffs, still shaking. “I didn’t know what else to do! That was the only thing I could come up with…”

Wei Wuxian stares at him. “Who ‘comes up’ with sh*t like that?! You realize that the fact that such a thing would occur to you at all is—not normal?” His voice turns to pleading. “Tell me you realize that?”

The muscles in Meng Yao’s back lock. “This, from a man who had to grow himself a ghost arm just so that he could raise an army of the dead to go save his dear someone—forgive me, best friend?! I don’t think you’re in any position to lecture me on what’s normal, Wei Wuxian!”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes go round and he cuts a look to the bed in panic. “Shut up! Lan Zhan isn’t—we’re not like that—shut up, what if Zewu-jun heard you?! He’s going to murder me if he thinks—”

Meng Yao shoots a hand out, consciously trying to slow his breathing. When he has himself slightly more under control, he says, “He can’t hear you.”

Wei Wuxian groans, looking halfway between relieved and murderous, which is not a combination Meng Yao has seen on anyone before and one he’d strongly prefer not to see ever again on a demonic cultivator of all people, if at all possible, thank you.

“Look, what’s done is done,” he says, reinstating his control over the situation. “But this is what I meant when I said he might be difficult to handle. He will not be pleased with me when he wakes up.”

Wei Wuxian, who’s now had time to catch his breath, gives him a wry look. “You think?”

Meng Yao purses his lips. He will rise above such petty arguments.

Taking a deep breath, he steps toward the bed. Wei Wuxian inches toward the door at the same time. They stare at one another.

“Objectively,” Wei Wuxian says slowly, “you don’t need me here for this, and I’d rather not intrude. It’s poor manners.”

Meng Yao’s hand springs forward and grabs Wei Wuxian by the wrist. He doesn’t even care that it’s the one on the right.

“You have no manners to speak of, and you’re staying,” he hisses. “You said it yourself—he’s one of the strongest cultivators of our generation, and I’m not. He’ll be angry with me and still hellbent on marching over to Qishan where he’d be killed. How long do you think it will take him to do away with me?”

Wei Wuxian makes a noise that is distinctly reminiscent of a whimper and pulls at his arm in Meng Yao’s hold, but it’s not forceful enough to break free.

“This is your mess,” he mutters.

“Yes, it is,” Meng Yao agrees. “But you’re staying and helping me clean it up, because we need him—you need him—and if he sees you here, he’ll at least give us a chance to explain ourselves.”

“I hate you,” Wei Wuxian grumbles, and this time, he does pull himself free. “He is the second-to-last person I’d ever want to piss off, and… Actually, I kind of like pissing off Lan Zhan, it’s fun, so this is worse! Zewu-jun the first person on the list of people I never want to piss off, and it’s a short list, Meng Yao!”

“So don’t piss him off,” Meng Yao says. He can’t believe he’s ever, even for a moment, been afraid of this ridiculous man. He’s embarrassed for himself, honestly.

“I hate you,” Wei Wuxian repeats with feeling. “Just so you know, if he wakes up and his story differs from yours, you creep, I’ll do away with you, Meng Yao. And I’ll be a lot less polite about it.”

Meng Yao doesn’t roll his eyes, but only because he won’t give this child the satisfaction.

He approaches the bed slowly, ignoring the feral cat-creature that seems to be scratching at the inner walls of his skull at the sight. Lan Xichen looks so peaceful. Meng Yao is about to take that peace away.

“You can’t keep him asleep forever, Meng Yao,” Wei Wuxian chimes from somewhere behind him unhelpfully. “Wake him up or I will.”

Meng Yao sighs, closes his eyes briefly, and reaches over to tap Lan Xichen’s wrist.

Chapter 7 Notes:

Everyone, thank you so much for your feedback. It's giving me life in these murky days. ♥ Here, have some angst for it, though that wasn't the last time we'd land on comedy, this story is a strange trip, what can I tell you. Anyway, thank you ♥
And so the roadtrip begins...

Chapter Text

Watching Lan Xichen open his eyes after so long is like watching the sun rise for the first time. Meng Yao’s breath catches, and he finds his knees nearly buckling in his desire to collapse before the magnificence.

For just a moment, a sweet smile steals over Lan Xichen’s features, innocent and lacking the layers of protection a new day would demand—an unsuspecting, unknowingly tender, fragile thing. His eyes fix on Meng Yao, and the smile softens further for a few precious seconds with recognition…

Then, his eyes shutter, and Lan Xichen recoils, slamming his palm hard against Meng Yao’s chest.

Meng Yao flies backward across the small room and hits the wall, the breath knocked out of him. He doesn’t rise, staying on the floor instead, as Lan Xichen sits up on the bed, eyes blazing.

“A-Yao,” he says, and his voice makes something inside Meng Yao break apart. “Why?”

Meng Yao can’t really look at him. Lan Xichen was named after the brilliant morning sunlight, but anyone who forgets how deadly the sun can be is an utter fool.

“Forgive me, but I had to,” Meng Yao says, firm as he can. He wants to whimper and beg, but he’s not sorry, and he won’t lie. “Your plan was going to get you killed. I tried, but you wouldn’t listen to me!”

A pause. Lan Xichen slowly gets to his feet.

“So you made my decision for me,” he says, voice beyond freezing. “I see.”

Meng Yao’s forehead hits the floor before he knows it. The cat in him is clawing at his insides, wailing madly in his head.

“Forgive this one, Xichen-ge, I only wished to protect you from harm.”

He’s not sorry. He’s not.

“You call me brother,” Lan Xichen observes, measured and slow, “yet this is how you treat me.”

He doesn’t even raise his voice, but it’s like being flayed alive, hearing the disappointment, the betrayal, the hurt. Lan Xichen’s best weapon has always been his sincerity, which Meng Yao didn’t know could be a weapon before, and he’s devastated by it now. He can feel himself crumbling on the inside as well as outside from the force of the destruction.

“How long have you kept me here?”

Meng Yao closes his eyes. “Three months.”

A longer pause, the very air more fraught with it.

Then, “Is my brother…” Lan Xichen’s voice fails.

“Lan Zhan’s alive, Zewu-jun, though still a prisoner in Nightless City.”

Lan Xichen turns around sharply, spiritual power sparking in the palm of his hand. His eyes widen.

“Young Master Wei?”

Meng Yao lifts his head to see Wei Wuxian bent in a bow from an etiquette teacher’s dreams. The insufferable brat has some manners in him, after all.

“Zewu-jun, I know this is confusing, but please hear us out,” Wei Wuxian says, still in his supplicant position, more respect in his voice than Meng Yao had believed him capable of. “We have a plan to save Lan Zhan. We have a plan to save everybody.”

Lan Xichen looks between them for a few moments, confusion and hurt still written all over his face, and the sparks of spiritual energy around his hand are getting stronger. The room begins to smell of ozone.

Well. It’s not as though Meng Yao has been particularly attached to this cottage anyway.

Lan Xichen chooses to focus on Wei Wuxian, and Shuoyue is now in his free hand, because Meng Yao had foolishly kept it in the same room. Wei Wuxian doesn’t budge, though he can no doubt sense it.

Lan Xichen speaks quietly. “Does this plan have something to do with resentful energy you seem to be wearing like a cloak, Young Master Wei? It… even seems to be inside you.”

Wei Wuxian looks up at last, lowering his arms, but he doesn’t reach for a weapon, keeping himself perfectly still and open instead.

“It does,” he says.

It’s a striking tableau. Lan Xichen stands in the center of the room, bright and glowing with spiritual power, so much so that his hair and clothes even move with it. The rest of the room is doused in shadows, almost entirely submerging Meng Yao, and Wei Wuxian has a horde of shadows dancing around him, so dense they’re nearly black.

Then, Lan Xichen shifts slightly, wariness and sympathy warring visibly on his face. “What happened to you?” A slight pause, and then he takes a step forward. “Do you need help?”

Wei Wuxian smiles helplessly, and his shoulders droop, tension leaving. Resentful energy dissipates with it, complaining audibly on its way.

Meng Yao closes his eyes. He desperately wants to become a tiger whose only mission in life would be to follow Lan Xichen everywhere and protect him from himself.

“I will explain everything, Zewu-jun,” Wei Wuxian promises earnestly. “Only, do you think you could, uh…” He makes a vague gesture with his hand. “I need this darkness, and it, uh, really doesn’t like it when you do that.”

After a moment, Lan Xichen reins his energy in. The air in the room seems to clear.

Meng Yao rises to his feet, keeping his eyes demurely on the floor.

“I’ll make tea,” he says.

At least, Lan Xichen waits to be the last one to leave the room, showing his back to no one.

All things considered, Lan Xichen takes it all surprisingly well. He listens to Wei Wuxian’s account with calm, quiet concentration, as if predisposed to understand him. Meng Yao tells himself he’s not jealous. After all, he’d had that very same chance once and… misused it. He’ll take responsibility, and the chance, hopefully, will come again.

Even so, Wei Wuxian gets visibly nervous when his story brings him to the Burial Mounds. While he doesn’t go into detail, he confirms his affiliation with resentful cultivation now, and seems to brace for judgment.

Lan Xichen looks… impassive. He’s absorbing this as if he has no emotional reaction to it, which, when it comes to demonic cultivation, no nephew of Lan Qiren can be really expected to. At least some measure of alarm or anger is inevitable. It’s unnerving, to have him... non-react.

Meng Yao realizes he can’t read him, and that’s—disturbing. For all his admiration for the man, Lan Xichen had never before presented as complicated. He isn’t supposed to be unreadable to Meng Yao, of all people! How is he doing that? What’s in his head…?

Wei Wuxian seems to be equally uncomfortable.

“You look just like him right now, you know,” he mutters. “Only Lan Zhan would have already told me I’m ridiculous or shameless by now, so at least I’d know…”

Lan Xichen smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“My apologies. You’ve given me a lot to process.” He exhales. “Please, carry on.”

Wei Wuxian yields the floor to Meng Yao and seems to be relieved. Meng Yao, who’s never felt anything less than perfectly confident while presenting an idea in his life, feels unusually on the spot.

There’s also the fact that Lan Xichen doesn’t look at him as he listens.

When Meng Yao is done explaining, with some interjections from Wei Wuxian, Lan Xichen is silent. He hasn’t touched his tea, Meng Yao notices abruptly, and something in his stomach squirms unhappily at the thought.

At long last, Lan Xichen gets to his feet and takes a few steps around the small space. He stops beside a window, one hand tucked behind his back, as he stares out into the murky predawn light. Wei Wuxian shifts uncomfortably but quells under Meng Yao’s look and says nothing. They wait.

Eventually, Lan Xichen turns to look at them, and this time, his gaze lands squarely on Meng Yao.

“Would you have woken me up,” he asks, “if you didn’t have need of me?”

Meng Yao feels blindsided. He doesn’t know why he didn’t expect the question, but—well. He opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out.

Wei Wuxian raises his hand tentatively. “I would like it very clear that I didn’t know anything about you, uh… sleeping here until a few hours ago.”

Lan Xichen’s eyes snap to him, tone perfectly, ironically even. “And would you have decided differently, had you known?”

Wei Wuxian shuts up.

Lan Xichen turns back toward the window.

“Your plan for the minor clans will not work,” he says calmly. “Does neither of you see that?”

Meng Yao and Wei Wuxian exchange a look, but neither volunteers this time.

Lan Xichen sighs and turns to face them.

“You are correct that they all know me, and that my reputation is good. But that is all I am. I no longer have a great sect at my back. Gusu Lan is not in a temporary disarray that can be weathered in view of future favors. We have been obliterated to the last man, except for myself and my brother. Our spiritual treasury, I imagine, has been moved to Nightless City. I have no boons to offer for their cooperation. I can’t even offer them money—not that that would be an effective incentive when trying to talk someone to rise against Wen Ruohan.”

Meng Yao blinks. Wei Wuxian lets out a soft, “Ah…”

Lan Xichen looks at them with something like pity.

“So they will see me, yes. They will hear me out, whether out of respect for my former position or pure curiosity. Then, at best, they’ll refuse me and send me on my way. At worst, they’ll hand me over to the Wens themselves. Do you not see that?”

Meng Yao does. He does, and he can’t believe he didn’t see it before. It’s simple. Obvious. Logical. Sure, he wasn’t trained to be a sect leader like Lan Xichen, but this wasn’t something difficult to spot! What an imbecilic mistake to make.

He knows, instantly, where the roots are. The damn cat-creature that wants to roll over and expose its belly whenever Lan Xichen is around is responsible for this. In Meng Yao’s head, Lan Xichen is someone you obey instinctively and immediately, rational thinking thrown aside. He’d been so blinded by his own unusual response that he’d played himself.

Lan Xichen seems to get tired of the stretching silence—while he doesn’t roll his eyes, the impression is there. Meng Yao is amazed at all those emotions suddenly on display, distantly alarmed to realize that they had never been before.

“There is a solution,” Lan Xichen enlightens them, when no one else says anything, in a tone that is deliberately too-patient. “If Young Master Wei can truly do what he says, and I have never known him to lie before—”

He pauses, considering.

Then, “I have never known him to lie about his abilities before—”

Wei Wuxian jerks in his seat but says nothing.

“—then he is the biggest power broker at the moment,” Lan Xichen concludes. “If he can abandon his quest of terrorizing small Wen contingents and come with me, we can showcase his power to better use.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes light up. “Right! You knock on their doors to get them to hear us out, while I raise a nearby cemetery or two to show them we mean business!”

“More than that,” Lan Xichen says. “If we want to convince them to join us, we need to show that we have a chance—that we have power to deliver. Otherwise, no matter how just the cause or how highly they think of me, why would they agree to risk their families, their disciples, for something that cannot be won? We have to demonstrate that it’s not hopeless.”

“All right!” Wei Wuxian jumps to his feet in excitement. “There are targets everywhere, too—all those Wen watchtowers! I won’t overrun them, to avoid bringing too much attention too soon, but I can give them enough trouble to get noticed.”

Lan Xichen inclines his head with a small, approving smile. “That does sound like a plan, Young Master Wei.”

Meng Yao rises from his seat and cups his hands in a bow. “Zewu-jun’s wisdom humbles me.”

He’s being entirely sincere—it's rare for him, when complimenting someone—but Wei Wuxian sends him a somewhat pitying look before turning away, and the smile leaves Lan Xichen’s face.

After a moment of awkward silence, Lan Xichen says, “I don’t need to be flattered, Young Master Meng. I need to have my decisions not forcibly taken from me by someone I have come to trust.”

Meng Yao bows again, unable to say anything. He’s still very much not sorry. He regrets breaking the trust, and possibly losing their friendship, but not the consequence.

Surprisingly, it’s Wei Wuxian who breaks the silence.

“Zewu-jun,” he says in a gentler tone. “I’ve only known Meng Yao for a month or so, and he’s very… slippery.” Meng Yao suppresses a glare. “But the one thing about him I don’t doubt is that he cares for you. What he did was… questionable, to be sure. But he was moved by his desire to protect you. If… if you’d been in his place… If your brother was in yours… Would you have let him walk out the door?”

At a different time, Meng Yao would have given him a piece of his mind for stealing someone else’s argument. At the moment, though, all he can do is wait.

Lan Xichen is silent for a while, then says, “The difference, Young Master Wei, is that I am responsible for my brother. And I would not have kept him under for three months.”

“Except”—Wei Wuxian grins—“it would have been safe for you. With Lan Zhan, power-wise, you’d have had the upper hand.”

Lan Xichen huffs something very close to a laugh. “Barely; Wangji is a lot stronger than he lets on.” He shakes his head, his smile fading. “I see your point, Young Master Wei; I do.”

But I don’t have to like it hangs in the air.

They leave in under an hour. Lan Xichen declines the offer to rest, saying wryly that he’d had enough sleep for the time being, and it’s not like either of them has to do any extensive packing. Wei Wuxian takes some time to compose a message to his brother and sends it off with a talisman that turns into a very lifelike bat. There’s no reason to delay after that.

Meng Yao walks them out, hashing out the details of establishing communication lines with Wei Wuxian. He doesn’t try to address Lan Xichen again, only bows to him silently when all is said and done.

Wei Wuxian sets off, but Lan Xichen lingers a moment.

“A-Yao,” he says at last.

Meng Yao’s head snaps up so fast it hurts, eyes open wide, and he’s so hopeful it should be embarrassing.

Lan Xichen lets out a soft sigh. “Let’s… talk after the war, shall we?”

Meng Yao nods fervently. “Yes… Xichen-ge.”

Lan Xichen looks at him a moment longer, but he doesn’t correct him this time.

Wei Wuxian has never been in the habit of thinking too far ahead. Or thinking ahead at all, beyond a day or a week. What would be the point?

However, even if he had been one for imagining distant future, he would never in his life have been able to predict that, one day, he’d be traveling the country alongside Lan Xichen.

Now, Lan Wangji—that idea might have lurked at the back of his mind, emerging once or twice in the form of some particularly fanciful daydream. But his older brother—no, Wei Wuxian is certain. He could not have come up with that if someone had made him.

He doesn’t quite know how to act. It’s confusing. Lan Xichen is barely older than him, and technically, they should be equals. But Lan Xichen exudes such an aura of adult around him that it feels like he’s a decade older. Wei Wuxian would have assumed that that’s what being a sect heir does to a person, except then he remembers Jiang Cheng, and then Nie Huaisang, and that explanation falls apart like an overripe peach.

He keeps trying to find his footing, thinking of Lan Xichen as he’d known him before. The problem there is that Wei Wuxian doesn’t pay much attention to other people when they’re not in his immediate vicinity, or don’t specifically interest him for some reason or other. He’d nearly forgotten about Lan Wangji in the year he hadn’t seen him, and he’d been very, very interested in Lan Wangji—at least as an inexhaustible source of entertainment. Oh, to be young and carefree again!

He racks his lousy memory. He doesn’t remember much of Lan Xichen himself from that time, but he does remember how the Twin Jades had been around each other, because at the time, he’d found that, well—adorable.

Lan Wangji had been deferential with his older brother to an uncanny degree. Calling him ‘xiongzhang’ like he meant every syllable was one thing, but it was more than that. Even with his uncle, there had always been a hint of ‘I obey because I must,’ or ‘I disagree but obey out of respect.’ Wei Wuxian had sensed that about him; that undercurrent had been part of the reason he’d wanted to get under Lan Zhan’s skin so badly—he’d wanted to bring that part of him out into the open.

But with Lan Xichen, Lan Wangji had meant every bow and every word. He’d relaxed when Lan Xichen was around, inasmuch as Lan Wangji was capable of relaxing at all. At times, he’d even acted like a spoiled younger sibling, at least to those who could see it. Wei Wuxian had found it unbearably cute, and he’d also felt slightly envious.

Lan Xichen, for his part, had always seemed like a doting older brother whose corrections were craved, not feared. Back then, he had reminded Wei Wuxian forcibly of his shijie—though he was different, too, in some intangible way.

All of that, while nice to dwell on for a change, doesn’t give him much to go on. Especially since—

Lan Xichen feels… off.

Before they set off, Lan Xichen had taken off his forehead ribbon and tied it around his wrist, under the sleeves of a simple set of grey robes Meng Yao had given him—no doubt of great quality, but not something that attracts the eye. There was, of course, Lan Xichen’s whole face, but there was nothing to be done about that. Wei Wuxian had briefly pictured him wearing a veil, then stopped, realizing that Lan Wangji would kill him if he ever got wind of it.

Still. It’s not the outward transformation. Wei Wuxian has no idea what he would have been like if his entire family and sect had been wiped out, and he’d just learned about it, but he doesn’t think it’d be like that.

Lan Xichen is quiet and almost—serene. Like calm water, concealing sharp rocks with bones littering the bottom.

Wei Wuxian, who now carries the primordial darkness within his own body, has to suppress a shiver running down his spine.

It isn’t until they stop for the night, though, that Lan Xichen turns to him and says, “Young Master Wei, may I trouble you for a demonstration of your… new talents?”

Wei Wuxian is taken aback for a moment. So Lan Xichen hadn’t believed him after all?

But Lan Xichen shakes his head.

“I’ve been asleep for a long time.”

He leaves it at that, explaining exactly nothing.

Well. Fine.

Wei Wuxian shrugs and lifts his right hand, feeling out their surroundings. Death is always nearby, he’s learned, and now, he always knows exactly how much there is, and he’s unable to escape the knowledge.

He raises four fierce corpses, who immediately zero in on Lan Xichen and his blazing yang energy. Wei Wuxian stops, ready to send them back to the ground, but Lan Xichen unsheathes Shuoyue and turns to him quickly.

“I assume you don’t form emotional attachments to them, correct?”

Wei Wuxian blinks and shakes his head.

“Then please, keep them coming.”

What follows is the most phantasmagoric scene Wei Wuxian had ever witnessed, and he’d been to Nightless City.

Answering his call, more and more dead rise from the ground, far and wide, homing in from seemingly everywhere. Lan Xichen goes through them like he’s going through his sword forms—meticulous, measured and frighteningly efficient. There’s not a trace of emotion on his face, and he looks eerily like his younger brother now, so much so that Wei Wuxian feels his heart wail.

Unconsciously, he calls on more dead, more resentment, and Lan Xichen’s motions speed up as well, never losing their mesmerizing grace. He is in perfect form, not a step out of alignment, not a breath drawn in at the wrong moment, and always with just enough power, no more and no less. A well of dead bodies begins to form around him, to the point where he’s forced to leap upward to get to a clear space—and then do it again. And again.

He doesn’t seem to be getting tired, and Wei Wuxian wonders, with an undertone of hysteria, if Lan Wangji would also be like this at full strength, if this was his regular sparring partner. Lan Xichen looks like he could do this indefinitely, like he won’t stop until there’s nothing but dead, dismembered bodies between him and Qishan.

Wei Wuxian watches, and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. The darkness in him revels as though drunk, egging him on. Must have him. Tear him apart. Extinguish. Consume. It’s getting harder and harder to hold himself in check, to not give in. Lan Zhan would not forgive him.

Lan Zhan!

With a yell that seems to tear out of him, Wei Wuxian pulls the darkness back, leashing it tightly and all at once, even as it slams into him like a bolt of lightning. He staggers but keeps his feet, and the undead masses around him return to their inert state.

Lan Xichen sinks to one knee in the middle of an entire field of corpses, leaning heavily on Shuoyue, which is glowing brightly in the night. He seems to be catching his breath.

Wei Wuxian swears.

Later, the two of them sit side by side on the bank of a shallow stream, a small fire before them.

Lan Xichen has finished cleaning his sword and sets it aside carefully. He radiates the kind of exhaustion no rest can cure. His eyes linger on Wei Wuxian’s right hand.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

Wei Wuxian blinks slowly before focusing on the question. He’s tired, too.

“I’m… not sure,” he admits. “I guess it does, but it’s not… physical. Or more like, the physical is like an echo of it that I can understand. Mostly, it’s just… heavy.”

Lan Xichen nods, and looks into the fire.

Apropos of nothing, he says, “You saw Wangji, didn’t you? At Nightless City?”

Wei Wuxian starts.

Lan Xichen sighs softly. “You were very careful to talk around it,” he says. “But, by your reaction… by all this. You must have seen him. They must have… shown him off.”

Wei Wuxian looks at him, unable to offer any words.

The sun is beginning to rise by the time he says, “He’s alive, Zewu-jun. We have to focus on that.”

Lan Xichen closes his eyes and says nothing.

Lan Xichen, fortunately, doesn’t ask Wei Wuxian to raise the dead for… whatever it was for him again as they make their way, quietly and as unobtrusively as possible, to Langya proper. They had decided to start there with some clans that Lan Xichen says used to be on very good terms with Gusu Lan and proceed from there.

Lan Xichen still doesn’t talk much, apart from discussing their plans, but he doesn’t seem to mind it when Wei Wuxian won’t stop rambling. That’s fortunate, since Wei Wuxian doesn’t think he’s capable of stopping. Their dynamic begins to feel a sort of comforting, or at least less surreal.

Then comes the nightmare.

Wei Wuxian’s sleep has been so in name only lately, and Lan Xichen prefers to meditate, which Wei Wuxian can’t entirely blame him for, so they don’t bother with keeping watch. Instead, he sets up alarm talismans, and those work out great—until they don’t.

Wei Wuxian is woken from a light doze by a muffled cry of pain, which turns sharp in an instant. His eyes snap open as he sits up abruptly.

Lan Xichen is slumped on his side, eyes open but unseeing, hands clenching around air. In the soft light of their dying fire, he looks to be in agony.

“Lan Xichen!” Wei Wuxian drops to his knees and reaches for him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Before he can touch him, Lan Xichen flinches away with another muffled cry. He rolls onto his back and jolts as if the ground has scorched him. Again and again, he flinches as if hit by an invisible weapon, biting his lip hard enough to break skin.

“Lan Xichen, wake up!” Wei Wuxian grabs his shoulders and shakes him. If a dream demon has taken possession of him…! “You’ve got to wake up!”

But it takes half a dozen more of those agonizing jolts before Lan Xichen stills on the ground, breathing hard and staring at the sky. His hands unclench from their clawed shape with visible difficulty.

Wei Wuxian watches in concern, hating how helpless he feels. Is this some kind of aftereffect of Meng Yao’s stupid spell? Does he have to go back and kill the little weasel after all?

Lan Xichen finally catches his eye and attempts a smile.

“I’m all right,” he says, his breathing still ragged. “It was just… a very vivid nightmare.”

Wei Wuxian frowns, moving over to his side. “Let me help you up.”

He carefully supports Lan Xichen as he sits up, wincing.

“Xichen-ge,” Wei Wuxian says slowly, not even noticing the slip into the familiar. “You’re bleeding.”

The robes on his back have telltale red stains blossoming through the fabric slowly.

“Do not be concerned,” Lan Xichen dismisses, straightening up where he sits. “I think I… landed on something sharp as I rolled over. A stone, perhaps, or a twig.”

Reflexively, Wei Wuxian glances down at the thick grass, then back up again at the smooth, unbroken fabric of his robes. Sharp stones. Right.

“Lan Xichen,” he says. “Would you mind if I take a look? Just in case?”

Lan Xichen stills, refusal obviously on the tip of his tongue. But there’s no rational reason for him to refuse, and, with a slight nod, he gives in. He loosens his belt, draws his hair out of the way, and makes some kind of movement that has his robes pool down from his shoulders, baring his back.

At another time, Wei Wuxian would have probably gone speechless from that amount of pure beauty on display. Sure, he’s not a cut-sleeve, but one would have to be dead to not respond when someone like Lan Xichen disrobes in front of them. At a different time, any time that isn’t now, because—

“Xichen-ge,” Wei Wuxian whispers, near-speechless for a whole different reason. “What did you dream about?”

Lan Xichen freezes.

“Wangji,” he says, just above a whisper. “In... in a courtyard. The Sun Palace, I thought, though I’ve never been. In the dream, it—I just knew. Torches on the walls. Guards. He was… restrained somehow. They… whipped him. Ten strikes of the discipline whip. He was grinding his teeth so hard, I…” He touches the hinge of his jaw and winces. “I heard voices. Wen Chao laughing, and he… it was he… his hand slipped…”

Wei Wuxian feels bile surge up his throat. He barely keeps it down.

“Xichen-ge,” he manages hoarsely. “I don’t think it was a dream.”

Lan Xichen’s back is covered in angry red welts, crisscrossed and rapidly swelling. They aren’t deep, though the skin is broken here and there. Wei Wuxian is all too familiar with whip patterns; he can even see the one that has, in fact, ‘slipped.’ No reason for Wen Chao to be any more competent at this than he is at anything else.

Lan Xichen turns to look at him over his shoulder, face ashen and eyes black with horror. “You mean to say…”

“You tell me,” Wei Wuxian says, shaken. “Your back is… I know you two are close, but this…”

Lan Xichen bows his head and strikes his chest, as if willing his lungs to work.

“Wangji and I always had a… sense of one another, but not like this. No.” He shakes his head. “This is—we really are the last of our line, then. I have hoped, but this… I can feel them. Our entire family, clan, all the lives that had been taken.” His head bows further. “They’re here. They haven’t moved on, none of them. They’re tying Wangji and me together now, as the last ones left. They think… they think they’re helping.”

Wei Wuxian closes his eyes and wants to howl.

Family. Clan. Safety. Love. A river, running uninterrupted for centuries, now crashing down on its last two children. What is it calling for? Revenge? Or, knowing Lans, perhaps—peace?

He feels a phantom sensation of a book lobbed at his head.

No. People with that much passion, however suppressed, would never call for peace when they are facing extinction.

Lan Xichen shudders violently, exposed in the cold night breeze, and moves to pull his clothes back up. Wei Wuxian stops him.

“Wait, Xichen-ge. Let me clean those, at least. I know your core will heal them, but…”

He needs to do something. Anything.

Lan Xichen either senses this or doesn’t care—he nods and remains still. Wei Wuxian fetches a clean cloth and some water from the stream and starts carefully washing the blood away. He doesn’t realize he’s using both his hands until Lan Xichen shivers under his touch, smooth skin breaking out in goosebumps.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think,” Wei Wuxian mutters, jerking his right hand back. “Do you want me to stop?”

Lan Xichen shakes his head, hair swaying lowly. “Please, finish. It was merely unexpected.”

Wei Wuxian washes all the blood off, then runs his fingers over the angry welts gingerly before he catches himself. Lan Xichen doesn’t call him on it, if he even notices. Awkwardly, albeit as carefully as he can, Wei Wuxian helps him pull his robes back up.

His task completed, he should move away, but he stays rooted to the spot, hands shaking.

“Xichen-ge,” he whispers, “if you can feel what he feels—”

Lan Xichen shakes his head. “Only extreme sensations, I imagine.”

The discipline whip would definitely be one of those. Right at this moment, right now, in the heart of the Wen Clan residence, Lan Wangji is in agony. Do they even treat his wounds? Is he left to bleed out even now? Is he—

“If you can feel what he feels,” Wei Wuxian insists, “do you think it works in reverse?”

Lan Xichen is silent. Then, “It always did, before. If I was upset, Wangji would just… show up and—”

Wei Wuxian lets out a sound that’s definitely not a sob and hugs him from behind, pressing his chest against Lan Xichen’s back, squeezing tight. It must hurt, but he can’t stop, can’t make himself let go. Lan Xichen makes a soft noise of surprise but doesn’t protest beyond that. His hands come up to grip Wei Wuxian’s arms indiscriminately.

“We’ll get you out, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian whisper-swears, blinking back angry tears. “Just f*cking hang on, all right? Just hang on. We’re coming.”

“Hang on,” Lan Xichen echoes, tears and something bright and fierce in his voice. “We’re coming for you, little brother. You’re not allowed to give up.” His voice seems to steel itself, if without any real bite. “Remember our rules, Wangji? Giving up is forbidden.”

Wei Wuxian laughs at this, burying his face in Lan Xichen’s shoulder and squeezing him tighter.

“Ah, Lan Zhan, that’s the one Lan Clan rule I can get behind. Listen to your brother, Lan Zhan. Be a good little Lan awhile longer.”

Lan Xichen nods forcefully to this, pressing back into Wei Wuxian’s embrace.

He falls asleep eventually, evidently exhausted. Wei Wuxian holds him, humming a familiar tune and hoping beyond hope Lan Wangji can somehow hear him, hear them both.

His limbs go numb, but he doesn’t move. They stay like this, only breaking apart with the dawn.

Chapter 8 Notes:

Thank you wonderful people who love to suffer as much as I do for your love. ♥
WARNING
Setting the world on fire is a gory business. This chapter contains brief description of extreme gore, including cannibalism (sort of). If you want to avoid that, stop reading after the line No fierce corpses need to be summoned. Scroll 4 paragraphs down until you see: The clan members present...
What can I tell you, despite appearances, LXC and WWX are not remotely in the realm of okay, especially when it comes to LWJ... 🤷♀️

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

There are about twenty minor sects inhabiting Langya, and the meetings with the first two of them go much more smoothly than Wei Wuxian had expected.

He targets a few—all right, more than a few—particularly fierce corpses at a nearby Wen outpost and... well, he has some fun. He still has some reservations about using demonic cultivation right in front of someone raised and trained by Lan Qiren, but they dissipate swiftly. Lan Xichen observes it all calmly enough, though Shuoyue keeps shivering at his hip, as if trying to provoke him into taking action.

It makes Wei Wuxian miss Suibian slightly. He still carries it in a qiankun pouch, but he doesn’t use it. He can play the flute with his right hand, do practically anything with it but hold his sword. And, while he can fight left-handed, there never seems to be any need.

The next day, Lan Xichen goes to visit his old acquaintances, Wei Wuxian hovering at his shoulder like a shadow. It’s… an interesting conversation, particularly since it turns out that the arrays supposedly keeping out anything resentful don’t work on Wei Wuxian or anything he chooses to bring with him.

Lan Xichen smooths things over with a smile and a few well-chosen words, and just like that, they’re let in, and listened to, and Wei Wuxian keeps quiet, letting the master work.

This whole time, he’d thought Meng Yao unparalleled at this sort of thing, but he has nothing on Lan Xichen. Where Meng Yao locates the strings and pulls, Lan Xichen takes charge and directs, projecting such an aura of confidence and care that it disarms even the most belligerent opponents. Such soft strength makes people want to follow him anywhere of their own free will, possibly lighting incense for him along the way.

Meng Yao had actually said something to that effect, but at the time, Wei Wuxian had dismissed it as yet another byproduct of the man’s obvious infatuation. More the fool him.

There is also, of course, the fact that everyone does hate the Wens, because Wen Ruohan isn’t interested in playing nice. He takes what he wants and doesn’t allow anyone to so much as save face when they bow to him. Sometimes, humiliation is more incendiary than outright loss, and, under Lan Xichen’s unyielding attention, it transforms into anger, then resolve, then concentrated will.

Had they the time, Wei Wuxian would bow and applaud.

It goes well. They slip from sect to sect under the cover of night, coming and going as quietly as they can. Lan Xichen isn’t woken up by any more sympathetic nightmares, but an absent look overtakes his face sometimes as they travel, with him murmuring something under his breath.

Wei Wuxian watches with concern, and the fact that he knows what this is only makes it stronger. Souls are not supposed to linger, lest they begin to degrade. So many of the Lans were cultivators, which would give them more time, but many were not, be they people connected by blood but with no talent for cultivation; children, too young to have formed a golden core; or teenagers, too resentful of their untimely death to care.

Lan Xichen frowns more and more, his smile only coming out when needed. Wei Wuxian watches him and wonders if his family will stop short of driving him insane, or if, given enough time, they won’t care anymore if they hurt him.

His own resentful companion—bound to his soul, no less—is actively trying to do the same, but he never had any delusions about her. In the end, only one of them will survive. He just hopes he gets to save Lan Zhan before it happens.

They run into trouble soon enough, but it’s not with the Wens.

They’re in the Tang Clan residence, waiting to speak to the sect leader. Wei Wuxian has habitually sealed the gates with talismans, unbeknownst to anyone, a precaution in case someone runs to alert the Wens. They wait.

The man finally arrives, accompanied by his eldest son, and Wei Wuxian’s world drowns in red.

All of a sudden, he can see nothing but the banquet hall in the Sun Palace, a drunk man laughing, stuffing pieces of meat into Lan Wangji’s mouth, while his son—

Everything blurs into the background, even Lan Xichen’s surprised exclamation, as Wei Wuxian brings his flute to his lips and starts playing. Cultivation residences are usually well-warded against resentful energy, but those charms and arrays are nothing to him. He carries the primordial darkness inside him, and she’s hungry, and he’s—beyond enraged.

No fierce corpses need to be summoned. Pure resentful energy wraps around the two men like clingy fog, their weapons that they barely had time to reach for dropping to the floor in pieces. They shout something—demands, threats—but Wei Wuxian howls into his flute, and they choke on those cries, drowning.

The taller man—Sect Leader Tang—has his own hand stuffed into his mouth, his jaw working as he screams against it, forced to chew on his own flesh as his arm is pushed further and further down his throat, until he chokes on it for the last time.

His son’s screams are unimpeded, turning into high-pitched squeals as his robes are ripped apart and darkness wraps around his male organ. It’s torn off, hanging on a strip of skin, while he’s bent and twisted, his tongue soon suffering the same fate and stuffed back into his mouth.

Then it’s quiet, apart from the sound of someone drowning in their own blood, until finally, there’s not even that.

The clan members present are all backed up against the walls, watching the scene with horror, but only a few have reached for their weapons. Darkness holds them back, keeps them where they are, obeying Wei Wuxian’s unconscious will.

It’s eerily quiet, despite—or even with—the sound of someone retching. Some woman is sobbing uncontrollably. Both those noises only serve to emphasize how utterly silent the aftermath of such unspeakable violence is.

Wei Wuxian takes a steadying breath, reorienting himself. His vision clears, though his chest still feels like he swallowed fire.

At his side, Lan Xichen is remarkably still. Slowly, he looks up and meets Wei Wuxian’s eyes.

“Why?” he asks, his tone even, giving away nothing. “They were an important ally.”

Wei Wuxian snorts angrily, baring his teeth. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew what they did to Lan Zhan.”

Not a muscle shifts in Lan Xichen’s face. “Tell me.”

Wei Wuxian steps into his space, still enraged, unsated. Lan Xichen doesn’t back down.

“You’re right, Zewu-jun—I did see your brother in Nightless City. They—”

He tells him. Dry, factual, sparing no detail. The remaining Tang Clan members turn white; even the sobbing woman stops. Lan Xichen’s face is stone.

“—that’s what they did!” Wei Wuxian snarls at him, at them all. “That’s what they did and the Wens didn’t make them! Do you still wish I hadn’t done it?!”

Lan Xichen looks away from him and down at the two bloody, no-longer-human-shaped heaps. His eyes flash, and the air is suddenly sharp with ozone.

“Yes,” he says clearly, every word razor-edged. “I wish you hadn’t. I would have preferred to do it with my own hands.”

Half the people cowering at the walls drop to the floor at that, more wailing. Wei Wuxian, strangely, feels steadier. He takes a deep breath, reaching out to touch Lan Xichen’s sleeve.

“What about them?”

Lan Xichen lifts his head, and it’s eerie. He looks more expressionless than his brother ever had. That kind of detachment is…

He doesn’t look human.

Their eyes meet.

Wei Wuxian has never willingly killed an innocent, but at that moment, he knows—he would kill everyone in this room with a single word, a single blink, from Lan Xichen. He would not think twice, would hardly think of it at all. What that would make him—either of them—he doesn’t want to know. Something neither of them will be able to return from. That won’t stop him; he doesn’t care. The darkness in him, the gods-know-what that drives Lan Xichen—they’re about to be pushed off a cliff and straight into the abyss, and neither of them wants to stop.

“Zewu-jun?”

A boy and a girl approach; Wei Wuxian’s eyes snap to them. The girl, he’s never seen before, but the boy looks somehow familiar. He’s terrible with faces, with people in general, but every second of that night in Qishan is etched onto his memory, and recognition soon hits.

It’s the other son, the one who had tried to steer his father away. He’s even younger than Wei Wuxian had thought—he can’t be older than fifteen. The girl is younger still, thirteen at most. His sister, obviously, by the resemblance.

Both drop to their knees at Lan Xichen’s feet.

“Zewu-jun.”

The boy’s voice has changed, but it’s painfully young still. His eyes are wide with fear as he looks up, and his back is tense to breaking, but he makes the attempt anyway. He stares right at Lan Xichen, even as he’s shaking.

“This one is called Tang Ming. I am the second son, and this is my sister. We… The fault is ours. What our father and elder brother did is unforgivable. I do not dispute that.”

Lan Xichen gazes down at him coolly, saying nothing. What an odd world it is, Wei Wuxian thinks distantly, where his heart is softer than that of the ever-gentle elder Jade of Lan.

“Father—” Tang Ming perseveres. “Father hated the Lan Sect.”

His sister shoots him a terrified look, but he carries on.

“Our grandmother, his mother, was a Lan. She… she was strict with us all. Tried to educate us, raise us in the Lan rules of righteousness. She had many children—I have uncles, cousins… They all… We obeyed her, but Father hated it. While she was alive, she criticized him constantly. He never… measured up. She would speak of your uncle—later, even of you and your brother. Always… unfavorably to him and—and to elder brother.”

Wei Wuxian shakes his head, suddenly tired. Just how many Madam Yu’s are out there in the world?

“Grandmother died last year. It is not… none of it is an excuse, but… When Father went to Nightless City and saw Second Young Master Lan, he—he was already drunk, and he… his anger got the better of him.”

Lan Xichen continues to say nothing.

Tang Ming bows again and stays that way, his sister following suit.

“We are at your mercy, Zewu-jun. If—if our lives can make up for the insult, I offer them freely… on behalf of my sect.”

Lan Xichen takes a step back, half-closing his eyes. Wei Wuxian draws closer, catching his attention.

“I can make it painless if you want,” he says quietly, calmly. “My issue was with those already dead. But I will lend you my hands, if yours goes further.”

Lan Xichen blinks, and suddenly, it’s like watching him being cracked open. Revulsion flashes through his abruptly-naked eyes—the very same revulsion Wei Wuxian had been expecting this whole time and never saw, but now that it’s here, it’s only partially directed at him. A great measure of it seems to be aimed within, and Lan Xichen almost crumbles under its force.

Much like his brother at that thrice-damned banquet, he looks, at last, like himself, all himself, and he is nothing more than what he is—a soul in agony.

He looks at the boy before him.

“Your grandmother was Lan Xiaojie?”

Tang Ming blinks, still shaking. “Yes, Zewu-jun.”

Lan Xichen presses his fingers to his temple and glances at Wei Wuxian tiredly. “Uncle’s elder cousin. I never met her.”

Wei Wuxian nods. He wonders, suddenly curious, if the boy had meant for this to happen. Knowingly or not, he’d invoked just about the only thing that could have stayed Lan Xichen’s hand.

He indicated that they were family.

In a very distant, very diluted way, but these two children had some Lan blood running in their veins. So, apparently, did many of those cowering by the walls. And plenty of that blood is currently soaking into the hardwood floors.

“There is a debt between us, Tang Ming,” Lan Xichen says, having pulled himself together. “I will not collect it today, but if my brother decides otherwise…”

Tang Ming goes paler still, but bows even more deeply.

“I understand and accept, Zewu-jun. We are in your debt. Forever.”

Lan Xichen seems to soften despite himself.

“In that case, Sect Leader Tang,” he says calmly, “we have much to discuss.”

Wei Wuxian waves his hand and lets the darkness consume the bodies.

Their recruitment goes a lot more smoothly after that. For a while, Wei Wuxian attributes it to nothing other than him and Lan Xichen hitting their stride. Once or twice, they upset a Wen patrol, but the soldiers are looking for the terrifying necromancer, a demon wearing human skin, and it’s easy to lead them away. Lan Xichen’s involvement, his very presence, seems to have remained concealed, as is their true mission.

To be fair, even if word had gotten around, it would sound ludicrous. Meng Yao’s plan has the virtue of sounding absolutely mad when split into parts. Not that it’s remotely sane when put together, but the three of them are not, by any definition, sane people.

Lan Xichen talks to the dead—or rather, at the dead. Wei Wuxian actually commands the dead and cohabitates with primordial darkness within his own body. Meng Yao… is Meng Yao.

All the same, Wei Wuxian and Lan Xichen pick up the pace, though it’s still not fast enough to satisfy either of them—or Jiang Cheng, for that matter, who keeps sending Wei Wuxian annoyed, predictable missives about Yunmeng’s readiness to get rid of their oppressors.

His parents know nothing of it, but Jiang Yanli does. It could not have been an easy decision, nor is it an easy charade to maintain, but Jiang Cheng obviously recognizes the necessity, and Wei Wuxian is grateful. He loves Uncle Jiang dearly, and will always be grateful to him and Madam Yu for taking him in, but he can’t risk them making another emotional, ill-advised decision. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his sect leader (former sect leader?)… It’s just that he doesn’t trust his sect leader. Jiang Cheng seems to feel the same way, so Wei Wuxian’s conscience doesn’t give him too many pangs.

In one of his rare, bored moments, a thought occurs that, if they manage to succeed, Wen Ruohan, the biggest threat to the cultivation world in centuries, will be brought down by a group of people who (mostly) hadn’t yet reached twenty.

…Something seems to be distinctly wrong with that plan.

Wei Wuxian does less showy demonstrations, now that his fame precedes him—his very appearance at Lan Xichen’s shoulder seems to do the trick. He’s still working on a way to break down the Wen watchtowers, and he can feel how close he is; he just needs to sleep for a few consecutive hours. That should do the trick.

He’s also watching out for both his and Lan Xichen’s safety and maintaining the private talisman communication network that is all his work but somehow revolves around Meng Yao, who’s keeping tabs on everyone’s progress and redirecting information as needed.

Then one night, Lan Xichen wakes up from another sympathetic nightmare. This time, an imprint of the Wen branding iron appears on his chest—a mirror, in fact, to Wei Wuxian’s own. They both stare at it, at the skin that had gone red and angry, the scent of burnt flesh filling the clammy night heat.

Wei Wuxian offers to make a soothing compress—hardly the stuff of trained healers—but Lan Xichen flinches away, as if burned again, then slowly shakes his head.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t realize he’s angry until he hears himself speak harshly, “It won’t help him to have you hurt! Stop being such a child!”

The look Lan Xichen gives him is that of a trapped animal looking at the hunter.

“It’s the only way I even know he still lives,” he whispers. “I… I can’t…”

Wei Wuxian huffs, but leaves him alone.

He’s not jealous. He’s not. That would be a truly messed up thing to feel.

Wouldn’t it?

Once, late into the night, Lan Xichen says, “It’s hard to miss them when they’re constantly with me. I wish I could miss them.”

Wei Wuxian looks at him, at his pale skin and increasingly sunken eyes. There’s probably a ritual they can perform—interrupt their quest, take a detour to the ashes of Cloud Recesses. Burn incense. Say prayers.

But then, Lan Xichen says, “I wish I didn’t have to miss Wangji,” and Wei Wuxian knows that the only way that ritual is happening is when Lan Wangji is with him—when he can bow to his ancestors and his family at his brother’s side.

Together, or not at all.

Wei Wuxian had long trained himself out of wishing for anything other than a dry place to sleep, a warm bath, and some wine. But as he looks at the Wen sun slowly, wretchedly fading from Lan Xichen’s skin, he wishes the day won’t come when he’ll have to burn incense for him, too.

At some point, they’re deep enough into Hejian to be at an equidistant point away from the Wen watchtowers, and risk a night at an inn.

Lan Xichen, tired of the constant need to convince people, retires to their room to meditate with a look of relief so poorly concealed, Wei Wuxian feels a pang of guilt. Sure, both of them are doing what they must, but—

Looks like I’m not taking good enough care of your brother, Lan Zhan. I’m sorry.

Wei Wuxian goes downstairs. He’s missed the rowdiness of a crowded common room, if he’s honest, and if he sheds a layer of his dramatic black outfit, he has a good chance of blending in—just another carefree young man shirking his familial duties and enjoying himself. He just needs not to draw attention to his right hand, and he’s good. It’s a fairly dim room, so he should be fine.

For a while, it goes exactly as he’d hoped. He orders wine and sprawls at a corner table, where he has the perfect view. He’s not up for being actively social, he realizes with some bemusem*nt, and besides, he can’t risk getting into trouble. Not when so much is on the line.

Eventually, a company of men at a table at the opposite end of the room attracts his attention. They seem to be his age, though Wei Wuxian hasn’t felt his age in what feels like years, but more than that—they’re hunched over, talking in low voices. There’s a grim air about them, as if they’re planning some sort of conspiracy.

Well. That is simply too much of a temptation to stand.

Wei Wuxian can see them well enough, but he can’t hear them. That’s easily solved – an unobtrusive paperman emerges from his sleeve and is off with a few flicks of his wrist. In a few seconds, it sticks itself to the underside of their table, and then—

“…of course I think it’s true—it’s the only explanation that makes sense!” a somewhat bulky young man is saying, looking at his companions with the frustrated expression of someone who knows he’s failing to convince his audience. “The Lans were more righteous than gods, and Lan Xichen—you know his reputation. For a man like that to publicly tie himself to a demonic cultivator… I mean, he’s Yiling Laozu! He desecrates the dead—”

“Wen dead,” his unimpressed neighbor interjects.

“Our dead, too, or do you think he cares?” Bulky throws back. “Wei Wuxian is a monster—worse than a monster. You heard what happened to Sect Leader Tang and his son! Wei Wuxian skinned them alive and had them eat their own bones!”

Everyone takes a few moments to be properly outraged while throwing around furtive glances. Wei Wuxian wrinkles his nose. It’s not entirely accurate… Bah, close enough.

“—and he’d said it was all because of some insult to Lan Wangji! And Lan Xichen was there and only stopped him when those two were dead, and then did nothing to him! Didn’t say one word against it. What other reason could it be, other than Wei Wuxian being betrothed to his brother?”

Wei Wuxian, who had been taking a sip of wine, chokes so horribly that it goes out his nose. His cup jumps out of his hand and onto the floor, and he dives after it frantically, still coughing, nearly braining himself on the table when he tries to come back up.

What?!

WHAT?!

With great difficulty, he manages to settle back on his chair, still not breathing properly. The commotion he’s created hasn’t seemed to attract much attention, and those who’d looked at him are already turning away. That gives him full freedom to mentally scream.

Betrothed to Lan Zhan?! What the… WHAT?!

“I still think it’s a leap,” says the man in the most atrociously yellow robes Wei Wuxian has ever seen. “I mean sure, Wei Wuxian’s clearly evil—”

Oh, go f*ck yourself.

“—and at any other time, I’d be the first to do away with him—”

Can’t wait.

“—but he’s doing what no one else has managed to—he’s killing off the Wens.” Atrocious Yellow shrugs. “As long as he’s doing that, let him be. Maybe Lan Xichen thinks the same thing. Maybe he just wants revenge for his sect and doesn’t care through what means.”

Unimpressed snorts. “Lan Xichen doesn’t sound like someone who’d be after revenge.”

Atrocious Yellow shrugs again. “War changes people.”

“Maybe.” Bulky shoves his way in again, looking smug. “And what, Wei Wuxian is helping him out of the goodness of his heart? I’ve heard he actually eats the dead now. Pull the other one.”

“But how do you figure someone as horrible as that being betrothed to Lan Wangji?” asks a short man whose back is mostly to Wei Wuxian. He sounds like he thinks himself the voice of reason, but mostly, he just sounds timid. “Isn’t he the other one of the Twin Jades? I heard he was as righteous as Lan Qiren and just as strict, if not more!”

You heard that right, Wei Wuxian thinks, drawn in despite himself.

“Yes, yes, but Wei Wuxian wasn’t always evil!” Bulky persists. It’s unclear if he’s a fan of Wei Wuxian or simply approves of cannibalism. “I think it was less than a year that he was known as the Jiang Sect first disciple, the fourth on the list of the most attractive young masters! Whatever happened when the Jiangs sold out must have made him the way he is now. Of course, they’d gotten engaged before then, and now Lan Xichen won’t break it. The Lans don’t go back on their word.”

“I thought the same thing!” the previously-silent young man in lilac robes says excitedly. Even his eyes are sparkling, what the f*ck. He leans onto the table. “My cousin went to Cloud Recesses for the guest lecture the same year as Wei Wuxian. He said Wei Wuxian was obsessed with Lan Wangji from day one; wouldn’t leave him alone, always flirting. My cousin said it was embarrassing to even watch. He said that if Lan Wangji had been a woman—forget his brother, all of Gusu would have demanded Wei Wuxian marry him after all the things he did!”

Well, that’s just—! Wei Wuxian nearly drops the cup again. He was just being friendly! People really have dirty minds! Surely he hadn’t been that bad?!

“I heard they swam naked together and Lan Qiren found them and nearly qi deviated,” Bulky says. Wei Wuxian is beginning to feel concerned for him.

“It must be true,” Short says, clearly changing his stance. “Remember that archery competition in Qishan? I thought back then it was weird...”

“Oh! The ribbon, you mean?” Excited perks up even more.

“Yeah. Everyone knows only immediate family and spouses are allowed to touch the Lan forehead ribbon, and Wei Wuxian didn’t just touch it—he pulled it off Lan Wangji! In public! I mean, he’s Wei Wuxian, but I guess even he wouldn’t have been so shameless if they weren’t really betrothed!”

What? Wei Wuxian drops his head into his hands. The ribbon means… And he did what?! He didn’t know! He almost groans in frustration. What does that mean—everyone knows?! How can everyone know? It’s not like the Lans advertised it or—

A voice that sounds surprisingly like Lan Wangji’s says coolly, How many times have you copied our rules?

But that’s unfair!

Wei Wuxian smashes his palm across the table. A passing server gives him a wary look.

That’s not fair—he never paid attention!

Mn. Maybe you should have.

“Not you too, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian moans under his breath. “Why is everyone ganging up on me tonight?”

“But I heard Lan Wangji got really mad at him about that,” Atrocious Yellow is saying. “Broke his bow in anger and couldn’t even finish the competition.”

“Yes, but that was because the betrothal was supposed to be a secret, and Wei Wuxian as good as went and blabbed it all in front of everyone!” Excited explains. “Do you think Lan Wangji would have tolerated such an insult if they weren’t betrothed? Or Lan Xichen, for that matter? I was there, and neither of them looked particularly happy, but they didn’t do anything.”

“I don’t know,” Unimpressed drawls. “I mean, your cousin aside, it makes sense if he touched the ribbon. I just never imagined one of the Twin Jades to be a cut-sleeve.”

“Oh, that I knew,” Atrocious Yellow says. “Year before the lecture, I saw him at a conference in Lanling with his brother. Jin Guangshan brought those dancers for the feast, and they were dressed… well, they were dressed. Sort of. Lan Wangji didn’t even look at them—he was sitting right up front and looked like he was dead already. I remember because one of the Jins made fun of him for it.”

“Well, he is a very righteous young man.”

“Right.” Atrocious Yellow sounds skeptical. “You’re male, fifteen, and have mostly-naked girls dance right in front of you that Jin Guangshan had personally selected. The only way you’re that righteous is if you’re dead, impotent, or—yeah.”

That’s just not true! Wei Wuxian can barely restrain himself from marching over and making those imbeciles swallow their horrible, tasteless slander. Lan Zhan isn’t a cut-sleeve! He really is that good! Of course he wouldn’t look at girls like that! He’s not Wei Wuxian, he’s—

Lan Zhan, do you like Mianmian?

And Lan Zhan had glared at him like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

But…

No. Could it really be...? No. No!

…Maybe?

The gossips at the other table are laughing, and Wei Wuxian really can’t take it anymore. He’s about to sweep his paperman back and retreat before he does something unfortunate like rip their throats out, but then pauses, because Unimpressed speaks again.

“Actually, it would make sense, I’ll give you that. I still think Lan Xichen is just using Wei Wuxian to force the small sects to join his suicidal quest, but whatever. It’s a good cause, anyway.”

“Easy for you to say—you already have a son to light incense for you,” Atrocious Yellow grumbles.

An uneasy silence falls. To die without an heir is an all-but-guaranteed way to become a hungry ghost. Cultivators usually have a way of avoiding it, but with low-level powers, nothing is certain.

Nothing is ever certain when it comes to death.

“I think it’s not like that at all.” Excited shakes his head, breaking the suddenly-somber mood. “I mean, yes, they’re definitely scaring people into joining them, but the reason why is… it’s so romantic!”

Wei Wuxian can’t listen to another word. He whisks the talisman off and all but runs upstairs, sweeping another jar of wine off the startled server’s tray and chugging it down before he’s even halfway up the stairs.

That just won’t do! And to think he’d felt sorry for them! How dare they!

His heart is beating wildly in his chest as he stops before the door to their room. Is he really about to do this? Lan Xichen might simply kill him when he hears. But then…

Wei Wuxian groans and bangs his head against the wall a few times.

Lan Xichen might kill him, but better he hears it now, from Wei Wuxian, as opposed to running into something like that out there without warning. Then he might really kill him, and Wei Wuxian wouldn’t even stop him.

With another groan, he steadies himself—he can be calm and adult about this—knocks the requisite number of times, and jerks the door open.

“Lan Xichen! Lan Xichen!” Wei Wuxian all but falls through the door, barely pausing to seal it with a talisman. “It’s—it’s horrible and absolutely, emphatically not my fault!”

Lan Xichen glances at him calmly from where he’s sitting on the bed, a needle in his hand, doing—

Wei Wuxian draws up short and stares. “Are you mending your clothes?”

Lan Xichen tilts his head, looking at him silently in a fair imitation of his brother.

Right. Obviously.

“You don’t have to!” Wei Wuxian blurts out, still barely able to process the image. “We could go to the shops—I’ve seen—I have—”

Lan Xichen lets out a quiet sigh and puts his work aside. “No need. This is not out of necessity, at least at the moment,” he adds wryly. “It is soothing. My mother taught me.”

“Oh,” Wei Wuxian breathes out, extremely wrong-footed. He racks his brain for all that he knows about the Lan brothers’ mother, but it’s a huge empty space inside his head. She’s… dead? For a while? Right?

“Yes,” Lan Xichen says, taking pity on him and repeating, “She taught me. She tried to teach my brother, too, but he was too small at first, and later… she didn’t have enough time with him.” A sad smile flitters over his lips. “Wangji tried very hard, but it wasn’t one of his gifts. He always pricked his finger, the same one, but he never made a sound, so that Mother wouldn’t notice.”

Wei Wuxian finds himself unconsciously charmed by the idea of a tiny Lan Wangji who wasn’t, apparently, preternaturally good at everything. Did he have chubby cheeks? He must have, an adorably serious baby! Did he glare at people when they broke the rules like the adult Lan Wangji does? Wei Wuxian might just die from that image alone. He’s suddenly, intensely jealous of Lan Xichen to have seen it. Seriously, who invented brothers? Brothers aren’t fair.

And speaking of… Wei Wuxian’s eyes narrow. Lan Xichen looks odd, in some intangible way. Odder than his usual odd of late, that is. Now what—

“Lan Xichen!” Wei Wuxian exclaims again and unceremoniously grabs him by the wrist, lifting his hand up. “What’s that?”

His forefinger is bleeding, the pad raw as if it had been pricked continuously by a sharp needle in the span of an hour… or several.

Lan Xichen pulls his hand back. “It will heal.”

Wei Wuxian looks at him helplessly. “Were you trying to send Lan Zhan a message? Lan Xichen…”

Lan Xichen looks at him with clear defiance, the resemblance between the brothers uncannier by the day.

“Wouldn’t you have, if you could?” he challenges.

He sounds calm and polite as he always does, but there’s something childish about it, downright petulant.

Wei Wuxian sighs. He opens his mouth to say, ‘I don’t think your brother would want you hurt even like this,’ but he doesn’t. There is something fragile about Lan Xichen lately, dangerously so. Like the person he used to be is hanging over a ledge by his fingertips.

Wei Wuxian won’t be the one to push him over. He’d crossed to the other side some time ago himself, and he can’t recommend it. He regrets nothing, but he knows for a fact that there’s no way back.

Lan Xichen brings him out of his head with a question. “What have you come to tell me in such a rush?”

“Oh! That.” Wei Wuxian abruptly feels wobbly on his feet. “Well... it’s like this. There are rumors. I swear it’s not my fault! You have to—it’s not my fault!” He breathes in. “People talk about you—about us—we scare people into joining our cause, apparently! We thought we were just demonstrating that we have the power to topple Wen Ruohan, but it turns out they think if they don’t join us, I’ll skin them alive and you’ll—you’ll sic me on them or something! And they think you control me or whatever because—because—because I’m engaged to your brother!” He realizes he’s panting and bites his lip, giving Lan Xichen a pleading look. “Please don’t kill me—it’s really not my fault!”

Lan Xichen tilts his head to the side slightly, like he’s absorbing the information.

“I see,” he says at last.

“It’s not my fault!”

“Wei Wuxian.” Lan Xichen gives him a quelling look. “Please calm yourself.” He ponders the news some more, then nods to himself and says, “Why do you find this troubling?”

“Why do I—” Wei Wuxian chokes. “It’s not true, any of it! We need to tell them—you need to tell them! Well, not the idiots downstairs, obviously, but the others! From now on, we should make it clear—you should make it clear that we’re not forcing anyone, and that I’m not engaged to your brother!”

Lan Xichen considers him quietly for a moment, then gracefully comes to his feet, nearly gliding across the small room to stand beside the window. His hand settles habitually behind his back, and oh, Wei Wuxian can’t believe he dared suggesting to take him shopping. Lan Xichen looks more elegant and dignified in his simple clothes than Jin Guangshan could ever hope to be in all his golden finery.

Wei Wuxian breathes out a quiet sigh of relief. It’s been a while since he’d surrendered himself into the care of the older generation—probably not since Uncle Jiang, and that not entirely, not in a while. But it feels like Lan Xichen is in charge now, and it’s such a relief, and—

“I do not believe there’s any point in refuting those rumors,” the man in charge says calmly, shattering all illusions of safety.

“What?!” Wei Wuxian can’t help but shout. “Why?!”

Lan Xichen turns to face him. “There’s a reason why engaging in gossip was forbidden in my sect, Wei Wuxian. In your experience, what happens when the subject of a rumor tries to deny it? Do people usually believe him?”

Wei Wuxian feels like he’s hit a wall running.

“No,” he says, beginning to feel horrified. “When someone tries to deny whatever’s said about them, it only makes people more convinced it’s true.”

“Quite.”

“But that’s—ugh!” Wei Wuxian groans, tugging at his hair. “Is there no escape from this?”

“If the rumor has already spread, then no, I do not believe so,” Lan Xichen says with the same infuriating calm. “But that is not necessarily a bad thing for us.”

“How is that not a bad thing?!” Wei Wuxian wails. “It’s a very bad thing! The worst! For me, it’s the worst!”

“Why is that?”

Wei Wuxian stares at him. “Your brother will kill me!”

Lan Xichen’s lips actually twitch.

“It’s not funny!” Wei Wuxian nearly howls. “Lan Xichen, I thought better of you! Do you know how many times I had to listen to the lecture on how perfect your manners and temperament were?! If Madam Yu could see you now, laughing at the weak and obviously innocent about to be slaughtered by your bully of a brother, she’d—ugh, forget it! I just can’t believe they’re calling me evil downstairs, when you’re just—you’re just really bad, all right?”

Lan Xichen, evidently, can’t help a laugh at that. “Why, Young Master Wei, I don’t believe you’ve ever spoiled me with such praise before.”

“You—!”

“It would seem I’m not the only Lan to challenge your misconceptions.”

Wei Wuxian narrows his eyes. “What the hell does that mean?”

Lan Xichen doesn’t quite shrug. “It means my brother may surprise you.”

Wei Wuxian finds that he really doesn’t like that particular smile on Lan Xichen’s face. He has no idea how Lan Wangji grew up constantly subjected to this without committing fratricide—the man must be even more of a saint than he thought. Wei Wuxian is about to say something to that effect when the damned gossips’ words surface in his mind unbidden.

Neither of them looked particularly happy, but they didn’t do anything.

That damn ribbon. Right.

He glances reflexively at Lan Xichen’s forehead, but it’s bare. He’s taken to wearing his ribbon on his wrist these days, hidden by his clothes. And—

Oh.

When Wei Wuxian had grabbed him earlier, he’d touched the damn thing. Accidentally, he wasn’t really looking, and—Lan Xichen did nothing, said nothing, as if…

As if he could forgive the impropriety from someone he considered family already.

Wei Wuxian’s legs give out, and he abruptly finds himself on the floor. His backside hurts, but he barely feels it.

“It can’t be true,” he mutters. “No. No! I’d have known if we were engaged! I know I’m as scatterbrained as they come, but I think I would have noticed getting engaged! You—this isn’t… Your brother hates me! He really, really does! He denied it every time I called us friends! Lan Zhan would rather die than marry me! Lan Xichen, you’re his brother—you have to know that!”

Lan Xichen observes him with some detached curiosity. “The two of you are not engaged,” he says at last. “I can’t speak to the rest. I will not discuss my brother’s feelings behind his back.”

His feelings?! What—?

No.

No!

Wei Wuxian refuses to believe what he’s hearing. Lan Xichen must be starved for entertainment, that is all, and is a really, really horrible person!

“What, it doesn’t even bother you that they’re saying your brother is a cut-sleeve?”

Lan Xichen lifts an eyebrow, looking as undisturbed as the first snow on a lake. “Does it bother you?”

What? Wei Wuxian’s mouth drops open. He can’t be expected to answer that! Can he? He feels hot all over. This really isn’t fair.

“Did you already know?” Wei Wuxian blurts out in a spectacular display of idiocy. He’s on a roll tonight. “Right, forget I asked that. Was I supposed to know?”

Lan Xichen now has that look on his face, like his patience is being sorely tried but he’s too polite to say so.

“Wei Wuxian,” he intones, seemingly unable to cover up how pained he sounds. “There is a tried-and-true technique that helps prevent this kind of thing from taking one by surprise. It rarely helped in the pursuit of enlightenment, but in practical matters, it proved highly useful. It’s called”—he pauses—“thinking. If you’d employed it occasionally in matters other than cultivation…”

Wei Wuxian gapes. All right, so Lan Xichen is not too polite after all, or maybe it’s just that Wei Wuxian is too annoying even for him. He sounds downright catty. It’s something Jiang Cheng might have said, though he’d be more direct about it. Where style is concerned, Lan Xichen sounds a great deal more like—

“You sound just like that weasel Meng Yao,” Wei Wuxian informs him, stung and petty.

Lan Xichen looks away, as if momentarily abashed, and says, in quite a different tone, “He’s been writing.” He bites his lip. “A lot.”

Wei Wuxian observes the look of genuine befuddlement on his face and comes very close to vindictively suggesting Lan Xichen take his own advice about occasionally employing thinking, then maybe he wouldn’t be so puzzled about his apparently voluminous correspondence.

He stops himself at the last moment, nearly biting his tongue. For one thing, it wouldn’t do to provoke his… apparently future brother-in-law, what the f*ck. For another, that scathing bit of advice is probably not even the worst thing Lan Xichen has in his arsenal. He’s his uncle’s nephew, after all, even if he rarely shows it, and if Wei Wuxian continues to accidentally trigger his protective-older-brother mode, he’ll probably come to regret it.

“How nice of him” is all Wei Wuxian ends up saying, though he can’t be blamed, he thinks, if he can’t completely keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “He doesn’t write me nearly as often. Wonder why.”

Lan Xichen looks slightly defensive. “I’m sure he’s very busy.”

“Mhm. Sounds like it.”

Busy thinking what else he can do when he puts you to sleep the next time.

He’s not suicidal enough to voice the thought, though. Jiang Cheng would be so proud.

Lan Xichen looks troubled now. “Wei Wuxian. I apologize if my remark… I’m worried about Wangji. Constantly. It… I’m afraid it affects me more than I…”

Wei Wuxian lifts a hand up to stop him, his own mirth fading. “I know, Xichen-ge. We’ll get him out. I swear.”

Lan Xichen’s gaze settles on him and turns suddenly sharp.

“Wei Wuxian, I have never asked you. Why are you so intent on freeing my brother?”

Wei Wuxian goes cold suddenly, dropping his eyes to the floor. But it’s an honest question, and it deserves an honest answer.

It’s also a question he’d never asked himself. He’d never had to.

“It just makes sense,” he says, his thoughts remarkably calm, clearer than ever. “Lan Zhan… Lan Zhan must be in the world. He has to be in the world, or the world… doesn’t make sense. It’s grey. Boring. Like nothing is exciting or interesting anymore and never will be. What’s the point of… anything? If there’s no Lan Zhan?”

It takes him a moment to drag himself out forcibly from contemplating that horrible world. It’s siphoning his energy to even think about it. He never wants to live in it.

When he looks up, Lan Xichen’s expression has turned... soft. He almost looks like the senior disciple and sect heir Wei Wuxian had met once, a long time ago, in what feels like a different life.

“I see,” Lan Xichen says gently, and this time, it lands as praise, a wave of warmth down Wei Wuxian’s spine. “As I said, I will not refute the rumors, because it’s pointless and because it works for us,” he says. “It may not be true, but it’s something—good. When darkness is all around, people need to believe that light is not extinguished. Wen Ruohan is a common enemy, yes, and that gives them something to fight against. This… legend of thwarted love gives them something to fight for. And that is always the stronger motivator.”

Wei Wuxian says nothing for a moment. Personally, he thinks Lan Xichen is wrong. People unite against a common enemy a lot sooner and more readily than they do for a common cause, no matter how good. But Lan Xichen obviously believes the opposite, and who is Wei Wuxian to disillusion him? Perhaps it’s even true, in some world where Cloud Recesses hadn’t been burned, where the Lan Clan hadn’t been erased from existence. In a world where Wei Wuxian still has both his hands, human hands. Who’s to say?

Excited’s nauseatingly sweet voice drifts back to him.

It’s so romantic!

Well. Maybe Lan Xichen has a point. It would help if their troops didn’t hate them and didn’t distinguish between them and Wen Ruohan only by the measure of who they hated less. If his and Lan Zhan’s supposed star-crossed romance can help with that… Wei Wuxian has been accused of worse things. He can handle being thought of as Lan Zhan’s fiancé.

Suddenly, he thinks of Lan Zhan’s face when he hears that and can’t help a huge, unseemly grin.

However.

“And what about the other thing?” he asks. “If people keep believing we’re threatening them into joining us on pain of death, your reputation will be ruined.”

Lan Xichen looks at him calmly. “Wei Wuxian.” He sighs. “Xian-di. I have lost my entire family, my clan, my sect, my home. The only family I have left is my baby brother, and he is being tortured in Qishan even as we speak. I cannot sleep thinking of him, and our dead… all our dead will not let me breathe. Do you honestly believe I care by what means we free him?”

And that—Wei Wuxian has nothing to say to that.

Lan Xichen seems to have called it. Even though Wei Wuxian has been interacting closely with him for weeks, he still seems to have thought of him as that image he had in his head—of the First Young Master of the Lan Sect—rather than seeing the real person in front of him.

Could it… could it be he’d done the same thing with Lan Wangji?

He pulls himself to his feet, his control over his limbs returning. Even though he still feels shaken, he feels calmer, too. Strangely settled.

“All right,” he says, giving Lan Xichen a grin. “We’ll go along with it, but you have to promise me something. If your precious baby brother gets really mad at me when he finds out, you have to tell him this wasn’t my idea!”

Lan Xichen smiles at him, his familiar, kind, all-him smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Notes:

*To clarify, LXC hadn't noticed WWX touching his ribbon. He had other things on his mind. WWX went down on that specific mind trip all by himself. *g*

Chapter 9 Notes:

My beta insisted I share this gift with you all as we plunge into the darkness:
That said, beware, more casualties incoming...

Chapter Text

Meng Yao shields his eyes with his palm from the oppressive midday sun and looks over the Jin ranks, gleaming with gold. Across the field, the Wen forces stand ready, in dark red and probably sweltering as Wen Xu prances on his horse in front of them, clearly impatient. The tension in the air so thick that a careless inhale could make the whole thing snap.

Meng Yao allows himself a quiet sigh of utter satisfaction. This is what a job well done looks like, even if there’s no one here to appreciate it.

He’s been... busy. He always keeps busy, but this has been a particularly pleasant way of being so.

After Lan Xichen had left with Wei Wuxian—and the less Meng Yao thinks of that particular partnership, the better—Meng Yao had gone to work. The first thing on the agenda was to get into the Jin Sect, and he had.

This time, he hadn’t gone through the front gate, carrying some ridiculously ill-conceived notions of being acknowledged by his father. This time, he’d played it like a long game of weiqi.

First, create an opening on the more mundane side of things. One of the Jin bookkeepers had turned out to have an unfortunate tendency to gamble with his master’s money. Rather than exposing him, Meng Yao had blackmailed him into retiring, thus both creating the desired opening and maintaining a source of internal information. Service trades in the great sects were frequently underestimated.

Next, a few money pouches had exchanged hands, and suddenly, Meng Yao was presented to Jin Guangshan by the Lanling Bookkeepers’ Guild as someone who had an exceptional talent for numbers. A few words dropped into the Sect Leader’s ears by beguiling young ladies, and Jin Guangshan had concluded that it would be better to have his bastard son, unacknowledged and humbled, run his accounts than someone outside the family. An elegant solution.

Thus, Meng Yao was in.

It’s not as if his time within the sect had been particularly enjoyable, let alone anything he’d once dreamed of. Yet, in an odd sense, it has been satisfying enough.

There wasn’t any particular kind of announcement, but it’s generally known who he is. Madam Jin all but breathes acid if she happens to run into him, and the junior disciples, even some servants, laugh behind his back without trying too hard to hide. That’s nothing Meng Yao couldn’t handle.

If he goes to sleep every night picturing certain people meeting a very graphic and premature end without him being anywhere near them, that’s his business.

The Jin Sect is all about money. Meng Yao is one of the six bookkeepers working under the chief accountant that Jin Guangshan employs, except, while Meng Yao had forced the recommendation out of the Guild, he hadn’t had to make them lie. He really is skilled with numbers.

With his financial skills and lifetime of careful observation, no financial inconsistency goes unnoticed. Within two weeks, he has a full picture of who exactly has been embezzling the Jin Sect’s money, for how long, and in what amounts; who had covered for whom; and who is, or isn’t, in the know. From there, it had been a ludicrously simple matter of merely handling that information correctly, and before the month was out, Meng Yao had multiple people in various positions within the sect working for him. The Jin Sect is truly corrupt to the core.

Meng Yao has always been good at forging useful connections, but he’s equally good at the waiting game. The setup he needs in place is almost complete; now, he just needs to wait for Wei Wuxian and Lan Xichen to catch up.

Wei Wuxian is cagey. He wouldn’t tell Meng Yao who his contact in Nightless City is, which is, admittedly, the kind of move that Meng Yao can appreciate, even if it frustrates him. Wei Wuxian is also the unmitigated genius who came up with this private way of exchanging messages, but he wouldn’t explain how it works, so Meng Yao is once again forced to rely on him. The situation is unusual and thus... irritating.

At times, Meng Yao wonders if he’d be less frustrated if Wei Wuxian had showed any signs of being as charmed by him as other people usually are, apart from Madam Jin or his father.

Take those Jin Sect lackeys, for instance—they’d started off hating him for having unearthed their dirty deeds and keeping them in his grasp, but now, they look at him with something approaching dog-like loyalty. All he does is listen, nod, treat them kindly, and occasionally solve one or two of their problems. Might he have created some of those problems to begin with? That’s beside the point.

Wei Wuxian isn’t like that. He doesn’t owe Meng Yao anything and has the disturbing ability to actually ruin Meng Yao’s plans if he wants to. What’s even worse, he’s fully aware of that power, and he’s willing to exercise it if he needs to.

Meng Yao is convinced that everyone is controllable, provided one finds the right lever. He knows Wei Wuxian isn’t an exception to this, demonic powers or not, but finding the levers with him has proved more difficult than with anyone else. His (former) sect is obviously one, but Meng Yao can’t exactly reach it while the Wens have them under their shield, and besides, his family is not why Wei Wuxian raised an army of the dead to obliterate Qishan. The answer seems to be obvious, but Meng Yao doesn’t like it.

For one, he doesn’t really believe in the power of love—not to this extent. No one upends their entire life for the sake of one person if there’s not some other motivation involved. People are stupid, no doubt, but they are much more selfish.

(Meeting a white horse and its exhausted rider while he’d been on his way to Qishan does not contradict this in the slightest—meeting Lan Xichen had merely given him an opportunity to explore his deeper motivations, all entirely self-serving of course.)

Besides, Wei Wuxian doesn’t exactly act like a man in love. Wei Wuxian is staggeringly smart—in some areas—but he’s incomprehensively clueless in others, ones that don’t even require any particular intellectual prowess, and that makes him truly dangerous. He seems indisputably aware that he’s turning the world upside down for the single purpose of saving Lan Wangji, yet at the same time clearly has no idea why he’s so personally invested in Lan Wangji being saved in the first place.

The man seems to have no notion of his own motivations or emotions. Honestly, Meng Yao has a headache just thinking about it. He shudders to imagine what it’s like being in Wei Wuxian’s head.

In any case, Lan Wangji is even less within his grasp than the Jiang Clan, so Meng Yao is left with nothing to rely on where Wei Wuxian is concerned. An utterly dissatisfying imbalance.

He just hopes Wei Wuxian remembers which Lan brother he’s… utterly fixated on. A lot can happen on the road when two inordinately attractive people are forced to stay in close quarters. Lan Xichen is Lan Xichen, but he isn’t exactly in the most stable state of mind right now, and he’d left disappointed in Meng Yao, possibly angry.

Meng Yao… hates all of this, a lot.

He doesn’t know why he starts writing. Not the necessary update letters he exchanges with Wei Wuxian and even, at times, with Jiang Wanyin. The messages he sends to Lan Xichen are the very definition of non-essential.

In them, he bares his soul—or, as much of it as Meng Yao thinks he stands to bare.

He tells Lan Xichen minute details of his scheming; his appraisals of the people he meets; the dirty underside of the Jin Sect dealings, in which Meng Yao now has a hand; the exposition of his father’s most deplorable acts, and how Meng Yao thinks they can be used.

Meng Yao can’t explain even to himself why he’s doing it, but once he starts, he can’t stop. He knows what he must look like in those letters. Dirty. Dark. Twisted. Wrong. Nothing like the polite young man who’d once shared his table with Lan Xichen.

Lan Xichen must feel disgusted by what he sees, and Meng Yao takes strange, perverse pleasure in the thought—the hurting, stinging hot coals down his back. Every time he finishes another letter, he feels like he’s drowning in his own filth. But within a day, the sensation fades, and he craves it again, pines for it, until he writes the next one.

Lan Xichen never replies.

To be fair, Meng Yao tells him in every letter not to—that, he doesn’t think he could stand.

He embellishes, here and there—sometimes making things sound better, sometimes much worse. He doesn’t really know he’s doing it until it’s done and sent over, and his own words float back to him in perfect recall.

Sometimes, Meng Yao thinks he wouldn’t be able to tell the whole truth of any kind, even under torture. Not out of being unwilling—a simple lack of ability.

He wonders if Lan Xichen can tell. He asks himself if he wants him to, but that, too, is a lie. Meng Yao knows the answer, and that, more than anything Wei Wuxian can unleash, scares him to within an inch of his life.

Lan Xichen could have told him to stop, at least. He hasn’t. Perhaps he feels himself a hostage of Meng Yao’s continued assistance with their plans. Perhaps he has other reasons.

Perhaps he throws the letters out, unread.

The first time the thought occurs to Meng Yao, he wants to wail. Then, he ardently wishes for it, and for the sweet, intoxication of that dark, unspeakable humiliation it brings.

Still, however things may be, Lan Xichen doesn’t answer. He does occasionally chime in or take over for Wei Wuxian in his own missives that include actual updates on their progress. In those, he sounds calm, business-like, and impeccably polite. Meng Yao responds in kind, and it’s—fine. It’s fine.

They work, and wait, and do whatever they must to bring a war down on everyone’s heads.

When Meng Yao receives the signal that it’s time to act, it’s like coming back to life. He’s at his best when he has a project, and he feels particularly enlivened in knowing that the opening salvo on the board is in his hands. Let him show them what he’s capable of. All of them.

No one knows how influential he’s become within Koi Tower, as no young master of proper standing would even think of cultivating relationships on this level. Meng Yao knows every servant by name, from the ones cleaning the toilets to the ones at the hand of the Sect Leader. Not every sect has them in such numbers, but the Jins do, and Meng Yao would be a fool not to exploit such well-placed potential.

The woman, he selects carefully, having considered multiple options. A well-known courtesan Xiao Mei gracefully accepts the invitation for a tour of the Koi Tower flower gardens. That Jin Guangshan happens to be passing by at the same time takes almost no effort at all.

Meng Yao watches from afar. His father really is revolting, his mind so easily overpowered by lust that Meng Yao can feel nothing but disgust for him. Jin Guangshan is not a stupid man, but he’d wasted his intelligence by indulging his baser nature without restraint. There is no discipline to the man, no self-control, and at that moment, Meng Yao is almost grateful that his father had rejected him. Imagine having to feign respect for… this. Meng Yao has self-discipline of ten men, so he’d have managed, but it’s a relief knowing he doesn’t have to.

Xiao Mei doesn’t take to the attentions kindly. Jin Guangshan insists. She raises her voice. He laughs. She calls for her maid, and that’s when Meng Yao gives the signal.

Instead of the maid, Wen Puyi, the infamously ill-tempered captain of the Wen contingent currently residing in Lanling, steps in. Wen Ruohan technically has no business stationing his forces in Lanling, but he’d found a clever way around it. His men frequently are in need of rest while returning from far-flung patrols. Being as good an ally as Jin Guangshan is, surely he will not begrudge them his hospitality. Thus, there’s almost always some Wen presence nearby.

Wen Puyi had been waiting for a meeting with Jin Guangshan this morning, since he’d been told the sect leader would be in. An error in scheduling, no doubt, which had put the captain in an exceedingly foul mood.

Now, thanks to another error—the Koi Tower servants are just this incompetent—he’s been taken through this specific route on his way out, and his patience has finally snapped. This also means he’s here just in time to see his own lover—and really, their affair is known throughout all of Lanling—besieged by the very man who’d shown him such discourtesy this morning.

Xiao Mei screams, and weapons fly.

Meng Yao didn’t exactly count on Wen Puyi ending up dead, but he didn’t discount the possibility. Jin Guangshan might be a lecherous animal, but his cultivation level is still far enough above some Wen captain that it’s barely a fight. Had Jin Guangshan been smarter, he’d have stayed his own hand to avoid the catastrophe that follows, but he’s been caught off guard and reacts on instinct.

Meng Yao is very pleased about that.

His instructions, he’s glad to note, are followed to the letter. The hysterical Xiao Mei is whisked away, put in a palanquin, and sent off to Nightless City before Jin Guangshan has the chance to remember that he doesn’t need witnesses. Just in case she can’t get a hold on herself quickly enough to cry prettily at Wen Ruohan’s feet, Meng Yao sends a detailed report of the encounter with Wen Puyi’s enraged second to precede her—anonymously, of course, posing as a terrified servant.

Wen Ruohan responds with remarkable alacrity, which isn’t surprising, considering he’s been spoiling for a reason to stake a claim on Lanling this whole time. Ten days after the momentous garden viewing, Wen Xu arrives at the head of a not-insignificant Wen force, and Meng Yao nods in satisfaction.

A job well done indeed—and perfectly timed, too, as Wei Wuxian just then informs him that everything is ready on his end. It’s all up to Meng Yao now.

As he stands out there before the city walls, just another speck of would-be gold among the Jin forces, he allows himself a full minute of basking in the feeling that the fate of the entire world is in his hands.

Then, the minute is up, and Meng Yao accidentally leans into a very young and very nervous archer. Amid his profuse apologies, he watches as a single arrow destroys any chance of peace between the two great sects.

Meng Yao has never been in an outright battle before.

He’s barely been in a fight, his strengths so firmly lying elsewhere, and to his surprise, he realizes that he’s not actually scared. Perhaps it will get to him later, when things are less hectic and his pulse isn’t quite so loud in his ears, but at the moment, it doesn’t affect him. He ducks the enemy swords and releases Hensheng from where it’s usually concealed wrapped around his waist.

Meng Yao may not be the greatest swordsman of his time, but his goal is survival, if not a little extra. Small and not-brimming-with-power as he is, he had long ago figured out that, in a fight, he’d be better off as fast and deadly, not particularly concerned with fair strikes. No one will care enough about him to not use his disadvantage.

Meng Yao fights for his life, but he’s still able to keep track of what’s happening in the field around him. He expects the Jins to retreat behind the relative safety of the city walls, as they stand very little chance out here in the open. He holds an ear out for the order to retreat, but it doesn’t come when it ought to. Meng Yao frowns, cuts his current opponent’s throat from below before the man even spots him, and jumps over an upturned cart to see.

Jin Guangshan, naturally, isn’t here. He’d sent out his only legitimate son and heir, Jin Zixuan, instead, both because he was supposed to ‘talk peace’ with Wen Xu and because it wouldn’t do to expose the sect leader, should something go wrong. Meng Yao had correctly predicted the scenario up to that point, but what he hadn’t seen in his calculations was Jin Zixuan dueling with Wen Xu in the middle of the field.

There’s… an odd flutter in Meng Yao’s chest as he watches his half-brother fight. Jin Zixuan is one of the few people who actually belonged to the sect, as opposed to working for it, who hadn’t been horrible to him. He had been cool but courteous toward Meng Yao, even steering his mother away once, though that was probably not for Meng Yao’s sake.

Still, Meng Yao thinks they could have worked together. Probably. Maybe. If—

Jin Zixuan is a skilled swordsman, definitely, and Meng Yao feels a surge of jealousy watching him fight, resplendent in gold. Jin Zixuan had the privilege of the best teachers and tutors practically from the cradle, the best weapons, the best—everything. Of course he’d be skilled, and elegant. It’s a stark contrast to Wen Xu, who’s all battle rage—sharp, swift, deadly—but still, it’s a fairly even match. The Jins are beginning to cheer, to push the Wens further back, inspired by the sight. All until—

Jin Zixuan never sees the arrow that hits him in the back. With him and Wen Xu spinning between the two fighting forces, it’s impossible to say where it came from, and the half-turn it catches him in is just enough that the inertia finishes for him—it’s as though fate itself had choreographed it so that he’d be facing his own people. His eyes go wide with shock as he’s unable to halt his sudden momentum and falls forward, straight on Wen Xu’s sword.

For a long, breathless moment, the entire battle seems to halt as everyone watches. Jin Zixuan’s chest is pierced straight through, and Wen Xu twists the blade upward at the last moment, skewering the still-breathing body like a ham-handed butcher.

The sound Jin Zixuan makes is not very loud, but it’s heard over the entire field as the light goes out from his eyes and blood pours from his mouth. Wen Xu pushes him off his blade, and he—his body slumps to the ground in a heap.

Meng Yao watches it all with a strange sort of detachment. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, but apart from that, he’s entirely divorced from any physical sensation or emotion. It’s odd, this moment—he almost feels like he’s watching himself from somewhere up high, observing his own actions.

He can only watch—for once, not analyze—and later, he’ll know that this was an opportunity that he’d recognized and seized even at the risk to his own life. But that’s later, and now, he’s simply watching himself grip his sword hard and jump forward. On and on, he runs and leaps, until he’s snarling in Wen Xu’s surprised face—in the moment, he seems to find Meng Yao amusing.

But the moment is all that’s needed. Meng Yao lifts his sword high and calls:

“Avenge the young master! Death for my brother!”

He’s filled with the emotion to such an extent, he believes it—has to, or he has no chance, with everything hanging in the balance, and if he believes it fully even for a moment, is that not true? The newly-spirited Jin forces wash around him, throwing themselves at the Wens with renewed ferocity, pressing them back.

Meng Yao, breathing hard and still caught in the act of it all—or the truth of it, even he can’t tell any longer—picks up Jin Zixuan’s body and carries it back into the gates, staggering under the weight, blood seeping into his own robes.

People part for him, the battle raging behind him, and Meng Yao’s calculating who can be counted on to give the order to retreat, names flashing before him, as he deliberately doesn’t stop his tears. He’s a mess by the time he deposits his half-brother’s body at Madam Jin’s feet.

Her sharp wails pierce his ears, echoing as he falls—she's kicked him down the stairs.

He doesn’t try to resist.

Today is the best day of his life.

Nie Huaisang has never been brave.

There’s never been a day in his life when he wasn’t mortally afraid of something—frequently, multiple somethings. Right at the start, he’d given his poor mother forty hours of pain and grief birthing him, terrified at the idea of facing the world. Not much has changed since.

When Wei Wuxian finally contacts him, after months and months of waiting, Nie Huaisang nearly screams himself to death before stuffing his pillow in his mouth. The message arrives in the shape of a huge, black, ominous-looking spider, and when Nie Huaisang realizes he’ll have to touch it to hear the words, he nearly faints.

The instructions are simple, but the task, of course, isn’t easy.

Nie Huaisang doesn’t exactly have the run of the place. This whole time, he’s been moving unobtrusively, hoping to never draw attention, but he knows he’s not really trusted—how could he be? His perceived uselessness in all matters outside of attention to number-related details is his best shield. He’s tolerated, occasionally though not mortally bullied, and overall overlooked—but not entirely. Not by all.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t want much, really. It’s only a small matter of Nie Huaisang sabotaging the entire watchtower system that’s keeping the whole cultivation world on the Wen’s leash. Barely a trifle.

Every time he thinks of it—and when is he not, how hasn’t it threaded its way through every one of his thought patterns since he received the order from its multi-legged messenger—he expects his own implosion.

This much, Nie Huaisang has figured out:

The towers are all coordinated from the central point in Nightless City, controlled through a powerful binding spell. It needs Wen blood to run and to be renewed daily.

Wen Ruohan used to have some lesser relatives attend the task, but after Wen Chao’s disastrous expedition to Yiling had resulted in the loss of one of Wen Ruohan’s most important assets, Wen Zhuliu, the duty had fallen solely on Wen Chao. The younger Wen heir had sulked, but Wen Ruohan had growled something along the lines of Wen Chao not being good for anything else and that he’d better be grateful for his blood being worth something.

Wen Chao had not dared complain after that, that’s not to say he was happy with the arrangement. Angry, humiliated, and bored, he’d taken it out on the first convenient target—his prisoner.

Wen Ruohan had never cared about Lan Wangji beyond keeping him alive to serve as bait. That was the only restraint he’d put on his youngest son—don’t kill him. Sect Leader Wen had much preferred different amusem*nts, such as watching Nie Mingjue being slowly worked over by torturers while reminiscing with him about his father, which was its own kind of torment.

Nie Mingjue still wouldn’t talk to his brother during their monthly visit, but Nie Huaisang had slowly started to suspect that his brother no longer kept his silence to punish him. Nie Mingjue’s eyes seemed vacant, the perpetual anger in them akin to volcanic fire. Nie Huaisang sometimes heard his brother’s screams in his sleep, and woke up terrified and shaky.

Wen Chao is banned from the Fire Palace as unworthy of such a treat, and so has to resort to something more... traditional.

After Yiling, he strikes Lan Wangji with the discipline whip for the first time. Apparently, he used to use it on dogs when he got particularly angry, so he has a practiced hand. He deals thirteen strikes before he’s forcibly stopped by a woman Nie Huaisang has come to fear almost as much as Wen Ruohan.

Wen Qing is Wen Ruohan’s niece—a daughter of his cousin, at any rate, from a different branch of the Wen Clan. Their reputation lies in healing, but there is nothing kind or nourishing about Wen Qing’s manner. She’s cold and harsh, only seeming to care about her sickly younger brother.

Nie Huaisang knows desperation when he sees it. He also knows there’s nothing as unpredictable, or as dangerous. Indeed, he’s right to be scared.

Wen Qing doesn’t stop Wen Chao out of the goodness of her heart.

“His Excellency made his life my responsibility!” she snaps, snatching the whip out of Wen Chao’s hand easily. “You’ve done enough damage to kill a man!”

“Exactly!” Wen Chao retorts. “He’s a cultivator; he can take it!”

“His core is sealed, you idiot!” Wen Qing hisses. “What do you think your father will do to you if he dies? If he discovers you couldn’t follow one simple order?”

Wen Chao swears long and hard, but eventually, he sweeps out of the courtyard.

From his hiding place, Nie Huaisang watches as Wen Qing orders her assistants to load Lan Wangji on a stretcher. She turns her head sharply, nearly catching him—Nie Huaisang jerks back, heart in his throat.

Wen Qing must have a remarkable gift; it explains why Wen Ruohan indulges her, in as much as he indulges anyone. Under her care, Lan Wangji is healed within a month to scarred-over wounds, his life no longer in danger.

At that point, Wen Chao whips him again.

“Ten strikes,” he tells Wen Qing mockingly. “You just proved that he can handle that much. Oops, my hand slipped—oh well, you can treat that, too, can’t you, my oh-so-talented cousin? Now go, put him back together”—He grins—“so I can do it again.”

This time, Lan Wangji is under longer.

Nie Huaisang remembers Wei Wuxian’s words about not drawing attention to himself, but he can’t help it. He’s spent months in this hell, and he’s all alone. He wants to—to make sure Lan Wangji is not like Da-ge yet, he supposes. To have some kind of reassurance… some hope.

He sneaks into the healers’ quarters late one night. The lights are low and the scent of medicinal herbs is thick in the air, to the point where Nie Huaisang has to cover his face with his sleeve.

He finds Lan Wangji sequestered behind a curtain, laid out on his stomach. His ruined back is covered with tincture-soaked bandages, blood still surfacing every few centimeters. The sight is nauseating, the scent of herbs nearly overwhelming. Nie Huaisang has to take a step back and breathe slowly through the fabric, fighting the urge to run or cry as he waits out his madly-beating heart.

To calm down, he focuses instead on minute details—how Lan Wangji’s hair is braided and pinned up to keep it out of the way, and the braiding is nice and neat, almost… caring. Nie Huaisang blinks, looking at it, his dizziness receding.

“Wangji-xiong,” he murmurs, crouching down and trying to see Lan Wangji’s face.

It’s a relief to see it remaining its usual pale jade. Nie Huaisang sighs a little. It’s an unworthy thought, but he can’t help it. Lan Wangji will never again be called second on any list of the most handsome young masters, but somehow, he still is, even with all of... this.

“Wangji-xiong,” he whispers again. “It’s Nie Huaisang, Wangji-xiong. Can you hear me?”

Not even his lashes flutter. This close, Nie Huaisang can discern a specific note in the overwhelming herbal scents—poppy juice. Ah. No point trying to get an answer, then.

With sudden regret, he turns to go—and comes face-to-face with a startled, ghostly pale young man.

Both gasp, then stare at one another, Nie Huaisang racking his brain frantically. This must be Wen Qionglin, Wen Qing’s brother, known to be so sick he barely leaves the healers’ wing. He is clearly as scared by this encounter as Nie Huaisang is.

“I—” Nie Huaisang starts, trying to think fast. He ends up speaking quietly, urgently. “Please don’t shout! I—I don’t know how I ended up here, I really don’t know! I must have taken a wrong turn!”

Wen Qionglin blinks at him, his huge doe eyes turning less alarmed, but as he opens his mouth to say something, the curtain is pulled aside sharply by Wen Qing.

“You!” She glares at Nie Huaisang. “What are you doing here? No one can see the prisoner—or do you want to take his place? I will call the guards right now—”

Nie Huaisang drops to his knees. “Please, don’t! I didn’t do anything! I didn’t even say anything! I only wanted to see if he was still alive; he used to be my friend…”

Not true—Lan Wangji and he were never like that. Their elder brothers both wanted them to be, each driven by his own reasons. Lan Xichen desperately wanted his little brother to make friends, while Nie Mingjue hoped Lan Wangji’s discipline and diligence would rub off on Nie Huaisang somehow.

But it wasn’t meant to be. Even at eight years old, Lan Wangji’s talents were intimidating, his strict adherence to the rules off-putting, his unwillingness to communicate in words felt like a snub, but most of all…

Nie Huaisang resented him for how all-around perfect he seemed to be, and especially for how much his elder brother seemed to dote on him, while eight out of every ten words Nie Mingjue said to him were criticisms and scolding. Lan Xichen was kind to Nie Huaisang, always, frequently defending him to Nie Mingjue. But his eyes didn’t light up on him the same way they did when Lan Wangji appeared—not even close. For Nie Huaisang, feeling like he had no one in his corner, it was all a bit—much.

Once, just once, he’d been openly unkind to Lan Wangji. After another forced joint practice where Lan Wangji had flown through his sword forms like he’d been born with the knowledge and Nie Huaisang had dropped his training saber seven times in a row, once painfully on his own foot, Lan Wangji had just looked at him—like he expected him to pick it up, to go through the whole humiliating ordeal again.

And Nie Huaisang had burst into tears, a humiliation in and of itself; had yelled something about how no one would want to be friends with Lan Wangji in his life, because he was untenable, not to be borne, and no one would want to befriend a heartless rock!

He’d spent the day terrified that Lan Wangji would complain to either of their brothers, but Lan Wangji never did. He’d only looked at Nie Huaisang with those unnerving eyes, and then he’d stopped even looking. He’d acted like they were little more than strangers every time he’d seen Nie Huaisang since. For his part, Nie Huaisang, childish as it was, had never been able to overcome his own resentment.

They never did become friends, and Nie Huaisang is so grateful for that right now. He doesn’t think he could have handled seeing Lan Wangji like this if he’d cared about him. It would have been same as with Da-ge.

Wen Qing continues yelling at him.

“You live in a place like this and dare speak of friends?! This man is a prisoner—an enemy—to every loyal Wen! And you dare say such words! I only treat him because Master ordered him to be kept alive! Don’t you dare imply—”

“I’m not! I’m not! I misspoke, my lady! Please don’t tell anyone! I’ll leave!”

Wen Qing’s eyes flash. “Then go, before I change my mind! Never come here again and never come near A-Ning! If you put him in danger, I will tear your head off with my own hands!”

Nie Huaisang retreats as swiftly as he can, mentally burning incense to his ancestors for letting him get off so easily.

But Wen Qionglin finds him two days later and murmurs, “Young Master Lan woke up today. I’ve told him that… a friend came to see him.”

He slips away before Nie Huaisang can respond. It’s probably for the best.

Nie Huaisang has a dilemma.

He admits that Wei Wuxian’s instructions aren’t complicated on their face—get to the central watchtower and change a few lines in the array. Nie Huaisang’s calligraphy is superb, so he will have no difficulty forging anyone’s hand.

The problem is getting access to the tower.

It has to be right before midday, when Wen Chao goes up there to prick a finger and bleed on the array. Nie Huaisang had long since found the location of the hidden door, but the seal on it only weakens at that specific time, and that’s when Wen Chao comes. He needs to be delayed.

This is why, last night, Nie Huaisang had snuck into the healers’ quarters again. He had no doubt Wen Qing would rat him out if she caught him, but he had no choice. Wei Wuxian’s message was very specific on the date; Nie Huaisang couldn’t afford to wait and find a better plan.

Lan Wangji had been awake, but Nie Huaisang has no idea if he’d heard anything Nie Huaisang had said. Perhaps he hadn’t, or he’d heard but not understood. Perhaps he had understood but had neither the intention nor the ability to do what was needed. He had never reacted in any way to Nie Huaisang’s words or presence. There’s simply no way to tell.

It’s beyond frustrating—Lan Wangji would be a perfect distraction. Just because his back is still healing after the last whipping doesn’t mean Wen Chao leaves him alone; it’s a near-daily amusem*nt for him, to have Lan Wangji dragged into the courtyard and hurl insults at him, trying to get a reaction. Wen Qing had firmly forbidden any stronger ‘stimuli’ until Lan Wangji had healed sufficiently.

‘Infection kills, Wen Chao,’ she’d said scathingly, glaring at her cousin after he’d ordered Lan Wangji brought to him a week after the second whipping. ‘If you so much as think about doing anything like what that animal did at the feast, he’ll die—do you understand me? Yes, it will be horrible, but that’ll be the last thing you’ll enjoy before your father puts you in his place. Do you understand?’

Wen Chao had called her a great many bad things but had been forced to obey. He’d redirected those words—and minor injuries—to Lan Wangji, though Wen Qing had been livid about his use of the branding iron.

Lan Wangji never responds.

Today, Nie Huaisang, hidden behind a column, watches and frets. The sun is crawling toward midday, so there’s not much time left, and Lan Wangji is still the embodiment of jade. Had he heard Nie Huaisang at all? Did he understand? Will he do it? Can he?

Nie Huaisang is beginning to lose hope, sweating through his robes and nearly crying. He doesn’t know what to do if Lan Wangji doesn’t do his part. It has to be today—it has to be today! He’d mentioned Wei Wuxian last night; should he not have? Was that what had ruined any possible chance? Those two have always been so weird about each other; Nie Huaisang could never make either rhyme or reason of their behavior. Could it be that—

Across the courtyard, Lan Wangji suddenly lifts his chin and looks straight up at Wen Chao, who goes speechless, interrupted in his recitation of exactly what his father will do with Lan Wangji’s brother when he’s finally caught.

Lan Wangji stares at him with such contempt that Wen Chao takes an involuntary step back, gaping, and even Nie Huaisang shivers, all that distance away.

“You are not qualified to speak to me,” Lan Wangji declares, as clearly as if he'd never stopped talking, like it’s no big deal.

Then, he goes back to being stone.

It takes a few moments for Wen Chao to get over the shock of his prisoner suddenly speaking after months of the silent treatment and to actually have the meaning of the words sink in. When it does, his yell can probably be heard all the way out in Lanling where his brother is currently fighting. Nie Huaisang can hear it on his way to the hidden toward door, running through the thankfully-empty corridors.

The seal is weakened, yes, but it still licks over him like dragon’s breath, singing his skin and hair. He falls through the doorway, dizzy from the pain, and immediately picks himself up, unsteadily climbing the steps. A wave of nausea rises in his throat and he shoves it down. He can’t panic; he can’t be sick! He doesn’t have time when everything is hanging on him! Wei Wuxian’s entire plan, whatever it is, Da-ge’s life, the whole world probably—

He trips and crashes painfully into the hard ridge of a stone step, nearly breaking his knees.

He can’t think about that; it’s too much! He’s not a hero! He’d known the difference between himself and a real hero since he was eight. He never had any delusions and he never wanted the responsibility! He can’t handle it! He can’t!

A cold voice he doesn’t really recognize, as it sounds like Da-ge’s, but not quite, rises in his mind as he pushes on, panting.

Too bad. There’s no one else here; do what you came here to do. You’re not a hero, but a hero can’t do this. Lan Wangji can’t do this. Wei Wuxian is more powerful than a demon lord, but he can’t do this. You’re the only one here—only you can. If you fall to pieces, you will die. Everyone will die. So get over yourself, get up, and go do it. You can be weak later.

Nie Huaisang lets out a growl he hadn’t known he had in him and throws himself up the steps.

He trips as he bursts through the door, skidding on his knees to the very edge of the array, but this time, he pays no heed to the pain. Hands shaking, he rapidly unfolds the message Wei Wuxian had sent him, and his eye, trained for detail, immediately grasps the difference between the two designs. A distant part of him notes how Wei Wuxian really is an unmitigated genius to have figured out, with what little information he must have had, not only the exact configuration of the array, but also the means to unobtrusively sabotage it by changing just two lines.

Nie Huaisang rolls his sleeves up and goes to work.

This is the part he knows, this is the part he’d never had to doubt. His hand is steady with a brush as it never has been with a saber, his control as perfect as Lan Wangji’s with his sword. Nie Huaisang can do this. He can probably do this better than anyone else.

It’s over and done quickly, and he steps back, strangely calm all of a sudden as he observes the lines of the array still glowing in red. The glow is fading, but it likely always does at the end of the cycle, and if it’s lower than usual, Wen Chao will just think it’s due to his delay. He won’t report it to his father for fear of punishment, and Wen Chao himself will never notice anything is wrong, considering how much he thinks this task is beneath him.

Nie Huaisang actually smiles in a way he hasn’t in a very long time, but just then, some distant noise alerts him, and he yelps in fear. He has to get out of here!

Making sure he hasn’t left a brush or the cloth he’d used to erase the lines, he all but falls down the stairs, no doubt acquiring numerous new bruises. He hardly notices—his heart is beating wildly again, sweat dripping into his eyes. He has to get out of here—he has to!

He can barely force himself to open the door slowly, in case someone’s coming, but the corridor is clear. He steps out, and that’s when he hears it—Wen Chao’s swearing as he comes closer, maybe one turn left.

There’s nowhere to run before Wen Chao spots him, but there’s a decorative niche a few steps down from the door. Nie Huaisang dives into it, squeezing himself between a stone vase and the wall. It’s a tight fit; he can barely breathe. Lan Wangji couldn’t have hoped to fit in here.

Wen Chao bangs the door open with no thought for discretion. At that moment, scared as he is, Nie Huaisang can’t help the entirely hysterical thought that, in a way, Wen Chao’s incompetence and foul temper will be directly responsible for his father’s downfall. If Wen Chao hadn’t made such a spectacle of Lan Wangji at that feast; if Wen Chao hadn’t lost Wen Zhuliu; if Wen Chao had been even a little bit more competent—well.

Nie Huaisang stuffs his sleeve into his mouth, vision darkening as he’s torn apart by sheer horror and insane laughter. For a few moments he’s in danger of blacking out. Perhaps Da-ge is not the only mentally unstable one; maybe Nie Huaisang is even more far gone.

Extricating himself from his hiding spot without losing any limbs will likely take more time than he has before Wen Chao comes back, so Nie Huaisang stays put. He’s almost drifting on the mixture of fear and relief. It’s... bewildering.

Wen Chao doesn’t take long. He’s in the same foul mood as he comes back down, and the time he’d taken is telling in itself. He’s noticed nothing.

Nie Huaisang sags, as much as it’s possible, against the wall, listening to his footsteps fading in the distance. He did it. He can’t quite believe it himself, but he did it. He’d done what Wei Wuxian had asked him to do.

The spell must be working; the Wens just don’t know it yet. The moment any tower in the net is activated, they’ll all go down—so Wei Wuxian says. Nie Huaisang can’t even care about that now. He’s done his part. He did it.

After a great deal of awkward maneuvering, some torn clothes and scraped skin, he manages to free himself from his hiding spot. He walks the corridors in his usual hunched stance. The Wen guards he meets pay him no mind.

As he passes by the courtyard, he freezes.

It’s empty now; neither Wen Chao’s cronies nor Lan Wangji are here anymore. Nie Huaisang stares at the pole where Lan Wangji had been restrained, where he is so frequently.

There’s a pool of fresh blood around it, so much that it still hasn’t dried. It’s glinting in the sun, red as Wen robes.

Nie Huaisang leans over the parapet and is violently sick over the frozen lava.

Chapter 10 Notes:

The moment has come. Thank you all so SO MUCH for not losing faith. ♥

Chapter Text

Lan Xichen sinks to his knees, shaking. Wei Wuxian grips his arms, trying to keep him upright despite his hands slipping on the blood coating his back.

“Scream!” Wei Wuxian yells in Lan Xichen’s face. “Scream, for f*ck’s sake, you know he can’t!”

Lan Xichen’s mouth falls open as though shouting, but not a sound comes out.

Lans.

Wei Wuxian shakes him in frustration. “Is he alive?! Damn you, answer me! IS HE ALIVE?!”

At long last, Lan Xichen nods, breathing hard, eyes still unfocused.

“Uncle… Uncle is with him. Helping. There’s… there’s some kind of healer…” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “It’s gone. He must have lost consciousness.”

Wei Wuxian lets go of him sharply, pulling back, the darkness already swirling around him and calling for blood, for destruction, for an end to it all—a violent, explosive end, he doesn’t care about anything anymore, he will kill everyone, EVERYONE, starting with these pesky minor clans—

“Wei Wuxian.” A voice colder than Gusu springs cuts through the black haze. “Stop. Stop right now. Get a hold of yourself, of whatever this is, or—”

“WHAT?” Wei Wuxian laughs, or perhaps the darkness laughs through him. “WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY THREATEN ME WITH?”

Lan Xichen is standing again, back straight, robes soaked through—the blood-red of the Wen.

“My life,” he says, voice clear, eyes oddly light-colored in the dark.

And just like that, the darkness skulks away, falling apart with a petulant wail as wisps of it dissipate in the air. Wei Wuxian sways on his feet, and he’s suddenly seven again—cold, hungry, terribly small, and begging:

“Please, don’t. Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll be so good. Please. Please.”

Lan Xichen sways, too, and they go down together, slumping awkwardly on the ground as they lean against one another.

An eon later, Lan Xichen says, “It starts now. If this didn’t—”

The ground beneath them suddenly shakes once, a dull, heavy thud. They look at each other.

“It did.” Wei Wuxian is on his feet. “That would be the tower closest to us going down. Let’s go.”

The Wen watchtower at Lotus Pier explodes like a new year’s celebration, like a dozen signal flares going off at once, promising to summon a storm. Watching from the training field, Jiang Cheng smirks.

Finally.

“All right! This is the moment we’ve been waiting for,” he says, pitching his voice to carry. “Those who want to stay home, remain here; the rest of you, with me.”

There are about six dozen disciples on the field with him, and none stay behind.

They pour out of the gates and make quick work of the Wen soldiers who’d been guarding the tower and observing the Jiang compliance. They hadn’t expected an attack; they hadn’t expected anything. Jiang Cheng has never been in battle before, but he finds it honestly too easy to slice through bodies. The Jiangs have been quiescent for too long, and Wen Ruohan had trusted the towers. Everything in him is screaming for more, but alas, it will have to wait until they reach the borders.

More Jiang disciples and soldiers are pouring out of the small hidden canals surrounding Lotus Pier. The boats they’re steering are meant to hold men in significant numbers, and the loading begins at barely a nod from Jiang Cheng—fast, determined, efficient. They’ve practiced and trained while managing to stay hidden—so many would-be night hunts, so many absences when the sect heir had apparently gone on a binge. They’re reaping the rewards now—the hated tower is down and there are more Wens to fight. The wait is over.

By the time the loading is almost over, Jiang Fengmian comes out of the gates. He looks at the activity on the dock with a troubled expression. Jiang Cheng’s heart clenches unpleasantly in his chest. He wishes his father wouldn’t…

“Stop,” Jiang Fengmian says. “What are all of you doing?”

The disciples, still standing on the pier awaiting their turn, glance at him awkwardly, and then avert their eyes, as if they can’t hear him. The loading goes on.

“Did you not hear me?” Jiang Fengmian steps closer. “Are you disobeying my orders? I said stop.”

Yu Ziyuan appears out of the gates, accompanied by the ever-present Jinzhu and Yinzhu. Zidian uncoils from her wrist, and the charged whip hits the wood of the pier hard, sending off sparks.

“Have you people gone deaf?” she demands. “Answer your sect leader!”

The disciples give her wary looks, and some tremble, but the loading proceeds.

“What happened to the tower?” Yu Ziyuan demands. “Do you even know what danger you’ve put us in?”

She lifts the whip again, but just as it uncoils, Jiang Cheng steps in its way. He lifts his arm and catches it, curling it around his forearm, ignoring the pain as electricity shocks his skin.

“Mother, enough.”

“A-Cheng,” Yu Ziyuan hisses, staring at him. Even his father’s eyes finally take notice of him. “What are you doing? Silly boy, do you even realize—!”

“So this is your doing,” Jiang Fengmian interjects.

He’s frowning. He’d been frowning for as long as the tower had been here; for as long as Wei Wuxian hadn’t. Now, the tower is gone, and Jiang Fengmian is frowning still.

“Yes, Father,” Jiang Cheng says evenly. “This is part of a joint campaign against Wen Ruohan’s rule. I have committed Yunmeng forces. We are going.”

“That was not your decision to make!” his mother snaps, but Jiang Fengmian lifts his hand to stop her.

“They can wait in the boats,” Jiang Fengmian says. “You are going to come back in and explain. I understand your dream of being a hero, and that you’ve always felt A-Xian outshined you, but these are serious matters.” His eyes narrow as he considers the spectacle before him. “You’re risking thousands of lives. Already, by destroying the tower, you’ve endangered all our people, not to mention that you’ve been lying to us for months. That is not the kind of conduct I’ve come to expect of you, and this is not a decision to be made by someone your age.” He exhales. “What’s done is done. Come inside and we’ll discuss what to do now.”

The tightness in Jiang Cheng’s chest grows hotter as he listens. His father has always been a man who saw the world as he wanted it to be, not as it actually was. Nothing has changed – he's so drastically out of touch, and he doesn’t even know it.

Lying for months? Jiang Cheng wishes. The truth is, his parents had cared so little that he’d barely had to lie. Jiang Fengmian had holed up in his study for days on end and barely emerged to share a meal with the rest of his family; he hadn’t even noticed when fewer people began approaching him with sect matters. Meanwhile, Yu Ziyuan had been trying to act as if nothing had changed, as if life should just carry on as normal, as if she couldn’t hear the fights between the servants and disciples or feel the hatred in the looks aimed her way.

It doesn’t take much to deceive people who so desperately cling to their imaginary worlds. In a way, it’s almost insulting—definitely painful—how easy it had been.

Jiang Cheng meets his father’s expectant gaze and bows to him, his will solidifying even as his heart aches.

“I will not be coming inside, Father. There is nothing to discuss. Everything has been decided, and there’s no time to waste. If you don’t understand what’s happening now, I really don’t have time to explain it. Please, don’t try to stop us—no one will listen to you, and you will only lose face.” He rises, body trembling, and finds it difficult to meet his parents’ eyes – whether out of embarrassment for them or incredulity at his own actions, he can’t say. “I must go.”

He turns to leave, but Yu Ziyuan steps forward, eyes flashing.

“How dare you speak to your father like that?! This is treason, A-Cheng. Do you understand this?”

“No,” Jiang Fengmian interrupts before Jiang Cheng can reply. “This isn’t treason. This is our son thinking he can lead the sect better than me.” He has no trouble continuing to bore his gaze straight into Jiang Cheng’s. “Isn’t that right, A-Cheng?”

Jiang Cheng wonders, fleetingly, if that’s true anger in his father’s voice, though ultimately, it doesn’t matter. Jiang Cheng is angry, too. He’s been angry for far longer than the Wen tower had been here.

“So what if I do?” he snaps. He’s never allowed himself to speak to his father in such a tone. He feels dizzy. “Your leadership has made us traitors to the entire cultivation world, to all of our principles—everything we believed in! Even if I get every single one of our people killed fighting for what we believe is right, I will not be a worse leader than you are!” Once he starts he finds it difficult to stop.

“You have no faith in me; you never did. Even now you think it’s all about A-Xian for me—it isn’t! This has nothing to do with him—not the way you think! This isn’t about my desire to go down in a blaze of glory! I thought of the consequences—we all had!” He gestures toward the boats, his arm audibly snapping with the force. “Every single person here is a volunteer. Their families have been taken care of. We’ve been preparing for this for months under the Wens’ noses—this is not a whim! You don’t trust me, don’t think me capable, and that’s fine, I don’t need you to!” He inhales, straightening to his full height. “But you’re not going to delay us to discuss things! I fully admit I am being unfilial, and when this is over—if I live—you can do with me what you will, I will accept any punishment. But until then, don’t try to stop us, Father. You won’t succeed.”

He’s breathing hard, and his heart is beating wildly—a great deal faster than when he’d killed his first Wen not an hour ago.

Yu Ziyuan opens her mouth to speak, as Jiang Fengmian seems to have turned into a statue, but at that moment, the gates open again, and Jiang Yanli steps out. She’s dressed in a way that will serve her well on a long and arduous journey, and she’s carrying a thick bag on her shoulder that smells strongly of herbs.

Yu Ziyuan’s expression falls. “Oh, A-Li, not you, too…”

Jiang Yanli bows courteously. “Father. Mother. I will be joining A-Cheng on his march.”

Behind her, a group of similarly-outfitted young women trickle out of the gates. They throw furtive glances at the sect leader and his wife, bow quickly, and rush to the pier, where a separate boat has been kept empty for them.

Jiang Yanli observes this calmly and turns to her parents. “Our men will need someone to take care of them and their wounds,” she continues, her voice as sweet and calm as ever. “Forgive us for giving you no notice. I will take my punishment alongside A-Cheng when we return.”

With this, she bows again, touches Jiang Cheng’s wrist briefly, and follows her maids to the boat.

No one says anything. With the appearance of her daughter, the fight seems to have gone out of Yu Ziyuan, and Jiang Fengmian looks as he’s aged fifty years in the last hour.

Jiang Cheng looks between them, then bows.

“Father. Mother.”

He only takes a few steps away when he hears his mother’s voice again and a telltale hiss of a whip being unleashed.

“Jiang Wanyin! How dare you!”

Jiang Cheng spins on his heel before he knows it, reflexively throwing his arm up again. Zidian latches onto his forearm, coiling and burning, and then—

It slips off Yu Ziyuan’s wrist and settles around his own.

Jiang Cheng stares.

So does every disciple and soldier already in the boats. Stunned whispers float over the water.

“Zidian only accepts one master…”

“Only one truly worthy can command it…”

“It abandoned Madam Yu. Did you see? It—”

“It recognized the young master!”

Jiang Cheng meets his mother’s eyes.

They both know the truth. Zidian does only recognize one master, but it can never abandon him or her at will—only by order. Yu Ziyuan holds her son’s gaze and nods slightly, keeping an outraged expression on her face.

Jiang Cheng bows low to hide his tears. When he looks up, his eyes are dry.

“Take off and make haste,” he orders the boats. Zidian sizzles at his wrist. “They’ll be sending someone to intercept us soon enough. No dawdling, no lingering, and the best possible speed!”

Among a chorus of rowdy acknowledgements, he steps onto the boat without looking back. After a while, he feels someone take his hand and squeeze lightly.

“This is the right thing to do, A-Cheng,” Jiang Yanli murmurs, gaze set out ahead. “You did the right thing.”

He huffs but doesn’t say anything. They’ll find out soon enough.

Qishan is fire.

Qishan was fire.

Then—Wei Wuxian.

He comes like the night, like the ocean—bone-chillingly deep, vast, black. He’s hungry, and growling, teeth gnawing at flesh. He rides the wave that’s extinguishing life, dousing flames with pale green and black.

He’s lost track of days, but it can’t have been that many.

Somewhere, Meng Yao is still in control of his plan, still moving pieces on the board. Somewhere else, Jiang Cheng is pressing his advantage, clearing Yunmeng of all remaining Wen troops and pushing forward to unite with the surviving Jin. He’s fighting, elbow-deep in blood, tireless and ferocious, and only quiets when his sister comes to tend to his wounds and sit with him. She’s exhausted from her own work, but never once voices it.

Somewhere else again, Lan Xichen is commanding an army—a patchwork quilt of cultivators and soldiers who normally agree on nothing but who all listen to him, an ever-revolving carousel of stars and fear in their eyes. He’d told Wei Wuxian he’d never envisioned himself in such a place, that he’d never felt the call for it. His childhood friend Nie Mingjue was the born general. Lan Xichen felt incongruous being the cause of and at the heart of such carnage.

Wei Wuxian had said, ‘You can because you have to.’ Lan Xichen hadn’t argued. It was what it was. Wei Wuxian has a feeling that Lan Xichen will be the one to reach them first, driven by the same goal, disregarding anything to stand in his way, most of all himself.

Nightless City is not exactly left defenseless, but Wen Ruohan is currently forced to fight on three fronts, and he isn’t expecting someone else—someone truly unstoppable—to show up on his doorstep. The defenders of the gates are easily overrun—you can’t do much against opponents who don’t feel pain or fear, and while they can be neutralized, they come in overwhelming numbers. What’s more, sacrifices on your side mean more fuel for your opponents—every person you lose turns on you in an instant following the call of a demonic flute.

There are probably some civilians in Nightless City, but Wei Wuxian doesn’t—can’t care. Feeding the darkness has made it stronger, and she’s been gorging on death, poisoning him over and over with resentment. He clings to his soul by his fingernails, and there are moments when her hunger is all he knows, all he is. He plays his flute with his ghost hand, the one that can’t hold a sword and never will again.

He only looks at the bodies when he needs to raise them.

The Sun Palace greets him with unmistakable signs of carnage, corridors and passageways empty save for the bodies with distant noises of inhuman growling and swords clanging, the air filled with ash.

Wei Wuxian needs to find a man.

Three specific men, to be exact, but he has priorities, even if they aren’t realistic. That’s all right; he doesn’t think he wants Lan Wangji to see him like this anyway, barely himself for how blood- and death-soaked he is. Lan Zhan would be better off waiting for his brother to free him, with his gentle touch and soothing voice. Wei Wuxian is saturated with destruction now, though he can’t bring himself to regret it.

He finds his first target quickly enough, having sent out the most aware of his fierce corpses to drag him out of whatever hole he’d tried to crawl into. Wen Chao is squealing like a pig when the corpses bring him out into one of the courtyards where Wei Wuxian had stopped on his way up.

“Please, please, I’ve done wrong! I’ve done wrong!” Wen Chao is screaming hysterically, throwing frantic gazes around. “Forgive me! Forgive me! I’ll never! I’ll never again! I’ll do anything! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Wei Wuxian waves his right hand casually, and every Wen guard who’d been killed in the palace rises to their feet, fresh wounds and broken necks, agape. They start converging on Wen Chao, staring at him with hungry eyes.

Wei Wuxian smirks. He’s become very familiar with the hunger of the recently-dead, with their need for warm flesh they aren’t yet used to missing.

Wen Chao kicks up a storm, even as restrained as he is, his voice reaching the high of a pre-pubescent boy. Wei Wuxian wrinkles his nose in disgust, but it’s not enough to overwhelm his boiling fury.

“Wei Wuxian! Wei Wuxian!” Wen Chao finally zeroes in on him. “I’m sorry about what I did to you at the indoctrination camp! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I was wrong! But you’re alive, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Please, I’m very sorry! I’ll do anything! Anything, Wei Wuxian! Anything!”

Wei Wuxian’s lips pull back in an uncontrolled snarl. Wen Chao has many faults for which he deserves death a hundred times over, but it’s almost incomprehensible that, above all else, he is incredibly, mind-bogglingly stupid. At another time, in another place, that may have earned him the clemency he’s so desperate for, but not when his stupidity is so heavily offset by cruelty.

“You’re not dying for what you did to me, Wen Chao,” Wei Wuxian assures him, his anger as cold as every spring in Gusu. “I don’t care about that; you could have done worse. But you dared look at Lan Zhan. You hurt him—humiliated him, whipped him in front of everyone.” His eyes ice over as he levels Wen Chao with his gaze. “You—you pathetic little swine, you’re not worthy to breathe the same air as him, and you had the gall to hurt him—to hurt them both!”

Because, strangely enough, he’s not thinking of that abominable feast right now, but of Lan Xichen’s robes soaked through with blood, of the guilt and agony in his eyes for only getting an echo of his brother’s punishment, of him clutching Wei Wuxian’s arms harder with every strike.

“That’s what you’re dying for, you miserable piece of trash!” he spits, fiery this time, even if it’s only the fire of a graveyard. His voice rises. “Boys! Your banquet is served!”

“No! No! Wei Wuxian—no! Wei—”

The newly-undead Wen guards tear into Wen Chao, teeth stripping flesh to bone so fast that he’s still screaming as half his body gets torn to pieces in mere moments. Then—then, there’s only the sound of blood splattering and teeth clacking as Wen Chao’s soul disperses, never to be reborn again.

Wei Wuxian leaves them to it.

He walks the steps up to the banquet hall, the throne room—an uninvited guest this time, darkness billowing around him like a cloak. He barely registers the movement—she did it, overfed and excited and blood-mad.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a small figure dashing off somewhere, shoulders hunched and eyes scared. Nie Huaisang has managed to stay alive, it seems.

Wei Wuxian turns away.

He finally enters the hall, a truly monstrous space that’s almost cave-like in its proportions. It’s like entering the Xuanwu cave again, a part of Wei Wuxian that is more himself thinks absently, heart tugging in his chest with a desperate ‘Lan Zhan!’ Darkness growls at him, and he smirks, dismissing that tiny wisp of light away.

Wen Ruohan is the only person there. He descends from his throne unhurriedly, taking in Wei Wuxian with some cruel curiosity. Outwardly, at least, he’s calm as a mill pond, and Wei Wuxian stops, suspicious. He’s been power-drunk for hours, possibly days, and clarity feels like a luxury that’s just out of reach. He tries for it anyway as she grumbles at him.

Wen Ruohan stares at him for a long moment, disbelief emerging more and more clearly on his face, until, at long last, he laughs.

“This has been the source of all the trouble? This? You? You’re just a child. Is this some sort of joke?”

Wei Wuxian’s vision floods red with anger. He hasn’t felt like a child in a very long time, and…

Ah. Well, Wen Ruohan's bait won’t catch.

“I would say,” Wei Wuxian growls, “that the joke’s on you, but I don’t feel like laughing.”

No fresh dead, this time. Not for this one.

He pushes his right hand forward, like a spellcaster throwing a flame, and darkness surges with him like a huge black dragon, growing teeth as it unfolds and breathing liquid black fire, corroding flesh and matter as it warps reality itself. Wen Ruohan stands directly in her path, doesn’t try to dodge. He just stands there as Wei Wuxian pours every bit of resentment he’s been carrying for so long at him, and he—

He laughs.

For the first time in so many, many months, a chill runs down Wei Wuxian’s spine.

Something strange is happening. Something unforeseen.

Wen Ruohan isn’t being torn apart by the vengeful darkness.

Wen Ruohan is absorbing it into himself—capturing it like a hunter closing the trap over the prey.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes go wide as he hears her wail in panic, sounding, strangely, like a lost child. She’s being ripped away from him, stripped away from his bones and his core—and she’s clinging to him, she doesn’t want to leave, and it feels like pieces of his soul are being torn out of him as she tries to hold on in her desperation.

He’s breathless, helpless in a way he hasn’t been in since he was a street urchin in Yiling. He’s gasping, the room is spinning, and he’s light-headed, and—

He’s himself. He’s just himself, suddenly, with a horrible dead weight attached to his right arm.

Has he always been this small?

He remembers so well how he’d felt on top of the world, all-powerful, sitting on a rooftop in Gusu drinking the unfortunately forbidden wine. He’d felt like there was nothing he couldn’t tackle, nothing to defeat him—not then. How overconfident, how irreverent, how co*cky he had been, while understanding nothing, knowing nothing, yet…

But maybe it’s the only way. Maybe this terrifying sort of power has to have an expiration date, like Wen Chao had discovered just minutes ago. Is Wei Wuxian to join him now?

He’s not one for willful ignorance, though, and he needs to know. How is Wen Ruohan doing what he’s doing? What is going on?!

Wen Ruohan is still laughing, albeit less loudly, as he wrestles her into submission. She screams, and Wei Wuxian feels his heart clench painfully. It’s strange—she isn’t a small defenseless child, she’s nearly all-powerful and resentful, so why does he feel as if he’s responsible for her, as if—

“You don’t know what it is, do you?” Wen Ruohan mocks, taking the last unhurried steps down the stairs. “You’ve carried it this whole time, and you never even knew. Don’t have the brain for it, do you, boy?” His lip curls. “The younger generation is really good for nothing. Good thing I’m not going anywhere.”

Wei Wuxian realizes, abruptly and foolishly, that he’s in trouble. He had gotten so used to the feeling of dark power running in his meridians that, without it, he feels suddenly weak, directionless as a child. He still has his core, and his sword is technically on him, but now, stripped of her, he’s nothing more than the Jiang Sect’s erstwhile first disciple. Against Wen Ruohan at full power, that may as well be nothing.

Against Wen Ruohan swelled obscenely with her, it’s a joke.

Wen Ruohan clearly reads his realization off him, and smirks. “No one has put you in your place in a while, brat, have they? Well.” He raises his arms. “Allow me.”

His augmented power lashes out, and even as Wei Wuxian’s sleeves flare, sending out talismans reflexively, he knows it’s no good. Wen Ruohan has her restrain him, and she hurts him, screaming in protest as it hurts them both. Wei Wuxian had never expected that kind of loyalty, but it only makes him feel worse. He’s helpless to do anything for her, even if she needed protection. She’s filling the entire hall now, dousing the lights, but she’s so clearly forced into submission that it’s more revolting than terrifying.

“Let me teach you a lesson,” Wen Ruohan rumbles, seemingly from everywhere at once. “She’s older than the world; older than the universe. She is everything rejected, everything unwanted, everything too dark for measly human souls to handle. They’re terrified of her, so they don’t have the guts to put her in her place. I do.”

She’s crawling all over Wei Wuxian’s body now, unwilling but persistent, latching onto his meridians and corroding them like acid. He only just manages not to scream. She’s whining at him, but she’s also mad, betrayed, furious.

Wei Wuxian tries to move, to reach for his sword, for his spiritual power—anything. It’s pointless, but he won’t go down without a fight. He’s losing and he can’t. He’s not afraid of dying, but Lan Zhan—Lan Zhan! He needs to save Lan Zhan, and he can’t die before that happens!

He grits his teeth and struggles, even managing to push her out for a split second—he hasn’t been developing demonic cultivation for nothing this whole time, he can—

Wen Ruohan snorts.

“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you? I guess I should thank you for bringing her to me. Perhaps I should let you live, to see the fruits of your labor.”

Wei Wuxian glares, nearly blind, fighting with all he has left. He shouldn’t have come here alone. He’d been too arrogant, too—

“On the other hand, you’re the clever one who figured out how to break my towers,” Wen Ruohan says, now decidedly unamused. “And I don’t stand pests in my house, so let’s just be done with—”

Sunrise, Wei Wuxian thinks incongruently.

Just like the first rays of sunlight pierce the night’s remnants, a blade of light protrudes suddenly from the center of Wen Ruohan’s chest, splitting it open. Wei Wuxian stares, uncomprehending, until blood begins to trickle out of Wen Ruohan’s mouth and his eyes glaze over. Only then does the image begin to make sense.

A sword. Someone pierced him through with a sword, concealed by darkness, concealed by her, a clever little subversive bit of revenge on the one who tried to force her, but who—

Wen Ruohan’s body slides to the floor in a heap, and Wei Wuxian is left staring at—

“Lan Zhan!”

He can’t believe his eyes. Lan Wangji looks like a figure of light, suffused and floating with it, the definition of radiant. His yang energy, contrasted by her, is so bright, it’s nearly blinding. Wei Wuxian can’t stop looking even as his eyes water.

“Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan!” he nearly screams, and oh, he can breathe again, and he’s smiling like an idiot, his face is hurting, and he can’t, won’t look away. “Lan Zhan, I’ve come to save you, but of course you’d save yourself—this is just like the Xuanwu cave! Ah, Lan Zhan, you wouldn’t believe how much I missed you!”

Lan Wangji looks at him, not a trace of emotion on his face, as his lips form “Wei Ying” soundlessly, like even breath is too much effort.

Wei Wuxian blinks, and the vision slips, and suddenly, there’s no figure of light before him, only a very human Lan Wangji, and he looks—

Awful. He’s ghost-white, and so thin! The Lan physique had him broad-shouldered and lean, muscles powerful but unobtrusive. Now, he looks nearly wasted away, nothing more than skin and bones. His eyes have lost their piercing intensity, the flame barely trembling in them, like embers in a brazier abandoned to the cold. He’s covered in blood, both dried and fresh. His hair is a mess, and he’s listing in place alarmingly, the hand that holds the heavy Wen monstrosity of a sword shaking.

“Wei Ying.” He exhales now, like it’s all he can do. “Real… Wei Ying…”

There’s no other word for it—Wei Wuxian’s heart breaks. “Yes, Lan Zhan, I’m really here!” he cries, swaying toward him, trying to get his stupid legs to move. “Don’t worry, Lan Zhan it’s all fine now! It’s all—”

WAIL.

He’d forgotten about her.

Wen Ruohan had made himself her host, but she is free now, and she is enraged.

The hall seems to be spinning, as if a giant is shaking the mountain the palace stands on. The darkness whirls around them like a sentient hurricane, bouncing off the walls and tearing them apart. Things crash and fall as she looks for an exit, screaming for vengeance.

As quickly as he’d forgotten, Wei Wuxian knows instantly that he can’t let her escape, can’t release her into the world. She will not spare anyone.

AND WHY SHOULD I? THEY HATE; I HATE! KILL KILL KILL!

They are still connected, he realizes—he’d carried her for too long to be free entirely. Some connection still lingers, so he throws it open and lets her in.

FOOL! DESTROY! DESTROY!

She crashes into him, and somewhere, distantly, he thinks he hears Lan Wangji scream, but he can’t be distracted now. She burns through him, wailing her truth at him, furious that Wen Ruohan would know and lie.

“I’m listening,” Wei Wuxian tells her—with what breath, he can’t say. “Tell me.”

She was the dark one, the first one. She is one who had always been. Before the universe, before the world, she existed, and out of her came everything. A brilliant light had come, and she had fed it, had given it everything she had. The universe was born out of their efforts, and then the world, and more worlds, all the worlds.

Everything in the world, she had made, selflessly and with pleasure, letting the light pierce her and cut pieces of her and give her shapes, give her purposes and reasons and causes. She is the darkness of creation, the endless potential.

And then people came, and people began to reject her—the parts of her in them, even though they were all her. Everything that frightened them, everything that disgusted, revolted, provoked—everything that made them ashamed to look at, all the ugly and dark, they rejected and ostracized, they cut off.

They put wards around her. They despised and feared her. And then, they’d forgotten about her as if she never was.

Abandoned, rejected, forgotten, she had stewed in her resentment for eons, nursing her pain, her anger, her grief, and she’d become the monster, the worst of them all, the one even gods didn’t dare touch.

She is the ultimate monster.

ARE YOU CRYING?

He doesn’t know.

He’s so confused. She is still pelting him with her truth, and he’s close to breaking apart, and yet, she seems to expect an answer.

“You’re killing me!” he rasps, his voice in tatters. “What do you want me to do? I’m just… I can’t—”

He’s not bigger than all of creation. He, too, is the rejected, the ugly, the feared; he, too, is what people most despise. What could he possibly—

She rages so loudly, he can’t breathe, can’t feel anything over the agony of being torn to pieces. He sees nothing but darkness. He’ll be consumed by her, he knows, just like he’d been afraid once…

She… hesitates. Doesn’t stop, not entirely, but she does… pause.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t understand why, until he sees it, too—or, perhaps, senses. He can’t see anything for the blackness of her, so he looks with something other than his eyes.

A figure made of light. Not overly bright, more of a soft, hazy glow, in the lightest blue shade imaginable. It moves erratically, arms swinging and gait unsteady, like a… like a drunk man lashing out at shadows.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian whispers, throat raw. “Oh. Oh, no…”

She tightens, rumbles. The figure slashes at her almost angrily, as if trying to fight her off with a sword. Wei Wuxian’s heart seizes as he feels her anger, her confusion.

HE IS TRYING TO HURT ME. WHY?

“Because you have me,” Wei Wuxian replies, a hysterical laugh bubbling out of him, tears prickling hot against his eyes as he watches Lan Zhan’s glow get quieter under pressure. “Because he’s stubborn. He’s so f*cking stubborn; you have no idea! And he’s good. He’s good. He’s so good, he’s the best, and—he’s trying to save me.” The laughter yields fully into a sob, and he yells his lungs out. “Lan Zhan!”

Lan Wangji doesn’t seem to hear him, still fighting against her. He’s like a butterfly caught up in a snowstorm, but he just won’t give up, falling and getting up again, staggering and righting himself, his light getting dimmer and dimmer.

“Lan Zhan..!” Wei Wuxian can feel his heart being torn to pieces, bloody tears over ash. “Lan Zhan…”

He’s held too tightly to move, can only watch.

YOU.

She pauses again.

HIS LIFE IS NEARLY GONE. I KILL.

“NO!” Wei Wuxian rips himself through her vastness, and it feels like he’s tearing himself apart, but what does it matter? “NOT LAN ZHAN YOU DON’T! LEAVE HIM ALONE! YOU HAVE ME! LEAVE HIM!”

Lan Zhan seems to be on his knees now, unable to get up. Wei Wuxian strains to get to him. He’d bring Wen Ruohan back; he’d do anything. Just please. Please.

She halts, confusion winning.

YOU. YOU… LOVE?

His mouth is already open around a shout, and he tries to push out a reflexive ‘No,’ but it doesn’t come.

He blinks, bound and cut open, and yet nothing pains him as much as that glow, shaky now and fading.

“Yes,” he breathes out helplessly. “Yes, I love him. Please—let him go.”

She stills.

Wei Wuxian has never wanted to laugh and cry at the same time more than he does now. What an idiot he’d been this whole time. It’s so simple, the simplest truth of all. He’d played himself, and he just…

He wants to tell Lan Zhan, just once. Lan Zhan would probably be horrified, but at least he’d know. He deserves to know.

And Wei Wuxian wants to tell him, because love is something you share, isn’t it? It’s something you give, something to shout from the rooftops, and he wants to. He wants to so badly, for Lan Zhan, for everyone to know, that Wei Wuxian had done one thing right in his life—that he’d loved the best person in existence.

She is quiet. Then, in the voice of a child sent away into a dark corner, she says:

WANT.

Wei Wuxian blinks, not understanding.

And then he does. He does.

Monsters have to be killed.

Monsters want to be loved.

He wants to be loved, too—oh, how he does. Wouldn’t it have been so good, if Lan Zhan had staggered into her to save him because he loved Wei Wuxian, couldn't contemplate the world without him, rather than out of his innate goodness? Wouldn’t that have been so, so good?

He can’t have it for himself, but he can give it to her.

She’s still curled everywhere around him, inside him, but as he stops resisting, the pain vanishes, leaving him numb. He feels as if he no longer has a body, only this sense of self, and he opens himself up, dropping all guards.

“Come home,” he says. “I will love you. When everyone despises you, or fears you, I will love you. I already do. Your anger is my anger; your pain—my pain. When they turn away from you, they turn away from me, and I will carry you. Let me love you. Come in. Come home.”

Hesitation. Wariness. And then—

She leaps at him from everywhere at once, and there’s so much of her, and all of it wants… to be held. He tries, but his ears are ringing, and his eyes feel like they might burst, and his body can’t cope with what his mind had done. It’s like the curtains have dropped, and then—

Nothing.

He doesn’t know what happens, nor how much time has passed. One moment, there is nothing, and the next—he can see the hall again, the cracks along the walls, the fire pit, even the slumped heap of Wen Ruohan’s body. He can see and he feels—

Warm.

His body feels warm, like it used to. His right hand is no longer a dead weight—he can feel it again, just as he could all these months. Power lives there, more than before. And—

Her.

She’s curled up like a fluffy black kitten around his core. He senses wariness within himself, separate from him, but also, strangely, trust. He knows this. She regards him the same way he used to look at Uncle Jiang when he’d taken little orphan Wei Ying off the streets.

“You’re safe now,” he murmurs. “We’ll be the best of friends.”

With one last wary nod, she settles, less of a conscious presence and more an access point to a vastness no human mind can comprehend. They both seem fine with the arrangement.

Suddenly, Wei Wuxian jerks upright, as if coming out of some deep meditation too abruptly. His body hurts.

“Lan Zhan!”

He looks around frantically, and—there he is. A body, lying motionless behind the debris of some furnishings or decorations, pale and lifeless. One hand is outstretched as if trying to reach something, a broken sword beside him.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t know how he gets to his side, but he’s there, knees skidding on the harsh stone.

“Lan Zhan!” He presses his fingers against the pulse point on Lan Wangji’s neck. He can’t feel a pulse. “No! No, no, no, no, no—don’t do this to me! Not when I just learned… Lan Zhan, please don’t—”

There’s a pulse. It’s so weak it’s barely there, and incredibly slow, but—

It’s there.

It’s weak. So weak.

“Oh, thank the gods! Hang on,” Wei Wuxian begs, lost suddenly, somehow more helpless now than he’d been when grappling with a cosmic entity. “Lan Zhan, you’ve got to hang on! I know I’m annoying, so you probably don’t want to see me, but—but—you’d want to see your brother, right? He’s got to be close by now. Lan Zhan, don’t go, please! I’ll never pester you again, just hold on!”

He doesn’t dare move him. Should he move him? Lan Zhan looks so… cold! He looks cold, not the other word, never that other word, stop it, Wei Wuxian!

Fresh blood has seeped through the bandages on Lan Wangji’s back, but it’s drying quickly, as if—

No.

No.

Tentatively, Wei Wuxian reaches for one near-translucent wrist.

“I don’t know if my energy is any good for you, Lan Zhan,” he whispers, frantic, desperate. “I can try, but—”

At the first touch of his spiritual energy, Lan Wangji’s body jolts as if having been struck by Zidian.

Wei Wuxian drops his hand and jerks back. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

He’s been carrying resentment for too long. His core needs hours, possibly days of cleansing before he can attempt a pure transfer, not to mention find a way to keep her out, and Lan Wangji doesn’t have days. By the looks of him, he doesn’t have an hour.

Wei Wuxian blinks back angry tears and smacks himself on the head repeatedly. “Useless! Why are you so useless, you—you—you trash!”

He hasn’t been particularly aware of anything except for what’s immediately in front of him, doesn’t hear the sounds of commotion coming from the rest of the palace, and doesn’t so much as look when the banquet hall doors burst open.

“Wangji!”

Wei Wuxian nearly faints with relief at the sound of that voice. Is this how Lan Wangji feels, too, when he hears it? Wei Wuxian understands. Now, he understands.

Lan Xichen, battle-whipped and wild-eyed, white robes painted with blood and forehead ribbon firmly in place, is across the hall and at their side in an instant, while the cultivators that had come with him pause a good distance away.

Landing on his knees beside his brother, Lan Xichen gently rolls him onto his lap, peering into his face. He takes Lan Wangji by the hand, entwining their fingers, and all but floods him with spiritual energy, until his brother looks as if he’s surrounded by a glowing sphere.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen murmurs, pale as a ghost himself. “Oh, Wangji, please…”

Wei Wuxian starts losing sensation in his own body as he watches. Lan Xichen is draining himself dry, but it doesn’t seem to be enough—Lan Wangji’s injuries are too severe. How he had managed to come to this hall and kill Wen Ruohan in such a state is beyond comprehension.

‘Attempt the impossible,’ eh, Lan Zhan? Where’d you learn that? Can’t you do it again?

Lan Xichen grips his brother’s hand tighter, eyes shifting from nearly feral to desperate, and Wei Wuxian knows, suddenly, that both of the Twin Jades will die here. Lan Xichen is already in a precarious state, and if Lan Wangji doesn’t… He’ll give up. Even if their connection doesn’t take him, he’ll follow willingly, and it’s a new kind of pain, one Wei Wuxian wasn’t ready for. How his heart hasn’t burst, he doesn’t know.

Something happens, just then. Wei Wuxian blinks, wondering if he’s hallucinating.

A long line of people that hadn’t been there a second ago appear behind Lan Xichen, one by one, as if coalescing from the very air. They are translucent and seem to be hovering more than standing, but there’s no resentful energy coming off them—if anything, it’s the reverse. Not ghosts then, but pure spiritual forms. Dozens of them, hundreds, enough to fill the hall and beyond. Some are nothing but blurry glowing shapes, but some come in exquisite detail, with every feature on their faces in eerie, stark relief.

White robes and forehead ribbons, stirring in the invisible wind.

Wei Wuxian gasps.

The Lan Clan. They’re here.

One by one, they come forth and rest their hands on Lan Xichen’s shoulders. The flow of energy from his hand intensifies as the figure behind him slowly starts to fade, melting into nothing, and the next one takes its place.

They have lingered to protect their last two heirs, and now, they’re giving what residual energy keeps them here to save them.

Wei Wuxian watches in awe, tears flowing down his face. The older cultivators come fully shaped, down to detailed swirls of clouds on their robes, strict faces, kind faces, whispering words Wei Wuxian can’t hear but that make Lan Xichen’s lashes tremble. Young disciples, some of whom Wei Wuxian might have seen. He wishes he had a better memory for faces. Old faces that look to be the clan patriarchs whom Wei Wuxian had never met.

A woman, short and soft in figure, face weathered with years, doesn’t rest her hand on Lan Xichen’s shoulder. Instead, she hugs him, pressing one transparent hand against Lan Wangji’s cold cheek, like a kind grandmother doting on her grandchildren. A soundless gasp falls off Lan Xichen’s lips as she fades, a smile on her face to the last.

And then there are the small shapes, the tiniest ones, who died before they formed their core, before they had enough spiritual power to maintain a shape after death. They flock to Lan Xichen like little baby clouds, giggling as they push and pull against him, and he laughs as they pass through him, a wet but strangely light sound.

At some point, Wei Wuxian becomes aware that there are two tall figures standing on either side of Lan Xichen, who seem to have been there the whole time. One is a tall man who he has never seen before but who looks like an older, more heavyset and heavy-featured version of both Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji. His eyes are on his—sons, yes, and his spiritual energy seems to be the brightest.

And on the other side—

Wei Wuxian has to clap a hand over his own mouth.

Lan Qiren actually spares him a look, the only Lan that does—a glare, of course. Wei Wuxian’s eyes go wide, and he feels the most uncommon urge to go copy the Lan Sect rules a dozen times on the spot. He would, too. Eagerly.

What he does instead is bow properly, three times, forehead pressed to the ground.

When he looks up, Lan Qiren’s gaze has softened somewhat. The glare seems pointed now as he nods his chin at his nephews. Wei Wuxian nods hastily and bows again.

Lan Xichen, Wei Wuxian notices, is leaning slightly toward his uncle, unconsciously relaxing at the brush of his energy. Wei Wuxian had never seen Lan Qiren be soft, but at this moment, there is no stern teacher or strict taskmaster—only a man who’d raised two children as best he could and who did love them, loves them more than his own life still.

Slowly, they fade. The line comes to an end, until only those two presences remain. Former Sect Leader Lan clearly has the more powerful core, but he pushes all of his remaining energy into his son at once, the moment it drops to an amount that Lan Xichen can handle, and then—then, he’s simply not there.

Lan Qiren is the last to go. By now barely visible, he puts his hand on Lan Xichen’s head as one would do to a child, leans in to whisper something to him that has his nephew close his eyes and nod. Then, he, too, is no more.

Lan Xichen sways in place with a gasp, left once again by himself, and peers into Lan Wangji’s face with clear desperation.

“A-Zhan,” he calls, voice ragged. “It’s only you and I, A-Zhan. Xiao didi, please. Don’t leave me. Please, didi, Wangji, please. Please come back.”

Nothing. Lan Wangji is as motionless as ever. Lan Xichen’s shoulders hunch.

“Di…”

Then—

Lan Wangji stirs slightly, eyelashes fluttering.

“…Dada?”

Lan Xichen shudders all over, buckling almost in half, laughing and bursting into tears at the same time. “I’m here, A-Zhan! I’m here! Please don’t scare me like that again! Oh, gods, Didi, I can’t take it!”

Lan Wangji grumbles something inaudible and seems to snuggle into his brother, like a small child woken up too early.

“Dada, loud…” he complains, belies his words by pulling Lan Xichen closer, unconsciously seeking out his warmth, and then—he passes out in his brother’s arms, breathing deep and blessedly, peacefully asleep.

Lan Xichen laughs again, a soft sound, a little mad, a lot relieved, and all—happy.

Now, Wei Wuxian thinks. Now my heart will burst. It can’t take it.

But it doesn’t somehow. It makes him get to his feet instead and gently draw his thick outer robe over both brothers. Lan Xichen looks at him gratefully, tears in his eyes, a brilliant smile on his lips.

Wei Wuxian grins back at him like a loon.

Chapter 11 Notes:

It's here! I'm delighted to say there'll be no more delays! Thank you all so much for your patience and my heroic beta for her work! ♥
Two chapters to go--do we all deserve 20k of comfort after all this angst? Yes, we do! :D

Chapter Text

For Lan Wangji, the road to full consciousness is slow.

It’s odd to be feeling so much after months upon months of being jade. It had been a specific kind of meditative state, learned long ago at his uncle’s knee, where the mind sees all but doesn’t engage, doesn’t judge or appraise, only witnesses. The body, meanwhile—the body can take it. He’d employed it for all the months of his captivity, so nearly non-stop that it had sometimes seemed to consume him.

Now it’s gone, and he feels so strange. Floating in an ocean of stray thoughts and sensations, it’s as if he he’s slipped into some kind of magic pond with thick, warm water, unlike any lake in Gusu. Light seems to stream from everywhere in warm, milky-red pulses, and he can’t get grounded, but he feels strangely safe—impacted, but undisturbed—until he slips back under.

When next he approaches surfacing, his head is clearer. There’s a constant spiritual presence next to him that he knows as well as himself, as natural as breathing. It has the core that had helped coax his own into existence, that had taught and supported it until it could maintain the same rhythm—not an echo, but perfect synchronicity, two but one but two.

His brother. A familiar presence that will always signal safety.

But there is also... something else. If Lan Xichen seems to always be there, the other one comes and goes, though still appearing often enough that it makes itself known. Lan Wangji’s mind frowns, trying to make sense of it.

It’s peculiar, though not entirely unfamiliar, but… odd. Sharp and prickly, but warmly so; dark-colored, between black and indigo, and bringing heat with it, sunlight and fire. It should be disturbing, and it is, but… not in a harmful way. The combination feels familiar somehow, but, in his floaty state where thoughts scatter, he can’t focus on this presence, and it’s curious that he—well, he wants to. He wants to catch it and pin it down and finally make sense of it all.

Still, it’s elusive, teasing—there one moment and gone the next. It’s all very dissatisfying. Why does his brother not stop this?

He slips under again.

When Lan Wangji finally does awaken, it’s to a very familiar sight. For a few moments, he is five again, sleeping in his bed, surrounded by the cool, soothing quiet of Cloud Recesses, and his brother has come to wake him up for morning meditation, since Lan Wangji—Lan Zhan won’t wake up on his own yet. His brother has to get up even earlier than five to make them both be on time, but he never complains, gentle and ever-patient.

“Dada?” Lan Wangji calls sleepily, the sound of his own voice dispersing some of the spell.

Lan Xichen looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor, meditating, and smiles, happy and warm, as he comes to sit on the edge of Lan Wangji’s bed.

Lan Wangji blinks and corrects himself. “Xiongzhang.”

He’s very much not five, and the Jingshi doesn’t exist anymore.

Lan Xichen’s smile softens, though not fading, as he takes his brother’s hand. “I miss when you called me that, you know.”

Simpler times. Lan Wangji misses them, too, so badly it hurts. Still, he frowns slightly, knowing the tips of his ears are growing warm. “Not respectful enough,” he manages.

Lan Xichen sighs fondly but doesn’t comment, only squeezing his brother’s hand. “How are you feeling, Di?”

Lan Wangji dutifully tries to take stock. He’s hatefully, debilitatingly weak, but less so than before—at least he doesn’t feel shaky. His back is stiff, as if covered in plaster that’s firmed up over days, but the pain is dull, an ever-present hum that occasionally flares into something sharper. Hm. Acceptable.

He makes a wordless demand, and Lan Xichen helps him sit up.

“Gently, Wangji,” he cautions. “The healer did an amazing job, but you shouldn’t overdo it. You’ve got a long way to recover still.”

Lan Wangji frowns. “Healer?”

The smile leaves Lan Xichen’s face.

“That Wen woman,” he says, all expression gone. His brother is rarely ever this cold. “I am told she treated your wounds while you were here, and saved your back, even your life—Wen Qing, I believe. Nie Huaisang made a case that she and her brother should not be executed, in view of her gifts, but put to work instead… That, and the fact that they didn’t directly harm anyone.”

Lan Wangji absorbs it with no particular reaction, though he wonders at the passage of time.

“Wangji?” Lan Xichen prods him softly. “I’ve let her treat you because of her skill and because she was familiar with your injuries, but say the word and she will never touch you again.”

Lan Wangji blinks. It takes him a moment to understand what his brother is saying—or rather, what he’s indirectly asking. He shakes his head.

“She is... fine.”

He doesn’t have an opinion on Wen-daifu. She’s cold, even harsh, but efficient, having only cared for him out of force rather than compassion—such actions were fair. He doesn’t know her beyond that and doesn’t care to.

Fair it might have been, but if he never has to see her again, he will hardly regret it.

Lan Xichen exhales softly. “All right. But I promise, I’ll never leave her with you unsupervised.”

Lan Wangji inclines his head. “Thank you.”

Lan Xichen watches him carefully. “Wangji. How are you really?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t know. Time is an odd, misshapen object for him right now, bits and pieces put together out of order. Huge chunks are missing entirely, and what there is seems to fit poorly, all connections torn.

Yesterday, he stood in the smoldering ruins of his home, watching a Wen captain execute his uncle.

A week ago, he was in his cell, and Wen Chao was taunting him, had nearly thrown his uncle’s head in front of him. Or perhaps it wasn’t his head. With the long effects of exposure it was hard to tell.

A year ago, he’d dreamed of having killed Wen Ruohan with a sword that wasn’t his own, and Wei Wuxian had been there, maybe.

And right now, his brother is here, holding his hand, but is it really now? Is he really here? He wasn’t before.

Whatever shows on his face, Lan Xichen looks like he’s in pain just watching it.

“Wangji, may I?” he whispers.

Lan Wangji doesn’t understand at first, but it hits him within seconds, and he nods.

He sinks into his brother’s arms, allowing Lan Xichen to hold him close. Guilt hits him square in the chest at the thought of the stupid rules he’d made up for himself, that he’d even trained his brother to follow, though it must have hurt him. Lan Wangji hadn’t cared—he was young, he thought he was the only one affected, and he’d arrogantly taken his brother for granted until the war had taught him better, and he’s—

“I’m sorry,” he manages, pressing into Lan Xichen’s shoulder. “Xiongzhang, Dada, I’m sorry. This Wangji is very sorry.”

Lan Xichen’s arms tighten around him. “Oh, Wangji, no, no. There’s nothing to be sorry for; you’ve done nothing, Didi. I’m just… I’m so happy you’re alive, Wangji. I just need to…” He shudders. “Gods, it’s so good to hold you after all this time, when I thought I’d never…”

Lan Wangji understands too well.

“Oh, wait! I, uh… I have something for you.”

Lan Xichen pulls away slightly, deliberately avoiding Lan Wangji’s eyes. It only serves to make Lan Wangji feel more guilty, but he says nothing, striving to be as patient as his brother has been with him his entire life.

Lan Xichen reaches into his sleeve and pulls out a ribbon. The spell on it hasn’t faded at all; it’s clear that this one has never been worn.

“It’s my spare,” Lan Xichen says softly, placing it in Lan Wangji’s hand. “It’s yours. There’s… well, there’s only these two left now.”

Lan Wangji’s fingers close reflexively over the ribbon, eyes darting, for a moment, to the one on his brother’s forehead. Just the two left in existence, and no one left to make new ones.

“It’s true, then,” he utters, barely aloud. “They’re all gone?”

He knew this, he thinks, on some level. He’d been there, after all, in the midst of the unspeakable carnage that Cloud Recesses had suffered, the second time so much worse than the first. Fire, and smoke, and blood, and broken dead bodies everywhere, every single one of them known to him, and his mind had refused to process.

He knew, but he’d hoped—he didn’t even know it until this moment—that maybe he’d missed something—hadn’t noticed someone making an escape, had forgotten someone not present.

Lan Xichen twines their fingers again, the ribbon now between them. “Just us, Didi. It’s just us now.”

Slowly, Lan Wangji lifts his eyes from their connected hands to look at his brother’s face. He’s never been good with words, and even though Lan Xichen has never needed him to be, he deserves them, all of them, and Lan Wangji will try.

“Wangji is… fortunate,” he says haltingly, stumbling every step of the way, “that Xiongzhang is here.”

Lan Xichen’s eyes snap to his, filling with tears he doesn’t try to conceal.

“Oh, Wangji—I am a horrible, selfish person,” Lan Xichen whispers, shoulders falling in defeat. “Thank the gods it was not my choice. If I had been forced to choose between all of them and one of you, I… I’d have chosen you every time, Di.” He seems to shrink in on himself. “I’m not fit to be a sect leader.”

He’s looking at Lan Wangji like he’s expecting judgment, censure, but Lan Wangji has none to give. He can’t say what he would have chosen if he had faced such inhuman options, but the one thing he knows is that he’s no better than his brother. He can’t fathom what Lan Xichen must have gone through, or what it cost him to confess that.

“You’re my sect leader, Xiongzhang,” he says firmly. “I will never accept any other.”

Lan Xichen closes his eyes and tears spill. He’s shaking. “Oh, Wangji…”

Lan Wangji, selfishly grateful that his brother has never once made him ask for permission, wraps his arms around him and pulls him close.

After several hours of joint meditation to ground them both, Lan Xichen makes tea and starts the long tale of everything Lan Wangji had missed while being held captive.

To begin with, they are currently in Lan Xichen’s tent in the camp from which the minor clans had launched their final assault on Qishan. Now, it’s a sort of transition point to organize dealing with the prisoners, treating the wounded, and discussing what’s left. Lan Wangji had been moved here at his brother’s insistence—the Sun Palace is no place for convalescence.

The longer Lan Wangji listens, the more he feels the distance between himself and the events being described. The story of alliances and sacrifice and underhanded dealings, of agreements made and cultivation mysteries solved—it’s his story, but he doesn’t feel a part of it. He feels more like a spectator who had missed all but the last act of the play, and even that one, he doesn’t clearly remember.

Did he really kill Wen Ruohan? Wei Wuxian had said so, but Wei Wuxian is just a dream to Lan Wangji—something his mind had conjured up when Nie Huaisang had released him into the mess and confusion of the Sun Palace that day. Lan Wangji was sure he had dreamt it, or imagined, or…

“Wei Ying,” he says, predictably fixated. “Is he… well?” Demonic cultivation is no laughing matter, however calm his brother sounds when he talks about it.

That’s also alarming—why does he sound like that? Does he no longer remember what consequences anyone attempting it must suffer? He speaks warmly of Wei Wuxian, which is yet another thing that mercilessly trips up Lan Wangji—how, why, what,—but it’s as though he’s not concerned at all, not the slightest bit.

Lan Xichen sighs, obviously sensing his disquiet. “Wangji, I do not understand fully how it works, but Wei Wuxian does appear to have mastered it. I worried for him before, but after the Sun Palace… I don’t know how to explain it, but he feels different. Like he truly is in control. Oh, Wangji, he really is a remarkable person.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t need to be told that. He also doesn’t know how to feel about the obvious respect in his brother’s voice. It should be a good thing, but it makes him feel both intensely glad and very uneasy. He’s missed so many things and feels profoundly wrong-footed, like he understands nothing.

Just then, the flap of the tent is pulled open, letting in a gust of cooler air, and a cheerful, slightly wary voice passes through.

“Uh, is this a bad time?”

Lan Wangji twists around, to which his back instantly replies with a flare of pain so bright he goes momentarily blind with it. It’s a good thing his face is too well-trained to give away anything.

Wei Ying.

It’s him, yet not him. The same face, the same bright eyes, yet… everything about him seems to be more in some intangible way. Even seated, Lan Wangji can tell that Wei Wuxian is taller than he remembers, and—not exactly broader or bulkier, but the effect is somehow the same. It’s as if there’s an extra dimension to him, a deeper hue to his aura, his presence easily dominant where before, it was only eye-drawing brightness. Lan Wangji has to suppress a shiver.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian’s eyes light up. “You’re awake!”

He instantly crosses the distance between them and kneels at their table. It feels like a bolt of lightning has entered the tent and settled at Lan Wangji’s side, gazing at him.

“It’s so good that you’re awake, oh, Lan Zhan—finally!” Wei Wuxian exclaims, visibly excited. His eyes cut suddenly to Lan Xichen, and he acquires a slightly sheepish look. “Uh, sorry, for barging in, Xichen-ge.”

Lan Xichen laughs softly. “Xian-di, you know you’re always welcome.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes snap to his brother in sharp bewilderment.

Xian-di?

“Ah, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, it’s so good to see you!” Wei Wuxian laughs, watching him. “I missed you something awful, Lan er-gege!”

He leans back, palms on the floor—the inappropriate posture of a less-than-diligent student—and it looks both completely natural and completely incongruous on him now. He’s no longer the youth Lan Wangji remembers, but a man grown. It’s… unsettling.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says at last, his own voice somehow more timid in the face of it all. He doesn’t quite know where to look. Up close, his everything is overwhelming in a very... physical way.

Wei Wuxian has always been attractive, but this… There is a raw sensuality about him now that is assaulting Lan Wangji’s senses. From his posture, to the tilt of his head, to the way his eyes glint and his collar opens, to the way he moves and talks and looks, like he can see everything in Lan Wangji’s head and it amuses him...

Lan Wangji lowers his eyes, unable to process it all as the tips of his ears turning damnably red.

“Aiya, Lan Zhan, don’t hide.” Wei Wuxian leans forward, elbows on the table as he gazes up at Lan Wangji, just like he had in the Cloud Recesses library.

Much like back then, Lan Wangji can’t help but glance at him.

Wei Wuxian instantly beams in welcome. “There you are! Ah, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, still the talker, aren’t you?”

Lan Wangji feels, bizarrely, like he’s getting sunburn. It takes everything in him not to retreat.

As if sensing this, Wei Wuxian’s demeanor softens, and he pulls slightly back. Strange. He would have pressed in before.

“Ah, Lan Zhan, I was joking. You don’t have to talk. We both know I can talk enough for ten people!”

He laughs and gratefully accepts a cup of tea Lan Xichen had produced with remarkable alacrity without even leaving the table. Lan Wangji frowns. Was his brother expecting a guest?

“Xichen-ge, you look tired,” Wei Wuxian remarks reproachfully. “You should take better care of yourself.”

Lan Xichen pours tea, giving him a look that is ostensibly benevolent. Lan Wangji knows better.

“I find that one should not dispense advice one isn’t willing to follow,” Lan Xichen says sweetly. “Lest its credence suffers.”

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian exclaims in mock outrage. “Your brother is so mean! Did you know that? You did, didn’t you? Ah, Lan Zhan, you have my sympathies—you wouldn’t believe how they all listen to him out there! You’d think he was the Great Yu! Very impressive! Listen, Lan Zhan, so there was this one small clan we had to deal with, and they had made the most insane demand, honestly, just people are so obnoxious, it’s unbelievable. And your brother—do you know what he did? He—”

Lan Wangji listens, getting progressively more overcome by the flood of information. It’s not just the words, though his brother had been significantly more frugal in his own account, and this is all news he wants to hear. But it’s more—well. Wei Wuxian had always been an all-sensory experience, and that hasn’t changed, he’s even more so now.

And then there’s the way Lan Xichen engages with him, their playful, teasing back-and-forth, the hidden words, the meaningful glances. They are obviously familiar with each other—close.

It hurts to watch them.

Wei Wuxian had never gotten so close with Lan Wangji himself. They had been through some things together, but that feels like it happened an eon ago, in another life, a silly childhood memory. They have yet to reach the part where shared hardships transmute into—this.

Watching his brother laugh, more carefree and unrestrained than Lan Wangji had seen in years, Lan Wangji wonders if he himself is even capable of reaching that stage. Of course Wei Wuxian likes this. Everyone does. And Lan Wangji is nothing like his brother.

He had missed an entire life while being stuck in a cell, and what is he to them now? He’s hopelessly behind, and while his brother is stuck with him, Wei Wuxian doesn’t have to be.

Suddenly, Lan Wangji wants nothing more than to be back in the Sun Palace, alone, locked away from the world, silent and forgotten. Let them all move on without him, as they clearly have.

He can’t. It’s so much. It’s too much, after all that quiet.

He pushes away from the table, surprising himself and startling the other two.

“Wangji, what’s wrong?” Lan Xichen instantly asks, and Lan Wangji hates this, hates that his brother was laughing a second ago and now he isn’t, and Lan Wangji had done that, as he always does.

“Lan Zhan? Are you all right?” That’s Wei Wuxian, and his voice is slightly scared, like it’s trying not to be, and that’s… that’s…

Lan Wangji takes a few steps back, looking at no one.

“I…” He stops, has to start again. “I am… tired. I need…”

“Oh gods, I’m so sorry, I’m just sitting here chattering when you need to rest!” Wei Wuxian jumps to his feet, face stricken, and so palpably upset that it seems to have its own scent. “I’ll go! Lan Zhan, I’m so sorry!”

And he is gone, as if carried off by a gust of wind, and Lan Wangji feels, absurdly, like running after him, but he can’t, he can’t, and he feels so guilty he can’t handle it.

“Wangji, tell me, what’s wrong, please?” Lan Xichen says in a pleading voice, reaching for him.

Lan Wangji recoils, and his brother freezes.

“I’m sorry,” Lan Wangji says, unable to look at him. He feels dizzy. “I need… I need…”

“What do you need, Wangji?”

His brother’s voice is almost timid, yet so determined. Lan Wangji feels sick. He barely gets the words out. “I need to be alone for a while.”

For a split second, Lan Xichen looks as if he’s been slapped, but he gets a hold of himself quickly.

“Of course; this must have been overwhelming for you, and I got careless. Forgive me, Wangji. I’ll—I’ll go.” He rises smoothly, expression still something of a mask. “You rest for a bit, all right? And just call if you need anything.”

Lan Wangji nods numbly, and then Lan Xichen is gone, too, and he is alone.

He is alone.

It’s quiet in the tent. The fabric is thick and a good insulator, but it’s not stone. If he listens carefully, he can hear the sounds of the camp outside—distant voices, movement, activity.

It’s not the isolation of his cell, but in a way, it’s worse. Here, he can literally hear life going on without him, a neverending stream that didn’t wait for him and never will, that never waits for anything—anyone—discarded.

He’s sitting on the bed, a low, well-insulated sleeping pallet. He doesn’t know how he got here.

He wants to curl into himself—a luxury never afforded him in his cell where he’d always been restrained. His bonds are gone, but he can’t do it anyway, his back protesting from too much movement already. It hurts more by the minute, as whatever numbing agent was used wears off.

Lan Wangji presses into it, into the fire burning his back. Nothing dead hurts. It’s his only proof that life isn’t done with him yet. Whatever is demanded of him, he will do, as he always has. He just needs there to be something. He feels very much not needed.

He doesn’t know how long he sits like this. Eventually, the tent grows dark; night must have fallen. There are probably candles he can light, but he doesn’t move. His night vision has always been keen, and the endless days and nights in the cell had only sharpened it. He can see just fine, he just wishes…

He’s so alone. The walls of the tent seem to be pressing inward. He listens carefully, desperately, but can’t tell if the noises coming from outside are real, or only his imagination. He’s suddenly terrified of everyone being gone, of stepping out of the tent and finding no one. What if all of this is a mirage? What if he’s still in the Sun Palace, and his mind is playing an elaborate, cruel joke on him because it can’t cope anymore, and he’s finally sliding into madness?

His fingers dig into the fabric of the bedding. It’s a little rough, compared to what they used to have at Cloud Recesses. The texture is coarse, the threads thick.

Real enough.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and his back flares up in pain. It grounds him more.

It’s real. The muffled noises outside are real.

Another breath. Another.

The tent is lived in—not terribly, but the way it would be on the march. The way things are put away is familiar, if not the things themselves. It’s clearly his brother’s space.

It’s shameful how much relief this realization brings. His brother will return here at some point. Lan Wangji has not been abandoned.

The emotion runs deep and burns worse than his back does. He is a man grown. He has taken lives of other men. He should not be sitting here, panicking like a small child who suddenly can’t find the adult responsible for him in a crowded room. He should not have to rely on others—he should be there for others to rely on him. He had failed them once, failed to defend his home, and his entire clan had paid for that weakness. How dare he sit here and pity himself? What right does he have?

He grips the side of the bed hard, possibly tearing the bedding. He can’t tell. The voice in his head acquires the distinctive cadence of his uncle’s—cool, measured, strict.

Stop. Thoughts like that are poison. They are true, but they make you useless, weak. They make you unable to repay your debt to the ones you wronged. What good are you to them then? You have sinned once already. Do not make it worse by wasting your energy. Find a better use for it. Right your wrongs.

His breathing eases incrementally, though the burning pain remains, the physical indistinguishable from the rest. He can never right these wrongs. His family is gone. He will never make his uncle proud; he will never bring honor to his teacher. He will have to find a new meaning for himself if he wishes to go on, and he does.

… Doesn’t he?

Enough of this.

He forces himself to focus on his breathing, applying the techniques he’d learned before he was table-height with as much concentration as he’d had that very first time. It works as well as it did back then.

Perhaps, then, this is his sect’s true legacy. They may be gone, but their teachings remain.

He’s calm and quiet by the time he hears the tent flap open.

“Wangji?” His brother’s voice sounds tentative. “May I—?”

His brother has brought in a lantern. The light feels warm on his face.

“Mn.” Lan Wangji inclines his head. “Wangji is sorry.”

“Oh, Wangji, none of that.” Lan Xichen sets the lantern on the table before coming over to look at him. “Oh, Didi, you’re in so much pain, aren’t you? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been gone so long. I hoped you’d sleep, but I should have checked…” He shakes his head. “No matter now. Lie down and I’ll change your bandages.”

Lan Wangji wants to argue, to wrestle the undeserved guilt from his brother’s arms. But he feels exhausted suddenly, unequal to the battle. He lets Lan Xichen ease the light robe he’s wearing off his shoulders and lies down on his stomach, offering his obedience where he can’t offer anything else.

Lan Xichen has a confident, practiced hand, and this is a familiar routine to both of them. He had frequently assisted the clan healer in the past, especially when Lan Wangji was the one injured. His mind instinctively releases his defenses at his brother’s touch, greatly speeding up the healing. To think that he had almost lost it…

Lan Xichen spreads fresh balm over his back, the scent soothing and the touch cooling. Lan Wangji lets out a relieved sigh before he can catch himself, but Lan Xichen hums in satisfaction at this, so perhaps that’s all right. He quickly and efficiently applies clean bandages, causing minimal discomfort, then pours his spiritual energy through a cooling ward. The numbing effect is back in full force, and Lan Wangji can finally draw a deep breath without pain.

“Are you hungry?”

Lan Wangji shakes his head.

“Should we retire, then?”

“Mn.”

“You go ahead and close your eyes, Didi. I’m sorry you’ll have to sleep like this; I know it’s not very pleasant, but better you don’t roll onto your back.”

“Mn.”

“Good. I’ll be a minute.”

Lan Wangji lies on his stomach, eyes closed and body as relaxed as it can be, and listens to his brother move around. There’s the soft sound of water as Lan Xichen washes up, then some rustling, a gentle clink of something metallic. Soon after, the light is extinguished, bringing a deeper measure of relief. He hadn’t even realized the light was straining his eyes.

His brother also transforms, and, while Lan Wangji can’t see it, he can sense it just fine. Lan Xichen—sect heir, sect leader, responsible older brother and mentor—melts into Lan Huan, another version of himself who walks the path alongside Lan Wangji, perhaps two steps ahead. He knows fear, and insecurity, and agonizing doubt—someone who’s vulnerable, who needs him just as much, who’s just as desperately grateful he’s not alone here.

There’s a soft, unspoken question in the dark between them, one that receives an instant answer. Lan Xichen lies down next to him, wordlessly negotiating their bodies until Lan Wangji can rest his head on his brother’s shoulder, Lan Xichen’s arm wrapped gently around his waist. It’ll go numb soon enough, but neither of them cares.

It happens then, and, while it wasn’t planned, it seems to have been inevitable.

He is surrounded by his brother’s warmth, his scent, so familiar and so dear; his heartbeat, steady and precise, the first rhythm Lan Wangji ever learned. He’s so safe here, held so gently yet so securely, invoking some of his earliest memories, manifesting the sense of home and family around him when both those things are gone.

Yet, how can they be, when he’s held by them now, when he can feel them through every sense he has? He still has them—they both do, even if only in such moments, even in just this intangible, ephemeral sense.

They are exactly the same here, equals and mirrors of each other, every barrier gone. Lan Huan doesn’t have to say it, but Lan Wangji hears it anyway, through his entire self.

‘I was so scared, Didi. I thought I’d lost you, and I was SO SCARED.’

Lan Zhan buries his face deeper in his brother’s shoulder, and doesn’t notice when it happens, the moment when the last of his defenses go down.

Tears begin to spill before he can even think to stop them. They come and come, an endless flood. He isn’t sobbing or even actively crying—they just flow and flow, and he has no control over them.

It hurts the way poison hurts when it’s pulled out of a wound. All the things he tried his best not to dwell on, not to even think of for months and months. He couldn’t allow himself to feel them, but they weren’t gone, only waiting, and they seem to all be crushing into him now.

The unspeakable horror of the Cloud Recesses massacre—blood, and fire, and smoke. The disciples he’d known his entire life dying, some silently, some screaming, some not even knowing it. His uncle, the only father he’s ever known, being executed before his eyes; being forced to watch, knowing true, overwhelming fear for the first time. He hadn’t learned it when his own life was in danger.

The imprisonment, and the torture, and being helpless to even end his own life. Wen Chao’s face, his mocking laughter. The agony of the whipping, the sacrilege of the instrument of discipline being used as a tool for the crudest form of amusem*nt. Wen Qing’s cold face and sharp voice. The endless isolation, the daily pain of having his core sealed, of being left feeling like half a person.

Tears flow, hot, sharp; he’s breathing through his mouth now. His brother’s hand cards through his hair softly, and he’s vocalizing nonverbal, gentle, quiet noises that aren’t shushing, only comfort and shared grief. By the rhythm of Lan Huan’s breathing, he’s crying, too, as they hold on to each other, each gripped by their own nightmare, yet together now, clinging, cradling the unexpected gift of a reunion in a world that had taken everything else from them.

Time disappears, but Lan Wangji doesn’t think either of them sleeps that night at all, not until the rising sun chases off the last of the darkness.

Morning has them moving around each other gingerly, red-eyed and tired but both feeling lighter somehow. Lan Xichen doesn’t smile as much, the armor of it unnecessary when it’s just the two of them. His face is soft and open, his manner relaxed, as he reapplies the medicine to Lan Wangji’s back before gently guiding him to sit for their meditation.

Lan Wangji’s core is unharmed, strong and healthy, but it’s been so long since he’s had the freedom to use it that he’s luxuriating in the feeling now, leaving it to his brother to steer them. It’s so reminiscent of their childhood that it almost brings a smile to his own face, and Lan Xichen is outright radiating light and laughter as they come out of it.

It’s appallingly late when someone knocks on one of the wooden poles at the tent’s entrance. The brothers exchange a look.

“Come in,” Lan Xichen calls out.

Immediately, the flap is drawn aside, and Wei Wuxian appears, beaming and holding a wooden case used to carry food.

“Morning, you two! You didn’t show up for breakfast, so I brought it to you! Made it myself, too, aren’t I nice? Come on, come on, clear some space there. Everyone has to eat, don’t tell me you’re fasting for some silly spiritual reason! You have to keep your strength up.”

Lan Xichen aims an amused look at his brother, who only lifts an eyebrow in response.

At Wei Wuxian’s wheedling, they clear the table and sit down to eat, Wei Wuxian himself sizzling with energy like a hurricane. He doesn’t say a word about their no-doubt-less-than-perfect appearance and the obvious signs of the night before still on their faces. Lan Wangji is grateful to him beyond measure.

“Come on, come on, try it!” Wei Wuxian urges, ladling what appears to be congee into two bowls. “I didn’t use any spices at all, so it should be perfectly bland, just the way you like it!”

Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen exchange a look before picking up the spoons.

Lan Wangji didn’t have any expectations. He would have gladly eaten anything Wei Wuxian had made, but the congee is... surprisingly good. It’s not quite the way they made it in Cloud Recesses, but the rice is perfectly cooked, and the vegetables are a nice, if odd, mixture, and then there is—

“It’s ground tofu!” Wei Wuxian explains, somehow correctly interpreting their expressions. “For extra nutrition! You both need it, especially you, Lan Zhan, so eat up!”

Lan Wangji blinks. Lan Xichen seems to be stifling a laugh.

“It’s good, isn’t it? Isn’t it?” Wei Wuxian whirls from one brother to the other before clapping himself on the forehead. “Oh, right, you can’t talk! No talking during meals, right? Can you both, like, I don’t know—tap once for good, twice for ‘I hate it?’”

The brothers look at each other again, then tap the table once simultaneously.

“It’s good?!” Wei Wuxian seems both delighted and surprised. “You’re not lying, right? Lying is also forbidden, yes, yes, Lan Zhan, I remember, don’t glare at me! I’m just happy you like it—it’s so bland for me, I couldn’t be sure!”

The breakfast continues, as warm as it is bizarre. Wei Wuxian seems to have been possessed by the ghost of someone’s auntie and eagerly feeds them seconds before they can refuse, then pouts when they pull their bowls away after his third attempt.

Lan Xichen thanks him profusely for both of them, and Wei Wuxian smiles happily, but he positively beams when Lan Wangji nods at him. Lan Wangji really doesn’t like the look that appears on his brother’s face at this.

“Ah, Xian-di, are you free today?” Lan Xichen asks innocently. “I have a small favor to ask you.”

Wei Wuxian hums, rocking back and forth as he sits. “I was going to do more cooking, but otherwise I’m free. What do you need, Xichen-ge?”

“I’m afraid I have some business to attend to that can’t be delayed,” Lan Xichen explains, his face the very picture of regret. “But Wangji shouldn’t be moving around too much yet and I hate to leave him alone, in case he needs something. Would you mind keeping him company until I return?”

“Brother,” Lan Wangji hisses at this, glaring as hard as he’s capable of.

“Of course!” Wei Wuxian lights up. “I’d love to stay and chat—uh, that is, Lan Zhan, if you don’t mind? I can be quiet! I can be real quiet, I promise!”

This… is unfair. It should be illegal. His brother is a monster, and Lan Wangji has no warm feelings for him at all.

“Wei Ying does not have to be quiet,” he says, giving in to the inevitable and doing his best to ignore his brother’s pleased smile. “I would… appreciate the company.”

Wei Wuxian’s smile, impossibly, grows.

The day goes surprisingly well.

Lan Wangji still feels incredibly awkward around Wei Wuxian, especially this new Wei Wuxian who is so much more, but the night before must have drained him of most of his tension, and he feels still too raw and soft to bother with walling himself up as he should. Even proper conduct seems less mandatory at the moment, and Lan Wangji is fully prepared to let any possible issues go.

He doesn’t have to, though. Wei Wuxian isn’t being his usual inappropriate self. He’s cheerful, but his teasing is softer, less abrasive, not aimed to dig at Lan Wangji’s vulnerable spots. If anything, it’s more reminiscent of his brother’s gentle wheedling, inviting Lan Wangji in on the joke rather than making it sting.

It’s bewildering and… nice. He likes this, Lan Wangji realizes. He really does. Frightening.

He’s holding himself less stiffly as a result, and doesn’t censor himself when the question arises.

“Does it hurt you?” he asks. “Your hand?”

It’s not particularly sinister-looking, only incredibly pale, as if entirely bloodless, the way flesh turns in death.

Wei Wuxian looks at him, then shakes his head with a grin. “Twin Jades, huh?”

When Lan Wangji blinks in confusion, he explains, “That was the first question your brother had asked me when he saw it. If it hurts, and if he could help.”

Lan Wangji silently mirrors the questions back at him.

Wei Wuxian laughs. “It doesn’t hurt. It used to feel heavy, like I had some dead weight attached to me. Literally even. But now that we’ve… renegotiated our relationship, it just feels like mine. I can’t hold a sword in it, or any other purely spiritual object, I think, but other than that, it’s fine. You want to see for yourself?”

He extends his hand, and Lan Wangji, surprising them both, takes it.

“Aiya, Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian’s eyes go wide. “I was joking! How very bold of you!”

He tries to snatch it back, but Lan Wangji doesn’t let him. He examines it instead, the feel of it, the weight. The skin is very fine and smooth, as if this hand had never known labor. Holding this hand feels like holding living ice—cold, but not burning with it. Forgetting himself, Lan Wangji examines it this way and that, and finds that he’s laced their fingers together.

Oh.

He risks glancing up. Wei Wuxian is looking at the point of contact, too, and he’s definitely blushing.

“I apologize,” Lan Wangji murmurs, releasing him. “I… got curious. Did I hurt you?”

“What? No! No.” Wei Wuxian shakes his head, laughing, though it seems a little forced. “I… it’s just… I thought she’d… I didn’t expect—she seems to like you… Oh, never mind.” He leans back and rubs the back of his neck ruefully. “Ah, Lan Zhan, who’d have thought you wanted to hold hands this entire time!”

Lan Wangji turns away, ignoring this, as the tips of his ears flush red.

When Lan Xichen returns in the evening, he finds his brother lying on the bed on his stomach, watching Wei Wuxian create a miniature whirlwind of cinnabar and talisman paper. Nearly every surface is covered in it, the once-neat interior completely taken over.

“Ah, Lan Xichen!” Wei Wuxian exclaims from where he’s sprawled on the floor in an entirely inconceivable position. “Your sweet-tempered didi has been bullying me all day! Is this how you raised him? For shame!”

“Oh no,” Lan Xichen says, smiling. “Wangji, what did you do?”

“His designs are unsafe,” Lan Wangji says from the bed, in the exasperated tone of one who has been repeating himself for some time.

“See! See?” Wei Wuxian points at him. “Nothing but criticism all day long! Like, this one is too loud—”

“It is.”

“And this one is too dangerous—”

“It nearly blew your head off.”

“But it didn’t! Focus on the positive, Lan Zhan, would you?”

Lan Wangji turns his eyes on Lan Xichen. “Brother. You have left me in the care of a lunatic.”

“You—!” Wei Wuxian sputters. “The one that destroyed the chair was your idea!”

Lan Wangji looks at him with all the patience he doesn’t have. “I am very clearly not well.”

“You—you hypocrite! Oh, I see how it is! Xichen-ge, I know how it looks, but I promise you, only part of this mess is my doing! He—”

“How about,” Lan Xichen cuts in diplomatically, eyes alight with mirth and relief, “we have some tea? While we still have some furniture intact?”

Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian exchange a look, both suddenly quiet.

“Ah,” Wei Wuxian says sheepishly. “Xichen-ge, about that…”

“We need a new teapot,” Lan Wangji sighs. “It was not… entirely his fault.”

Lan Xichen looks from one to the other, eyes twinkling. “I see.”

Life gets more measured after that—as much as camp life can be, when multiple clans are interacting in the wake of a major war. Lan Wangji slowly but steadily makes gains in autonomy, and, after one last inspection by Wen Qing, is cleared to move around ‘without overdoing it.’

In truth, he is glad to not be her patient anymore. He understands, intellectually, that she didn’t choose to be born Wen Ruohan’s kin, and that she’s a healer who’s taken no lives, but she’s also yet another face of his captivity. He’s glad when Lan Xichen sees her out for the last time and such thoughts don’t have to occupy his mind again.

The camp is big enough to make up a small town, and at first, all the motion and activity is disorienting. People stare at him wherever he goes, and Lan Wangji does his best to ignore it. After having ignored Wen Chao and his cronies for months on end, it’s not difficult.

He learns that Nie Huaisang is gone, along with his brother. Part of the Nie Clan had survived the massacre and Nie Zonghui, Nie Mingjue’s right-hand man, had led the survivors of the Unclean Realm deep into the mountains. There, following paths only yaks could walk, lay the hidden villages where the tribes that had once spawned the Nie Clan still live. The Wens hadn’t pursued the fugitives that far, as the mountains had long been rumored uninhabited.

At that time, Nie Mingjue had stayed so his people had time to flee. He’d been captured, and now he’s not at all well. Unlike Lan Wangji, Nie Mingjue had drawn the attention of Wen Ruohan himself, and, while his body was resilient and had fared well, his mind had not.

Lan Xichen comes back from seeing him one night visibly shaken.

“He didn’t recognize me,” he says, nodding gratefully as Lan Wangji pours him tea. His hands wrap around the cup, seemingly steadier than his spirit. “He doesn’t recognize A-Sang, either. There’s just… rage in his eyes. It’s terrifying, Wangji. It’s like staring into the fire. There’s nothing—he’s not…” He shakes his head. “I can’t even tell if he’s still there. He… he has to be kept in restraints.”

What hell it is to never escape captivity even when one is free. Lan Wangji shudders internally. It’s hard to think of himself as fortunate, but he really is. He should feel more grateful.

So Nie Huaisang bundles his brother up and, with the help of a few people who belonged to the Nie Sect banner clans, takes him away, heading deep into the Qinghe mountains, hoping beyond hope that their progenitors will help them. Lan Wangji truly wishes him luck.

The Yunmeng Jiang Clan is present en masse, headed by Jiang Wanyin, who acts every bit the sect leader he technically still isn’t. His is, perhaps, the most belligerent quarter of the camp, as other clans quarrel with them frequently. Jiang Wanyin seems to have gained some hold on his temper, along with battle experience, but it’s his sister whose work seems to be doing more to restore the Jiang’s name than anything else.

Said Lady Jiang cares for the wounded tirelessly and with infinite kindness. Her patience, gentle manner, and deep knowledge gain her respect and admiration across the camp. She’s wearing mourning white and looks unbearably sad when she believes herself unobserved. Lan Wangji is told that Jin Zixuan, the heir to the Jin Clan, died in battle, and, despite the fact that their betrothal had been broken, Lady Jiang grieves his loss all the same.

The combination creates such an aura of true nobility and grace around her, that, while she had never been named among the cultivation world’s top beauties, it attracts young heroes to her by the dozen. Her brothers, Jiang Wanyin in particular, seem irritated by this turn of events and chase them off, but Jiang Yanli herself shows no preference. The only man she can be occasionally seen conversing with at length is Lan Xichen.

Lan Wangji’s brother himself has... somewhat similar issues. He is in high demand as a mediator who doesn’t have a stake in any clan and therefore is impartial, his reputation still unassailable, and all of that is now imbued with the aura of a war hero who united the clans to bring down Wen Ruohan. The bond between the Twin Jades adds romanticism to the story of fighting off evil and injustice, and, as the last two survivors of their clan, they draw attention everywhere they go.

Now that the battles are over, the camp is slowly getting more and more female visitors as clan leaders send for their daughters, nieces, and other unmarried female relatives. All of them are looking for a chance to cross paths with Zewu-jun and to get an introduction. Lan Xichen bears such occasions with his usual grace.

Lan Wangji, for his part, is profoundly irritated. He alone can see the strain around his brother’s eyes as he is forced into idle politeness instead of resting or devoting himself to things that actually matter. The underlying calculation becomes more insulting with every woman flung his way—that Lan Xichen would be sufficiently enticed by one of them, enough to marry her and join her clan! Whichever sect he chooses would find their status boosted enormously, especially since Lan Wangji would likely follow his brother.

No one says so to their faces, but it’s clear to Lan Wangji that people don’t believe the Lan Sect can be revived. Two people do not a sect make, and surely it won’t be what they will prefer—starting from the very beginning, instead of choosing a life of relative ease?

Lan Xichen only shakes his head and pats Lan Wangji’s arm when he sees his subtle but focused anger. They don’t need to discuss it. The maidens and their fathers are wasting their time.

If that wasn’t enough needless pressure on Lan Xichen, there’s also Jin Guangyao.

It takes Lan Wangji a moment to realize that the new Jin heir, who arrives at the camp one day with great ceremony, is, in fact, the very same Meng Yao of Lan Xichen and Wei Wuxian’s stories. After Jin Zixuan had been killed, his father had taken gravely ill, and no one has seen him since. He had, however, acknowledged Meng Yao as his son in view of his outstanding heroism in the battle of Lanling, when he’d fought to bring his half-brother’s body back to his parents.

Jin Guangyao is now the official heir, and it is said that he is effectively running the Jin Sect while his father is indisposed. Somehow, for all that most people had never heard of him before recent events, he has managed to command a great deal of respect already.

Lan Wangji… doesn’t like him. Whether it’s the influence of Lan Xichen’s account and Wei Wuxian’s offhanded remarks or his own read on the man, Lan Wangji feels all his senses go on high alert when they meet.

“Second Young Master Lan.” Jin Guangyao bows at him with exaggerated courtesy. “You would not believe how long I’ve wanted to make your acquaintance.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t know what that means, and he isn’t sure he wants to. The way Jin Guangyao looks at his brother worries him. Lan Wangji is very familiar with the looks of longing, adoration, and lust sent his brother’s way.

What Jin Guangyao is doing is something else. A very… unnerving something.

Lan Xichen, for his part, only smiles tiredly when Lan Wangji manages to ask him about it in the most oblique way possible, shaking his head.

“Don’t worry about him, Wangji. He’s a friend. He won’t… harm us.”

Strangely, the statement doesn’t sound reassuring, but Jin Guangyao is too busy to be around much, so the point is moot for the moment. Lan Wangji has an even more pressing issue to occupy his attention, and that one—

Well. Where should he start?

Wei Wuxian… is always there.

That first day wasn’t a fluke—Wei Wuxian reappears with breakfast the next day, and the next. He gets into the habit of popping up at the Lan brothers’ tent to check on Lan Wangji a few times a day, nearly always bringing him something—more food, flowers, some loquats, more talisman ideas, or simply news. He seems to always appear at the exact moment Lan Wangji needs something done that is currently challenging for him—bringing fresh water, opening a chest, or lifting something off the floor.

Wei Wuxian, for lack of a better term, hovers. More so than Lan Wangji’s own brother does. It’s… unnerving.

As his physical health continues to improve, Lan Wangji finds a task for himself. It wouldn’t do to stay idle when there’s so much work to be done—he’d been absent and useless for too long already, while everyone else was fighting. The least he can do is help clean up the enormous mess that Wen Ruohan’s reign had left behind.

He can’t move around much still. His leg, which had never been allowed to heal properly and has only just begun to do so now, is causing him to limp, tiring him easily. His back, while stable, has neither the mobility nor the strength it once did, so he has to move around carefully, awkwardly turning with his whole body. He can’t properly bend down, either. Any physical work is out of the question.

But there’s nothing wrong with either his mind or his calligraphy skills, and there’s a whole library of Wen records and manuscripts to sort through. Lan Wangji volunteers for the task and, every day, walks slowly to the designated tent to read, classify, and annotate.

Curiously, when the need for such a position is first brought up, quite a few people frown at his involvement, muttering something about Lans getting their hands on Wen knowledge. Then, quite abruptly, people pale and stop talking, no one voicing an actual objection.

When Lan Wangji manages to turn around, all he sees is his brother, smiling with one eyebrow raised, and Wei Wuxian, grinning with his arms folded over his chest. Lan Wangji suppresses an exasperated sigh.

So he is indulged in this, like a child. While embarrassing, it doesn’t change the fact that he is the best man for the job.

So he goes to the library tent and works, and Wei Wuxian—tags along, or appears at some point. He always stays. Sometimes he scrolls through assorted piles of paper; other times, he seems to just be biding his time, flute twirling through his fingers. Sometimes he brings Lan Wangji tea. The second day Lan Wangji leaves the tent for his assignment, Wei Wuxian presents him with a beautifully carved and very sturdy cane.

It’s… pleasant, but beyond strange. Lan Wangji remembers vividly the time spent together back in the Cloud Recesses library pavilion. Wei Wuxian had been bored out of his mind, had complained constantly, and, while he had managed to copy the rules, he’d been looking for ways to create trouble.

The Wei Wuxian of now is similar enough. He still stares at Lan Wangji more often than he should, but it’s decidedly different. It doesn’t feel anymore as if he’s choosing the next vector of attack—rather, it’s as if he simply wants Lan Wangji’s attention, and if he can’t get it immediately, he’s content to just watch. He smiles warmly every time Lan Wangji looks up; he grinds ink and trims brushes; he bullies Lan Wangji into taking a break when he notices that his hand is cramping.

On day three, Lan Wangji breaks. “Are you ill?” he asks with some not insignificant worry.

“What?” Wei Wuxian blinks from where he’s hunched over his own table, writing. “I’m fine, Lan Zhan. Why do you ask?”

Lan Wangji frowns, the tips of his ears getting warmer. “You’re quiet.”

“What? No, I’m not! I talk to you all the time! Just now, I—” Wei Wuxian laughs suddenly. “Oh, Lan Zhan, I swear, I’m not trying to lure you into the false sense of security, just so I can do mischief! I promise I’m not!”

“Hm.” Lan Wangji eyes him suspiciously. “Would you not rather be elsewhere?”

Wei Wuxian straightens up. “Am I bothering you?”

Frustrated, Lan Wangji shakes his head. “You… Wei Ying dislikes sitting still all day. I—cannot move around much. You can do many things. You don’t have to… breathe dust here all day.”

With me. You don’t have to be stuck with me.

Wei Wuxian’s expression eases and his smile returns. “You’re looking out for me, huh? Aw, Lan Zhan, you’re so sweet!”

Lan Wangji’s wary gaze sharpens into a glare.

Wei Wuxian laughs. “Aiya, Lan Zhan, don’t look at me like that! I promise I’m having fun here. Have you ever known me to willingly do something I didn’t want to do?”

Submitting to punishment is not something one does willingly. And other than that…

Lan Wangji shakes his head, his concern lessening while his puzzlement remains.

“There, see?” Wei Wuxian nods before stretching. “But maybe you’re right—I do need a break. Don’t miss me too much; I’ll be back in a minute!”

With that, he’s out of the tent.

It seems as if he’s barely left, though, when he reappears—barely within the hour, bringing in a tray of artfully arranged fruit that he just ‘happened to snatch from someone’ and which he sets on Lan Wangji’s table.

No food should be consumed where books are present, but Lan Wangji has no heart to berate him, not when it’s clear how much work has gone into arranging the plate and Wei Wuxian’s fingers are stained with grape juice. It’s… misguided, but sweet, and so Lan Wangji only moves the bamboo scrolls he’s been studying carefully out of the way.

When he turns back to his desk, a huge pink peony is laid across it.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji reproaches.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes are glinting with pleasure, the same way they had in the past when he was particularly pleased with himself.

“What?” He blinks innocently. “It’s only a pretty flower for a pretty gege. What’s wrong with that?”

Lan Wangji can’t stop himself from blushing. “Wei Ying!”

Wei Wuxian laughs. “Eat your fruit, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Wangji feels… tripped up by this. It’s as if he’s missed a whole chapter on his and Wei Wuxian’s relationship, one that had happened beyond his knowledge. For him, their last meaningful interaction had been at the Xuanwu cave, and, while Wei Wuxian had certainly been… helpful there, it hadn’t been anything remotely close to this.

Back then, Wei Wuxian had implied—said, even—that he’d much rather have anyone else for company, except perhaps when it came to fighting. Yet now he acts as if sometime, somewhere, while Lan Wangji hadn’t been looking, they really have become the best of friends.

Lan Wangji… doesn’t mind exactly. His own feelings have only grown with time and distance—indeed, they’re growing still. But Wei Wuxian had never previously indicated any such interest, and Lan Wangji can’t help but be wary, subconsciously waiting for the punchline.

One day, Wei Wuxian doesn’t show up with breakfast. He does send it with someone, and while the food is fine, Lan Wangji can’t help but have his mood turn grey. His brother gives him a sympathetic look, but he leaves soon, busy as he is, and Lan Wangji follows, toward his own duties.

Wei Wuxian isn’t in the library tent, either, and Lan Wangji tries not to be upset by his absence. What right does he have, anyway? Didn’t he tell Wei Wuxian he was free to spend his time in a less boring way?

As he approaches his desk, Lan Wangji sees that something is waiting for him—something—

His heart seizes in his chest.

It’s familiar, unexpectedly dear, and something he thought he would never see again. Hands suddenly unsteady, he picks up the small, carefully bound book.

The Lan Sect house rules.

In a very, very familiar hand.

Lan Wangji sits down too sharply, but he barely notices the twinge of pain in his back. He opens the book, flipping through the pages.

They’re all there—all three thousand rules. The handwriting is far from the precise calligraphy Lan Qiren would have approved of, but it’s perfectly legible, as if the scribe had consciously put in the effort.

Lan Wangji blinks, and only then realizes his eyes have become misty. It’s all there. The words he’s known from before he remembers himself, the words that had brought clarity, guidance, comfort, that had once surrounded him everywhere he went, had been dispersed in the very air of his home—all those words, every single one of them, are there.

Suddenly, it’s like he can feel the mist on his face, hear the distant waterfall. Any second now, his uncle will appear, asking strictly, but not unkindly, if Lan Wangji has finished his lessons. Any second…

“Ah, Lan Zhan…”

He looks up, and Wei Wuxian is there, wringing his hands.

“I didn’t mean to make you sad. Gods, I’m an idiot! I didn’t think—”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji interrupts, holding the book closer. “Thank you. How—how did you—?”

“I know, my memory is poor,” Wei Wuxian says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But when I sat down to write… I must have copied them so many times, Lan Zhan. My hand remembered for me. Even though… even though it’s not the same hand.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes dart toward it, and he nods sharply. “Thank you.”

Then, he sets the book down—he doesn’t want to—lifts his arms, and bows. His back screams in protest, but it’s worth it.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian yells. Instantly, he’s on his knees, trying to lift Lan Wangji up. “Aiya, Lan Zhan, stop right this second! I’ve done nothing—this is nothing—think about your back!”

“Wei Ying remembers my home for me. It is not nothing,” Lan Wangji says, strangely enjoying the moment of resistance, even as it hurts him. The way Wei Wuxian holds him against his body, trying to lift him up, is… nice.

“All right, all right, it’s something, whatever, just please get up! If your wounds reopen, your brother will kill me!”

Neither Lan Xichen nor anyone else in the camp can do anything to Wei Wuxian that he wouldn’t allow. That Wei Wuxian would prefer not to upset him…

Lan Wangji frowns. So that’s his answer. Wei Wuxian really isn’t pulling an elaborate prank, he’s… He’s doting on Lan Wangji to please Lan Xichen. Because they are… friends. His frown deepens, the arms around him suddenly feeling stifling.

He straightens up, ignoring another burning jolt of pain, and pulls away.

“Thank you,” he repeats stiffly.

“Aiya, Lan Zhan, stop thanking me already; it makes me ill,” Wei Wuxian grumbles, pulling back and opening a rift between them. “I’m sure I didn’t even remember them all correctly. You’ll make a much better one when you go home.”

“Home,” Lan Wangji echoes numbly.

Wei Wuxian’s face softens. “Yes, Lan Zhan. I know it won’t be the same, but it is home. You’ll make it home again.”

Lan Wangji nods, the tips of his fingers twitching slightly.

“I need to work.”

Probably sensing his mood, or perhaps having better things to occupy his time, Wei Wuxian nods, lips pressed together, and leaves.

Chapter 12 Notes:

Does Wei Wuxian know what he's doing? Who can say? Not I, nope...
There's also a suspicious number of people who have had it... :D

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian is gone for three days. According to Lan Xichen, so is Jiang Wanyin and a good number of Jiang disciples.

Lan Wangji tries to convince himself that this is fine, that everything is as it should be. The previous behavior had been an aberration; this is the norm. And if he misses Wei Wuxian’s presence, well… It’s not a new feeling to him in any way. He’s been learning to miss Wei Wuxian since he’d been kicked out of the guest lecture at Cloud Recesses. He’d been kicked out for punching Jin Zixuan, who is now dead. The world really is a wholly different place.

On day four, the flap of the library tent gets blown away by a gust of powerful and very enthusiastic whirlwind, and Wei Wuxian reappears in a flash, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

“Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, come with me, come quick! I have something for you—come on, come on!”

Lan Wangji blinks. “Wei Ying—”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t give him time to process, and before Lan Wangji knows it, he’s being ushered through the camp site, Wei Wuxian’s hand gripping his elbow, the other wrapped around his waist, encouraging his body to surrender most of its weight. People stare in shock at the sight.

Wei Wuxian himself seems to notice nothing, a man on a mission, and doesn’t stop propelling them forward until they’ve reached Jiang Wanyin’s tent and burst in. Lan Wangji automatically seeks out the Jiang heir to exchange greetings, but Wei Wuxian pulls him forward.

“Never mind that, look, Lan Zhan! Look!”

Lan Wangji looks, and forgets how to breathe.

Bichen.

Resting on a horizontal sword stand, it’s gleaming an icy blue, the purest crystal and light from the very heart of Gusu. As if sensing its master’s presence, it starts emitting light, humming on a frequency Lan Wangji alone can hear.

Breathless, he touches it, and a rush of energy washes over him, nearly knocking him over. His vision turns blurry, and he really should control himself better, but—he’d dreamed of this so many times, isolated in his cell, cut off from everything dear to him. He’d dreamed of the touch of his sword’s cold, cleansing energy, aching to feel it again.

He draws the blade out slightly, just to see it. He’s far from being able to lift it freely; already his arm is tired just being outstretched. But he has to see it. His heart feels full.

“Wei Ying,” he murmurs.

“Ah, Lan Zhan, look here, too.”

His eyes follow the voice obediently, and—suddenly he’s on his knees, the pain a distant feeling, even the arms around him but an echo—

On the low table before him sits Wangji.

The dark wood is polished and smooth, the guqin’s contained, humming energy as familiar as breathing. The last time Lan Wangji had held it was in battle. He had broken every single one of its strings; the tassel had been torn and drenched in blood. Someone had restringed it and given it a new silky tassel in white and blue, complete with a jade ornament.

Unaware of being supported, unaware of anything at all, Lan Wangji reaches to touch the strings. Wangji comes to life with a deep, low note that makes every bone in his body vibrate. He hears distant cries of surprise but can pay them no heed—his hands, starving for song, glide over the strings before he knows to stop them. Spiritual energy runs overflowing, blanketing the tent, the notes deafening and overwhelming, as Lan Wangji curves them to create a dome, to wrap himself and the space in a waterfall of pure, cleansing energy.

More alarmed voices filter in, but Lan Wangji sits there, mesmerized, until a soft voice breathes in his ear.

“Lan Zhan, I think your cultivation has grown stronger. You must have mediated a lot in all those months, huh? Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, you are magnificent, but could you spare us mere mortals? Some of us aren’t ready to ascend just yet.”

Lan Wangji’s hands still on the strings as reality slowly makes itself known. A couple of Jiang disciples are on the floor, hands pressed to their ears, though there’s no escaping this kind of music. Jiang Wanyin has kept his feet, but he’s pale, and his jaw is clenched tightly as he glares at Lan Wangji.

Lan Wangji himself is kneeling on the floor, and Wei Wuxian sits directly behind him, arms around him and chest pressed to his back—a support, without which Lan Wangji would have collapsed. With his back the way it is, he can’t turn his head, but there’s no escaping the pervading warmth of another body, or the way black sleeves overlap white. Lan Wangji blushes.

“Aw, Lan Zhan, you’re so cute,” Wei Wuxian coos, amused, and blows air over the tip of Lan Wangji’s ear, undoubtedly bright red.

“Wei Ying,” he growls. It’s all he can manage.

Wei Wuxian laughs, and Lan Wangji can feel it, wrapped in him as he is. He feels that he might expire from this, and drops his eyes, unable to meet anyone’s gaze.

“Ah, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Lan er-gege, don’t be like that,” Wei Wuxian sounds far too amused to be sincere. “It’s my fault anyway; I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like this. I was just too excited.”

He moves slightly so that, while his arm is still wrapped around Lan Wangji’s shoulders, they can now look at each other.

“Haven’t I done well, Lan Zhan? I turned the entire Sun Palace upside down to find these! So many hidden rooms! I’ve found every one, and let me tell you, Lan Zhan, Wen Ruohan’s personal life will feed my nightmares for years. But I finally found them! I did well, Lan Zhan, right? Right? Really, Lan er-gege! Don’t you have a kind word to say to this Wei Ying?”

Before Lan Wangji can form any kind of answer, Jiang Wanyin scoffs.

“I swear you grow more shameless every day. You turned the palace upside down? Why’d you drag me and half the Jiang disciples with you for, then? No breaks for food and water, barely any for sleep—you forced us to dig through every pile of rubble with you, and now you won’t even acknowledge it?”

“So I needed to borrow some hands to make it go faster—what’s the big deal?” Wei Wuxian dismisses.

“What’s the big deal?” Jiang Wanyin glowers at him. “You told me you’d learned of some stolen Jiang artifacts Wen Ruohan was keeping!”

“And you did find some! What are you so mad about?”

“You didn’t even know they existed! You only dragged us along so that we could help you find these for your—”

“Jiang Cheng!”

“—for him.” Jiang Wanyin glares. “And all so that he can end up nearly killing us in his excitement! I didn’t even know he could get excited over anything, what the f*ck.”

“Jiang Cheng!” Wei Wuxian snaps. “You’re being rude. And I seem to remember you did a little happy dance when you got Sandu back, so have some respect!”

Jiang Wanyin’s glare does not recede, but he seems to get some measure of control back. When he glances at Lan Wangji, it’s not without some extremely reluctant sympathy.

“Second Young Master Lan, the Jiang Sect is honored to return these spiritual instruments to you,” he allows through gritted teeth.

Lan Wangji instantly makes to get up, and Wei Wuxian more lifts him than helps him. Sparing him a reproachful look, Lan Wangji bows low.

“Young Master Jiang, this one is very grateful.”

Wei Wuxian hisses his displeasure, but says nothing, only pulling him up as soon as he can. Jiang Wanyin’s anger seems to have petered down to mild annoyance at the sight.

“Wei Wuxian, why don’t you escort your… friend back to the Lan tent?” he suggests, frowning as his hand curls and uncurls around his own sword. “He seems tired.”

“Good idea,” Wei Wuxian agrees. “Come on, Lan Zhan, let’s go. Jiang Cheng will have someone carry these.”

This, surprisingly, elicits no adverse reaction from Jiang Wanyin. He must really be impatient to get both Lan Wangji and anything that belongs to him out of his tent. For his part, Lan Wangji is loath to have anyone else touch Bichen and Wangji, but he knows his limits. It is a necessary evil.

It takes two Jiang disciples to carry Lan Wangji’s guqin, and the one carrying the sword is sweating profusely. Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian follow at a more sedate pace. Lan Wangji makes no objection this time when Wei Wuxian takes his arm again.

“Wei Ying,” he says after a few silent moments. “Thank you.”

“Aiya, Lan Zhan, here you go again,” Wei Wuxian mutters, looking away. “I was only joking before; you don’t have to thank me. Or—or praise me! Jiang Cheng is right, anyway; I didn’t really do much.”

“Did one of them found my spiritual tools?”

“Well, no, I did, but…”

“Would any of them think to look?”

“No, but…” Wei Wuxian sighs. “Ahaha, Lan Zhan, I see what you’re trying to do, but you don’t have to! I was bored, I just—”

Lan Wangji stops walking and turns toward him fully. “Wei Ying,” he says slowly, leaning into every syllable. “Thank you.”

Wei Wuxian breathes out, staring into his eyes, disarmed of all deflections. “Lan Zhan…”

Lan Wangji holds his eyes and nods.

Later that night, when Lan Xichen falls asleep, Lan Wangji lies awake next to him, unable to stop mulling the day over in his head.

Why is Wei Wuxian doing this? Something so sincere cannot be a prank, but it feels like too convoluted a way to impress his brother. And impress him for what? Lan Xichen already seems to think highly of Wei Wuxian; he is gentle with him, friendly. What else could he want? What is Wei Wuxian’s purpose?

He fusses as much as he can while lying on his stomach, unable to fall asleep, until his brother reaches out without waking up and sends a calming pulse of energy down his spine, like he used to do when Lan Wangji was small. His body knows to fall asleep after that, ignoring his unquiet mind.

As his mobility and independence grow bit by bit, Lan Wangji begins to move around more. Sometimes, he accompanies his brother to the clan conferences held to decide matters such as the division of war spoils, the fate of prisoners, and the compensation owed to one clan or the other. Lan Wangji doesn’t attend often, as it tends to tire him out quickly, but he wishes to assist his brother whenever he can.

It’s at one such time that he appears at the designated square between the tents, coming in late and unnoticed by most, and witnesses an argument in progress.

“The Jiang Sect has no right to those villages!” Sect Leader Yao is saying, red in the face. “If it wasn’t for the Jiang Sect betrayal, Wen Ruohan would never have gotten that much power in the first place!”

“And who do you have to thank for taking him out?” Jiang Wanyin snaps, Zidian crackling menacingly on his wrist. “I’ve lost one hundred thirty-eight disciples in battle, Sect Leader Yao! How many have you lost—two? Five? Who are you to criticize my sect? Everyone knows you and your sect were nowhere near the battle until it was nearly over! I saw Zewu-jun up front, waist-deep in blood of the Wen dogs! I don’t recall seeing you by his side!”

“You—insolent brat!” Sect Leader Yao has turned maroon in the face with fury. “You’re not even a sect leader—what, your father doesn’t dare to even show his face after—”

“Let’s all calm down.” The sweet lilting voice of Jin Guangyao disperses the heavy energy as everyone turns to him. “Sect Leader Yao, Jiang Wanyin is the general his sect has appointed. Do not make this personal—internal Jiang matters are none of your concern.”

Sect Leader Yao huffs but manages to stay silent.

“And he is correct,” Jin Guangyao continues, “that without the Jiang force, we would not be where we are today. As for the Jiang Sect’s… actions prior to the war, we don’t know how things would have turned out otherwise. Had Lotus Pier suffered the fate of Cloud Recesses, would Sect Leader Yao be happier?”

“Of course not! I never said—”

“And Jiang Wanyin.” Jin Guangyao turns toward him. “If we measured the worth of our contribution by our losses, would the Lan and Nie Sects not end up on top?”

Jiang Wanyin scowls but says nothing, even lifting a hand up to concede the point.

“Except the Nie Sect has withdrawn from these proceedings,” the Feng Sect leader says. “Who knows if they’re even interested in being part of the cultivation world anymore. And as for the Lan Sect, with all due respect to Zewu-jun, he and his brother do not a sect make. Any resources we allocate to them would be a waste.”

Lan Wangji feels his hands curl into fists. His brother isn’t here today, busy helping the wounded at Jiang Yanli’s request. Had he been present, no one would have dared say such a thing.

Before Lan Wangji can draw attention to himself, though, a bored, leisurely voice trickles in, having the effect of a thunderclap despite its even volume.

“A waste, Sect Leader Feng? How curious. I was just thinking that allowing you to speak was the same.”

A few people hastily move aside from the source of the voice, and there is Wei Wuxian, sprawled indecorously over some sacks of rice with his hands clasped behind his head as he stares up at the clouds.

“Wei Wuxian,” Sect Leader Feng hisses, though he has gone pale. “You…”

“Me.” With a performatively loud sigh, Wei Wuxian rolls off the sacks and onto his feet, taking a few measured steps into the center of the circle.

This is not the Wei Wuxian Lan Wangji has come to know over the past few days—the one playfully teasing him, bringing him flowers and loquats. This man stands taller, somehow, the aura of darkness around him easily perceptible. He carries himself with the confidence of someone no one can hurt, while he himself can hurt a great many.

“Me, Sect Leader Feng,” Wei Wuxian says, advancing on him by a single step. The other man flinches back. “The Lan Sect is a sect, and a great one at that, for as long as there are people to carry its name and uphold its principles. It doesn’t matter if there are two of them or two thousand. A single Lan, never mind one of the Twin Jades, is worth at least a hundred of the likes of you, you coward. You decided to exclude them because they are vulnerable, and because Zewu-jun isn’t here today?” His lip curls. “And you thought you’d get away with it?”

The darkness curling around him is getting thicker, until it feels as if the light of day itself has dimmed. The square turns into a bowl, brewing with resentment—sharp, dry as dust, and utterly vicious. It stretches toward the Feng Sect leader, grabbing him by the throat, until the man gasps in horror, lifting him off the ground.

Lan Wangji stares, transfixed, forgetting to breathe. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, and he has to interfere, but the mental connection to his voice can’t penetrate his paralysis.

Instead, someone else speaks.

“Wei-xiong,” Jin Guangyao’s voice sounds completely even, as if nothing extraordinary is happening. “I think you’ve made your point.”

Wei Wuxian cuts him a less-than-thrilled look, but he pulls his power back. Sect Leader Feng drops to all fours, breathing hard. Still shaking, he glares at Wei Wuxian, who turns away disinterestedly.

“Young Master Jin,” he says in a clearly mocking tone, bowing to Jin Guangyao in an openly insolent manner. “I’ll leave this in your capable hands. See that I don’t have reasons to be displeased.”

Jin Guangyao, for all that Lan Wangji doesn’t like him, smiles with no fear at all—rather, like he’s enjoying this.

“Don’t worry, Wei-xiong, I know exactly where your interests lie.” It’s clearly a barb—of what kind, Lan Wangji isn’t able to discern. Jin Guangyao, whatever else he may be, doesn’t seem to be lacking in courage.

“Then I’ll be off.” Wei Wuxian nods at his brother. “Jiang Cheng.”

At the dismissal, Lan Wangji pulls back and leaves, taking the opposite route back. He doesn’t know what it is he’s just seen, nor what to make of it.

His brother, when Lan Wangji finds him, only says, distractedly, “Wei Wuxian doesn’t need to argue on our behalf—certainly not so hard. I’ll speak to him; he shouldn’t trouble himself. Wangji, pass me that pitcher.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t know what to make of that, either.

Not an hour later, Wei Wuxian finds him in the library tent, beaming like a misbehaving child who’d gotten away with some mischief, and presents him a basket of water chestnuts, already peeled and gleaming with juice.

“Come on, Lan Zhan, won’t you try one? They weren’t easy to find, you know! These are no lotus seeds, of course, but there are no lotuses here—trust me, I’ve looked! That’s all right, though—I’ll take you to Yunmeng sometime, show you the good ones. You’ll come, right, Lan Zhan? Right?”

Lan Wangji looks at him, and the two people he has been trying to reconcile inexorably merge into one.

He reaches over and takes a chestnut from the basket.

“I will.”

Lan Wangji has a problem he tells no one about.

It wasn’t noticeable at first, but, as his physical condition continues to improve, it becomes inescapable.

He tells his brother he doesn’t remember much of his captivity. He’d purposefully kept his mind blank for the worst parts, deliberately trying to become his own witness—one who sees everything but retains nothing. And he isn’t lying—the details of the feast in the Sun Palace, for example, during which he’d been dragged out as entertainment, are not actively present in his mind. And yet…

He never feels clean anymore.

Even when he knows that he is, he doesn’t feel it. There are moments when it’s nothing more than a background noise, but there are other moments when it’s all he can think about, when he wishes he could crawl out of his skin and burn it. Even then, he probably still wouldn’t feel clean.

The only thing that helps relieve this is bathing, but he wants to bathe a great deal more frequently than is normal. The Lan brothers have a tub in their tent, but it’s only used twice per week. The rest of the time, they wash up in a small basin, which is more than fastidious enough while in the field. They don’t have servants or disciples to help fill the tub, and Lan Wangji currently isn’t capable of such a task. Neither lifting heavy objects nor hauling them is something his back allows at the moment.

He knows his brother would indulge him easily, even eagerly, if Lan Wangji told him, but he doesn’t. For one thing, Lan Xichen is too busy to demand even more work of him. For another—and that is the real reason—Lan Wangji doesn’t want to explain it to him, doesn’t want to upset him. Lan Xichen has a gargantuan task ahead, and he needs his little brother to be a capable assistant, not a draining burden. Lan Wangji has caused his brother enough grief and inconvenience already; he doesn’t need to add to it.

But his need to keep clean does not abate.

The camp has a communal bath area, and Lan Wangji braves approaching it once, but he can’t force himself to go inside. The idea that he will need to undress in front of others, to reveal his injuries and the pathetic state he’s in, is unbearable. He’d have recoiled from the thought even in his healthier body, but now, it’s unsupportable. His desperation has brought him here, but the merry voices drifting from within make his skin crawl, the sound of laughter nauseating.

He can’t expose himself to any kind of audience. He just… he can’t.

He steps back, turning awkwardly, and all but collides with Wei Wuxian.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian blinks at him in puzzlement. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing,” Lan Wangji says hastily. “I… lost my way.”

Wei Wuxian eyes him suspiciously but mercifully says nothing.

Lan Wangji puts the incident out of his mind and tries to meditate his inconvenient obsession away—he is abundantly aware that this is a condition of the mind, not the body. His mind is unruly and apparently weak, and he can’t reveal such a state to anyone.

He meditates, and convinces himself that it helps.

One day, Wei Wuxian arrives to the library tent a little after lunch, and grins.

“Lan Zhan, so much reading isn’t good for your health! Come take a little walk with me. I have something to show you.”

Lan Wangji has learned that it is generally easier to comply with Wei Wuxian’s vague requests than try to get an explanation, so he finishes the line he’s been writing and sets the brush aside.

“You’ll go?” Wei Wuxian beams in delight. “You won’t regret it, Lan Zhan! I promise it’s not far!”

Lan Wangji is now strong enough to walk without much help, leaning on his cane only, but when Wei Wuxian leads him away from the camp and into a small forest, the path becomes uneven. He’s leaning onto Wei Wuxian’s arm before he knows it, only becoming aware when they’re far enough away. Wei Wuxian seems to notice nothing at all, chattering animatedly as usual. Lan Wangji loves him helplessly. Even if it’s hopeless and he’s alone in this, his heart thaws just being near the other like this. He has to force himself not to drag his feet.

True to his word, the walk really isn’t long. The trees part, revealing a low grassy bank, the lip of the river curling into the land like a swirl of a whimsical cloud. Lan Wangji stares.

There is a small hut standing on what appears to be a pier, made half of stone, half of wood. It has a roof, what appears to be at least two chambers, and it’s facing the river, wooden steps leading into the water.

It takes Lan Wangji a few moments to realize what he’s seeing.

A bathhouse.

Small, crudely made, but providing perfect privacy from whoever may wander around, shielding the tiny cove from any onlookers. What’s more, the small clearing before it is shimmering with energy—likely a screening system to only allow specific people to pass.

“What do you think?” Wei Wuxian prompts him, sounding strangely shy. “I know it’s not much to look at… But! You don’t have to worry! I know I’m no architect, and I had to use my… undead friends for most of the physical work, but the space is clean! I can’t play any spiritual songs, but I asked your brother, and he played Cleansing here for several hours yesterday. No resentment remains, I promise!”

Dazed as he is, Lan Wangji can feel it. The energy of the place is pure, and good.

“Only you and your brother can enter here,” Wei Wuxian says. “Well, and me, I suppose, but I promise I won’t spy on you! I just thought… You’d probably want to have a private place like this, while you’re here, right? I just thought…”

“Wei Ying.”

Lan Wangji turns toward him, heart beating too fast in his chest, everything in him too full. He would have kissed Wei Wuxian, he thinks, unwisely, unthinkingly, more overflowing with sweltering, overwhelming love for this impossible man than caution or propriety for once, but—

Wei Wuxian steps back. Can feel his intention?

“Aiya, please don’t thank me again, Lan Zhan. Or better yet—if you want to thank me, why don’t you go ahead and try it? There’s, uh, stuff inside, if you need anything. And I’ll just—I’ll—”

“Don’t go,” Lan Wangji says quickly. He’s probably being pathetic at this point, but strangely, he doesn’t care. He’s only ever allowed himself to be like this with Lan Xichen before—selfishly asking for something he wants. It’s not as though Wei Wuxian can’t refuse him. “Please. Wei Ying. Stay.”

Wei Wuxian looks torn. The broad-shouldered menace of a demonic cultivator shuffles from foot to foot, eyes darting around, anywhere except toward Lan Wangji.

“Uh, well… I suppose I can… stay right here. In case—in case you need something!”

Despite everything, Lan Wangji feels his lips twitch. “You once broke into the cold springs where I was bathing without even asking.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian blushes a vivid red. Lan Wangji marvels at the sight. “That was forever ago! I was young and stupid—everyone is an obnoxious brat when they’re young! How discourteous of you to remember the mistakes of youth, Young Master Lan!”

That was not even three years ago, Lan Wangji thinks wryly, but says nothing. It feels strangely exhilarating to tease Wei Wuxian back.

He enters the tiny bathhouse, the door swinging closed behind him. Inside, it really is incredibly simplistic, but perfectly, wonderfully serviceable. There are benches to sit on, a screen on which to hang his clothes, a neat stack of towels, a comb, and a selection of washing powders and oils.

Lan Wangji shakes his head at the display. Wei Wuxian is too generous.

He starts undressing slowly, never an easy process for him anymore. For a moment, he contemplates asking Wei Wuxian to help, as his brother usually does, but in the end, Lan Wangji doesn’t call for him. He’s not that good at teasing, and besides, he’s not the pretty sight he once was. No one should be subjected to the view of what he has become. It is enough that his face does not repel people.

He undresses carefully and then descends the steps into the water. There’s a wooden railing to hold onto as he slowly steps on the welcoming sand of the riverbed. The thoughtfulness of the details nearly overwhelms him. Then, clear cold water is all around him, and he closes his eyes in such all-encompassing relief, he nearly cries with it.

The energy of the place is unerringly light. There is the tiniest hint of a current in the water, just enough to help him visualize as all his impurities are washed away. It’s not quite the cold springs of Gusu, but it’s close. Lan Wangji knows, suddenly, that his condition won’t be cured until he washes in the cleansing springs of his home again, but until then, this is beyond what he had hoped for.

At some point, Wei Wuxian, hidden from view behind a wooden screen, begins to play idly on his flute—no spiritual music, as promised, but light, simple tunes. Lan Wangji recognizes some folk songs, and some of the more playful ballads sung at teahouses from Qinghe to Yunmeng. His lips curl in a smile no one can see, and he closes his eyes, relaxing into the water and the music.

He doesn’t know when it happens, but at some point, he’s abruptly aware that Wei Wuxian is playing his song—their song. Lan Wangji’s guqin always made it deep and sorrowful, but from Wei Wuxian’s black flute, it’s more wistful, hopeful even, the melody curling around Lan Wangji like a soft caress.

It’s too much—suddenly, everything is. The song, the bathhouse; his sword, his guqin. The Lan Clan house rules. The food, and the company, and the flowers.

What does Wei Wuxian want?

Lan Wangji is in dire danger of misinterpreting his intentions—of assigning intentions where there are none, as is entirely too often the case with Wei Wuxian. It is unbearable. Lan Wangji can’t handle any more of this.

As the melody trickles out, he wades his way back toward the steps, climbing them carefully and feeling blissfully clean, yet utterly disturbed. He dries himself as best he can, considering he can’t bend forward, and pulls the clothes over his still-damp skin.

“Lan Zhan?” There’s a soft knock on the door. “Do you need help with anything? May I come in?”

“You may,” Lan Wangji says. The sooner he’s dressed, the sooner he can get much-needed distance.

Wei Wuxian enters, looking uncharacteristically hesitant. “Uh, you seem to be dressed, what do you—oh! Sit down, Lan Zhan, I’ll help you put your boots on.”

It’s strange, how easily they negotiate the task, not needing to give directions or indeed discuss anything. Lan Wangji has only known such ease with his brother, but, as Lan Xichen knows him as he does himself, that’s not a mystery. How is it... this way with Wei Wuxian? Since when has it been so easy?

“There, all set,” Wei Wuxian declares. He straightens up, looking him over. “Wait, what about your hair?”

Lan Wangji shakes his head. “I can’t lift my arms to reach. Brother will help.”

“I can do it!” Wei Wuxian instantly exclaims, then seems to be embarrassed by his eagerness. “I mean—I’m sure Xichen-ge won’t mind, but he won’t be back until sunset! What, you just want to walk around with wet hair like that? What if you catch a cold, Lan Zhan?” Suddenly, he pales and takes a step back. “I mean—if you’d really I’d rather not, it’s all right, I understand, it’s—”

Wordlessly, Lan Wangji hands him the comb, stopping the flood of words.

It’s a mistake; of course it is. Lan Wangji has never had his hair touched so lovingly and gently by anyone who isn’t family, and now, he has only himself to blame. Wei Wuxian moves so carefully and gently, untangling every knot with seemingly endless patience. The alternating touches of warm and cold between his left and right hands are a wholly unexpected sort of pleasure. By the time the hair is brushed soft and Wei Wuxian starts working the oil into it, Lan Wangji feels perilously close to melting, and that just won’t do.

“Wei Ying,” he manages hoarsely, only just catching Wei Wuxian’s wrist. He can’t take a second more of this.

His thoughts are a hopeless jumble of: Stop! No, don’t stop. Never stop! Please kiss me. Do you like my brother? Why are you doing this? Can’t you see what you’re doing to me? Please don’t go. Please leave me alone. He can only look up helplessly, without knowing what his face is doing.

Whatever it is, it makes Wei Wuxian pull back sharply.

“I’m sorry!” he manages. “I’m so sorry, Lan Zhan! I got carried away! You should have stopped me—I didn’t mean to—I would never—ugh! I—I—” He stumbles to his feet, eyes still locked with Lan Wangji’s. “I need to go! There’s something I must do! I completely forgot! You can walk back by yourself, right? It’s not far! I really—I really need to—I’ll see you later, Lan Zhan, okay? Bye!”

Then, Lan Wangji is alone in the bathhouse, looking forlornly at his own reflection in the water.

Enough is enough.

He finds his brother in their tent. Lan Xichen looks up from his desk, where he’s been writing something. He looks tired, but smiles in genuine joy at seeing his brother.

“Wangji. You look… ruffled. Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji almost snaps, pacing more energetically than is wise. “No. I don’t know.”

Lan Xichen lifts an eyebrow and sets his brush aside. “Well, that certainly covers it. Wangji, you’re making me dizzy. Why don’t you sit down and rest? I’ll make tea, and you can calm your thoughts, all right?”

Lan Wangji glares at him, but his irritation subsides almost instantly. “Mn.”

He settles in the chair that supports his back and watches as his brother prepares tea. Lan Xichen really is a timeless beauty, Lan Wangji muses with a kind of melancholy; no wonder the daughters of every minor sect leader are after him.

Lan Wangji himself has to stumble over their brothers several times a day, as they seem strangely fascinated by his experiences as a prisoner and are intent on asking him odd questions, even bringing him tea in the hopes of getting him talking. It’s usually poorly brewed and stinks of their inappropriate curiosity. Truly, tact is a dying art.

Lan Xichen settles across from him and pours—Baihao Yinzhen, Lan Wangji’s favorite, not his brother’s. It requires precision and a practiced hand to prepare correctly. Lan Xichen, of course, has made it perfectly.

His brother considers him over the rim of his cup, then says, “Perhaps I had better go first. There is a matter I need to discuss with you.”

Instantly, Lan Wangji is at attention. Lan Xichen seems uncharacteristically serious.

“Wangji, do you know of the Tang Clan?”

Lan Wangji frowns slightly. “By name only. I’ve had no dealings with them.”

Lan Xichen sets his cup down, steeples his fingers, and seems to steel himself. “Wangji. That night, at Nightless City, their former sect leader and his son had… approached you. They were the ones who fed you meat. And…”

Lan Wangji nods sharply and looks away. These are only facts. They do not affect him. He and they coexist in the same space, that is all.

He’s suddenly craving a bath again.

“Their current sect leader, Tang Ming, came to see me today. He had already offered his apologies on behalf of his sect when Wei Wuxian… when Wei Wuxian had killed his father and elder brother.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes snap to him. What?!

Lan Xichen nods, his voice not wavering. “Do not judge him for it. I would not have suffered them to live, either.”

Lan Wangji has been robbed of speech entirely. His brother, who has perhaps the most generous heart in existence, who always finds ways to forgive… That Lan Wangji would kill for him, he had never doubted, but Lan Xichen is a different matter. His is a sweet temper, a kind soul.

As if sensing his thoughts, his brother sighs and looks away. “Do not judge me either, Wangji. I’d have done much worse things for you.”

Lan Wangji says nothing. It’s his fault, somehow. He knows it.

“Why did Sect Leader Tang come to see you?”

Lan Xichen looks at him. “He… seems to be vastly different from his father and brother. And he is young. He feels guilty for what they did, and he—Wangji. He offered to disband his sect, bring all of them to Gusu. They would abandon their name and take ours. They wish to help us rebuild the Lan Sect as an act of penance.”

Outside of one clan absorbing the other as a result of victory in war, this is unheard of.

“And his clan supports this?” Lan Wangji asks.

“Apparently, yes.” Lan Xichen moves his cup further away from the edge of the table, then pulls it closer again. “They are our… relatives of sorts. Through Lan Xiaojie.”

Lan Wangji nods; he remembers the family tree well. But marriages outside the sect did not always serve to bring the clans together. Lan Xiaojie, if he remembers correctly, did not marry under the best of circ*mstances, though details now elude him.

“I told Tang Ming that this would be your decision,” Lan Xichen says, “as it is you their kinsmen have wronged. But Wangji. You need to know—” He stops fiddling with the cup and looks at Lan Wangji directly. “If you want every single one of them dead, you need only say so. It will be done, and we need never speak of it again.”

Lan Wangji stares at him. In truth, his brother... worries him. Lan Xichen should not be saying such things, offering—even contemplating—such things. He should not be looking so absolutely certain and matter-of-fact about it.

“I do not want them dead,” Lan Wangji says, the words not something he’s ever envisioned himself saying, least of all to his gentle, kind-hearted brother.

And how can he want them dead? He did not know of their existence ten minutes ago, and now that he does, he has no particular feelings about them. The responsible ones are dead; the rest, he doesn’t care about.

“Are they... good people?” he asks.

Lan Xichen’s shoulders relax a fraction, his equivalent of a shrug. “I spent some time with them. They know the Lan principles and seem to mostly follow them. I sensed no malevolence from them. Beyond that…”

Lan Wangji nods. “And they would really do it? Surrender their name and their clan, and swear loyalty to ours?”

“Yes.”

“Then…” Lan Wangji frowns at his cup, but he can sense no opposition from himself, no recoil at the thought. “Then, perhaps we should accept them. We will need people to rebuild our sect. And if they are… some sort of family, perhaps they will be the best choice to start.”

Lan Xichen studies him for a few moments longer, then inclines his head. “Then I will tell them so.”

Lan Wangji watches as his brother pours them both more tea. Perhaps accepting these people will help Lan Xichen find his way back toward himself. Lan Wangji may be the only one to have suffered captivity between them, but he’s not the only one in need of healing.

Lan Xichen settles back in his seat, visibly more relaxed now.

“Now, Wangji. What did you wish to talk to me about?”

Lan Wangji takes a deep breath… and spills it all.

The constant presence. The gifts; the flowers and the food. The compliments, and all the helpful touches. His sword. Finally, he reaches the bathhouse, of which his traitorous brother should already know. Even as he tells it all, he feels it’s not enough to explain his utter frustration.

“I don’t know why he’s doing it,” Lan Wangji says, very much aware that he’s whining, but there is no one (else) here to witness it, and he can’t hold back anymore. “If he’s trying to—ingratiate himself with you through me, or—or if this is some sort of joke.” It’s not. He knows it’s not. Even saying it feels wrong. “But please, tell him to stop. You’re—you’re his friend now. He’ll listen to you. Please, tell him to stop, Brother. I can’t take it anymore.”

Lan Xichen listens to this speech with an expression that barely conceals amusem*nt. Lan Wangji frowns. Why did he think his brother would help? He is clearly too terrible a person for it.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen says slowly, as if testing whether Lan Wangji has more to say. When nothing follows, he continues, “Wangji, xiao didi, you worry me. When Wen Ruohan captured you, all those endless months, I thought… I was so afraid for you, Didi. So afraid that not only your body but your mind would suffer, too. Have my fears come to pass, Wangji?”

He sounds so earnest that Lan Wangji almost takes it at face value. Then, Lan Xichen’s eyes give him away. He has clearly spent too much time in Jin Guangyao’s company.

“You are scaring me, little brother,” he says, clearly barely holding back laughter. “Are you telling me you truly cannot discern Wei Wuxian’s motivation? His actions seem fairly straightforward to me.”

Lan Wangji glares at him before looking away. His horrible brother, of course, isn’t done.

“Wangji. Wei Wuxian is currently one of the—no, actually, the most powerful person in the cultivation world. Already, there’s plenty of talk that he should be controlled. People are afraid of him—he commands a terrible force none of them understand. He is a walking weapon that can annihilate the world at his pleasure.”

Lan Wangji remembers that argument he’d witnessed, how readily people had backed away from Wei Wuxian. He says nothing.

Lan Xichen gives him a would-be patient look. “For days now, Wangji—weeks really—I’ve watched that terrifying weapon try one recipe after the other until he could get your congee just right. Are you telling me you don’t know what it means when a man stares at you constantly and calls you beautiful twenty times a day?”

Lan Wangji glowers at him. “He said such things before,” he murmurs, ears red and hot. “He never meant them. How am I to believe? Why now, all of a sudden?”

Lan Xichen hums thoughtfully. “Wangji. Sometimes, terrible things need to happen to reveal the real nature of our feelings to us. I do not believe it was sudden for him, but I can see how it appears that way from your perspective. If it’s any help…” He exhales. “The one thing I can tell you is this. I know Wei Wuxian loves to talk about how he’d become a dark cultivator to overthrow Wen Ruohan. But Wangji, there was only one name on his lips as we had worked toward that goal, and it was yours.”

Lan Wangji stubbornly stares at his hands clasped in his lap. This is... incredibly hard to believe. He wants it to be true too badly to allow himself such a weakness.

Lan Xichen sighs. “I won’t speak to him for you—this is a private matter between the two of you, and it wouldn’t be proper for me to interfere. But I will give you one piece of advice. If his behavior makes you uncomfortable, tell him so yourself. But when you do”—Lan Xichen lifts a hand up—“don’t just tell him that—explain why. If he does it all unwittingly, simply being friendly without realizing the effect—tell him what effect it has. If his actions hurt you, tell him why. He deserves that much.”

Lan Wangji looks at him gloomily. “You’re pushing me to confess.”

Lan Xichen presses his fingers against his temple briefly. “I wouldn’t dream of pushing you, Wangji,” he says in the tone of a man who does, in fact, dream of exactly that and often. “I’m only saying he’s my friend, too, and if you simply tell him off, he’ll be hurt. You don’t want to hurt him, do you?”

Lan Wangji slowly shakes his head.

Lan Xichen’s expression softens. “Then do as I say, Didi. If you trust that I love you beyond all else and would never wish you ill, Wangji—do as I say.”

Lan Wangji recognizes the outright blackmail for what it is, but that in itself provides no defense against it. His shoulders droop as he surrenders. He’ll do as his brother says, but Lan Xichen had better be ready to pick up the pieces.

Wei Wuxian can admit when he hasn’t thought things through. He is, in fact, an expert in it, since that is the case with him more often than not. He has the kind of mind that can improvise its way out of pretty much anything, and that mind had become his downfall.

Why did he think brushing Lan Wangji’s hair was a good idea? Why did he think he could control himself? With Lan Wangji willingly submitting into his care, being all soft and vulnerable and open—why did Wei Wuxian ever think he could handle that and not be the creep Jiang Cheng regularly accuses him of being?!

“This isn’t courting—this is stalking,” Jiang Cheng had told him just the other day. “You do all those crazy, over-the-top, invasive things, and you don’t even think to tell him why? How is he supposed to know what you’re up to?”

“I’m not up to anything, Jiang Cheng—are you out of your mind? I’m just being a good friend! He doesn’t have anyone but his brother, and Lan Xichen can’t be with him all the time! And he’s injured still! I’m just—looking out for him.”

“Uh-huh,” Jiang Cheng says dryly. “Just so you know, if anyone ever ‘looks out’ for A-jie that way without declaring their intentions, I’ll have their head.”

“And Lan Xichen hasn’t done anything, which proves you’re paranoid, and I’m doing nothing wrong!” Wei Wuxian proclaims, sticking his tongue out at his brother for good measure.

Jiang Cheng regards him for a few moments silently, then sighs.

“So, Lan Wangji, huh?” he asks in a peculiar tone. “Not that it’s any interest of mine, but… When exactly did you decide to start cutting your sleeves?”

Wei Wuxian almost blurts out a reflexive ‘What are you talking about, Jiang Cheng, it’s all in your head!’ but catches himself. He’ll have to come clean at some point.

“I don’t know myself,” he admits, staring into space. “At that feast, I guess. It felt like… it was my skin they were cutting into. He was hit, but I hurt. He was bleeding, yet I…” He clenches his fists tightly. “I just… hadn’t realized before, what it was.”

Jiang Cheng stares at him a moment longer, then shakes his head. “Well, you were always kind of obsessed with him. I never would have guessed this is what it was, but…” He makes a vague gesture with his hand. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he hates you.”

Wei Wuxian grins at that. “No, I don’t think he does. Lan Zhan is—he is…”

“Oh gods, no, stop,” Jiang Cheng orders, grimacing. “Wait till I’m out of here before you make that face. Never make that face when I’m around again. Better yet, go away!”

“Ah, Jiang Cheng, take care how you speak to me, my dear shidi,” Wei Wuxian teases, recovering his usual bravado quickly. “I can turn you to dust with a wave of my hand, you know!”

“Then do it already and put me out of my misery! Get the hell out!”

Wei Wuxian escapes after some more pointed barbs—if he can embarrass Jiang Cheng, he doesn’t have to be embarrassed himself. That’s how it always worked between them, and what else are brothers for?

He forgets about the conversation soon enough, as he throws himself into his new project—build Lan Wangji a bathhouse, because why not?

Now that he remembers it, it’s too late to heed Jiang Cheng’s warning. Worst of all, he had panicked and left Lan Wangji to fend for himself! In the woods! It was an easy and short track back—Lan Wangji has to walk further to get to the library tent—but all the same. He doubts their friendship can withstand something like that without an explanation, so it’s too bad he doesn’t have one. He’ll have to come up with something.

Not that the environment is conductive to any kind of creative thinking. The next day, he’s still thinking furiously when he runs across a group of young heroes from assorted sects, who apparently have nothing better to do than stalk the library tent.

“Look, I’m just saying, you don’t have to defend yourself to us. Anyone would cut their sleeves for Lan Wangji. There’s no shame in it.”

Wei Wuxian stops abruptly, as if having hit a wall, and quickly pulls back behind the corner of a tent. So they aren’t just gawkers, attracted by the aura of heroism, but actual suitors? Did everyone know of Lan Wangji’s preference except him?! Unbelievable.

“It’s not like that at all!” a young voice proclaims hotly. Wei Wuxian peeks through the gap in the fabric. The boy seems to be around sixteen, wearing Mu Clan colors. “I don’t want to—I’m not like that!”

The other two laugh at him.

“You don’t have to—”

“I said it’s not like that! I just think Lan Wangji had suffered enough! First Wen Ruohan and Wen Chao and all the other Wens, and now that they’re all dead, he’s still not free—he’s the Yiling Laozu’s fiancé! I just want to save him!” The youth puffs out his chest, not quite cutting the dashing figure he’s clearly going for. “Someone should!”

“Lan Wangji is not a defenseless maiden,” the first voice remarks skeptically. “Have you ever seen him with a sword?”

“So what if he’s not—he’s injured! And even if he wasn’t, what good is that against the Yiling Laozu? He sleeps with the dead, he eats the dead; he can make them do anything! That a man like that would touch someone like Lan Wangji—I can’t stand it!”

“But you don’t want Lan Wangji for yourself?” a third voice interrupts, mocking. “Got it, got it. Well, more for us then. I agree with xiao Ling about one thing, though—Wei Wuxian is a monster and should be hunted down like the abomination he is, not honored or allowed to walk around freely. We already know what happens when one man has that much power, and at least Wen Ruohan was one of us.”

“Speak for yourself; no Wen dog is anything like me,” the first speaker says with disgust. “And I suggest you keep your voice down when saying such things about Wei Wuxian. You might summon him—then you’ll be one of the dead he sleeps with.”

“Oh, what a sound piece of advice,” Wei Wuxian intones, coming out of his hiding place, his patience having snapped. “Too bad it’s come so late.”

It shouldn’t be so gratifying to scare children, but he can’t help being enormously pleased at the sight of their suddenly-white faces.

“So you three are brave enough to try and ‘rescue’ my fiancé from me? Gods, you must be really tired of living.”

He spreads his hands, allowing darkness to pool between them, letting a bit of red to bleed into his eyes. A cheap trick, but he is, apparently, just that petty.

“You’re a monster!” the Mu disciple yells at him, the bravest and the stupidest of the three. “You don’t deserve him!”

Wei Wuxian tilts his head. “Well, that I can’t argue with. But if I don’t, trash like you does even less. If I ever catch you bothering Lan Zhan again, I’ll part your souls from your bodies and feed them to the undead cats.”

“Which one?” one of them manages. “The souls or the bodies?”

Honestly, kids these days. No respect for their elders.

“Both. Now get the hell out of here, before I change my mind. Scram!”

He sends a cloud of darkness at them, and watches with satisfaction as they turn tail and run. Brats. To think they have such designs! People call him obnoxious when he’d never been so brazen in his life. The sheer nerve…

He shakes his head, despairing of the younger generation, and turns to go.

He runs square into Lan Wangji standing behind him, one eyebrow raised.

“Uh…” Wei Wuxian says intelligently, head entirely free of thought. “That’s… not what it looks like?”

Lan Wangji sighs.

“Lan Zhan… How… how long have you been standing there?”

“Enough.”

“I—I see. How much have you heard?”

“Enough.”

“Lan Zhan, I can explain!”

Lan Wangji tilts his head toward the entrance to the library tent that Wei Wuxian has been blocking this whole time. “Please do.”

To say that Wei Wuxian loses his nerve the moment they’re ensconced in the tent wouldn’t be accurate—that would imply he had any to begin with. He paces, feeling every bit the caged tiger looking for an escape.

The ever-patient Lan Wangji eventually prompts him. “Fiancé?”

“That, I actually can explain!” Wei Wuxian exclaims in relief. “It’s all your brother’s fault! Well, he didn’t come up with the rumor, but—but he told me not to deny it! He said it was pointless, and—and that you wouldn’t be mad!”

Lan Wangji waits some more, then nods carefully. “A rumor. I see.”

“Lan Zhan…” Wei Wuxian lifts tortured eyes at him. “You’re mad, aren’t you?”

Lan Wangji turns his face away. “Not mad.”

“But you’re—something.” Wei Wuxian tries to take a good look at his face, but Lan Wangji turns away again. “Upset? Annoyed? Lan Zhan, give me something to work with…”

Eventually, Lan Wangji says, “I am sad.”

“Sad?” Wei Wuxian feels his own heart plummet. “Why?”

“This was… a game for Wei Ying, after all.”

Wei Wuxian feels like he’s been punched.

“No,” he breathes out. “Lan Zhan, this wasn’t a game for me at all.”

Lan Wangji’s head tilts toward him ever so slightly.

“Lan Zhan.” Damn it, it’s hard to talk when your heart is in your throat! “Lan Zhan. I wanted it to be real. I played it up for strategic purposes, yes, but the whole time, I—I wanted it to be true. I didn’t realize at first how badly, but then… the more people talked, the more I wanted to have a claim on you. The more I wanted you to… be in love with me.”

Lan Wangji turns to him fully, his eyes impossibly wide and pale—distilled, luminescent moonlight.

“Wei Ying,” he says softly. “I am. I have been. The entire time.”

Wei Wuxian feels his knees go weak, barely keeps himself upright. “You—”

“I like Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says—simple, easy. “I love Wei Ying. I would have liked… to be his fiancé.”

“Lan Zhan, I... need to sit down,” Wei Wuxian manages. “Lan Zhan, I… You mean it, don’t you? Lan Zhan…”

“Mn.” Lan Wangji tilts his head, allowing a brief silence. “What about Wei Ying?”

Wei Wuxian looks at him incredulously. Seeing how vulnerable, how—wary—Lan Wangji is makes Wei Wuxian’s heart tug painfully in his chest. He starts stalking closer.

“Lan Zhan,” he says hoarsely, torn between triumphant laughter and tears. “My sect was safe, and yet I left it.”

Step.

“I knew the dangers and yet I grew myself a ghost arm.”

Step.

“I became a demonic cultivator.”

Step.

“I killed thousands of people. I never even counted.”

Step.

They are at point-blank range now.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian breathes out softly in his face. “I did it all, because my world doesn’t make sense without you.”

Lan Wangji’s ethereal eyes are so close and so unguarded now. Instead of the usual ice, tentative hope shines there, and an ocean of longing, molten-hot liquid gold. He nods subtly, as if moving underwater. Then, a whisper.

“But does Wei Ying… want me?”

Wei Wuxian nearly sobs at this, and presses their lips together.

Oh.

He’s been an idiot.

This whole time, he’s been—

He thought it was something other people did, he’d made fun of them for it, he never realized that it could be like this, that it was like this, that it—

He barely knows how to do this, but it’s not that hard to figure out when he suddenly wants it more than he has ever wanted anything in his entire life, when it burns under his skin like liquid fire. Lan Wangji’s lips are soft, slightly chapped, and better than anything Wei Wuxian could have imagined, and then—he parts them, and Wei Wuxian loses what little ability to think he had left.

Lan Zhan is everything, everywhere. His hands on Wei Wuxian’s waist, holding him close, his mouth, warm and moist and perfect, his hair, warm silk under Wei Wuxian’s fingers, the scent of sandalwood incense he favors, the little guttural noises he’s making, the way he can’t seem to get enough the same way Wei Wuxian can’t.

“Lan Zhan, I love you,” he whispers between heated, breathless kisses. “Lan Zhan, I’ve been an idiot. Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, you should have told me. You had to know this whole time, Lan Zhan, you—”

Lan Wangji growls at him, bites his lip hard, and kisses him quiet.

Lan Xichen stares at the black messenger bunny the likes of which he hasn’t seen since the war was over. He opens his palm, and it jumps onto it, conveying the message that the terrifying Yiling Laozu has kidnapped his brother and Lan Xichen is not to expect him until morning and also is not to worry.

He smiles wide, unable to help it, then gives the bunny a stern look. “You’re lucky Wangji loves you.”

The bunny, while not sentient or even alive, is imbued with enough of its master’s personality to make a quiet contrite noise of agreement and coyly bow its little head.

Lan Xichen laughs and releases it back into the night.

Jin Guangyao is not, by any stretch of imagination, in possession of a particularly delicate constitution. There are very few sights in this world he hasn’t seen, and even fewer that can shake his equilibrium. Too much mental scarring acquired early has made him more or less invincible.

That doesn’t mean that the sight of Wei Wuxian pushing Lan Wangji against a tent pole and doing things to him that would make spring books authors spontaneously combust is something he couldn’t have done without, if for no other reason than that he’s getting tired of stumbling over them in the most inopportune places.

So far, only Jiang Wanyin and Lan Xichen seem to have been ‘fortunate’ enough to share this particular pain, but if this goes on much further, Lan Wangji’s reputation as a pillar of righteousness might end up in tatters—much like his clothes tend to these days.

Jiang Wanyin’s face usually turns a plethora of highly unlikely colors before he spirits himself away, cursing loudly. Lan Xichen tells them off gently a number of times, but he’s mostly indulgent of them, which the two shameless miscreants can undoubtedly sense.

“Oh, A-Yao, I can’t be hard on them,” Lan Xichen tells him once, shaking his head with a rueful smile. “Wangji’s pining was breaking my heart long before the war—trust me, anything is better than that. And I must confess, while I could have done without the… impropriety, I like seeing him so happy.”

In short, Lan Xichen is no help at all, and Jin Guangyao is on his own. It’s not that he minds much. They are both, after all, unfairly attractive men, and there is something enticingly fragile and delicate about Lan Wangji’s beauty post-captivity, creating a marked contrast against Wei Wuxian’s dark-rimmed passion.

The problem is, they’re making Jin Guangyao jealous.

He doesn’t like being subject to such base emotions, and he could definitely do without Wei Wuxian’s smug smirks. Honestly, the man is unbearable, more so than before—talk about ‘achieving the impossible.’ Lan Wangji clearly doesn’t have his head on straight.

Jin Guangyao can’t exactly complain. He has to head back to Lanling soon, where his father has been… indisposed... ever since his first heir died. That that indisposition might not be entirely voluntary is for Jin Guangyao alone to know. He’s not about to murder his own father—after all, if he’s dead, he won’t be able to watch the bastard son he’d ordered pushed down the stairs of Koi Tower rule in his name. Jin Guangyao intends to be a very attentive son to him for a very long time.

His visit here has also proven fruitful. He’d gotten everything he wanted for the Jin Sect, made good with the Jiangs, and has done his level best for the Lans as they start rebuilding. A sect leader indebted to you is nothing to sneeze at—at least, that’s what he tells himself every time he sees Lan Xichen smile at him.

Something unspoken hangs between them that neither one will touch. Life, fate, the general logic of events—it’s all pulling them inexorably apart for now. Jin Guangyao knows this; knows, too, that they both have more important commitments than whatever this thing is.

And yet, Lan Xichen finds it necessary to say, once, “I have grown up believing I wouldn’t necessarily have to marry. But with Wangji engaged to Wei Wuxian, and the sect being as it is, it becomes my duty now.”

He speaks calmly, matter-of-factly, not like someone who’s mourning a great loss. Jin Guangyao knows him to be right, and that he’s in no position to lay claims of any kind.

Still, he hears himself say, “I’ve heard one of the Lan Clan rules is to marry for love.”

Lan Xichen looks up with a smile. “That is true, but, under the circ*mstances, I will have to break it. I can only hope for a spouse that will become my partner in this... uneasy task. In return, I will give her all the respect and care she deserves. Over time, perhaps love as well, of a certain kind.”

Jin Guangyao smiles in understanding. “As one would love a sister-in-arms, and the mother of their children?”

“Quite.” Lan Xichen nods. “As for romantic love… Wangji will model that rule for our disciples for both of us.” His smile turns brighter. “Oh, but I’m so happy for him, A-Yao! They’ll get married as soon as we get back to Gusu and have some sort of shrine in place of the ancestors hall.”

“Mhm.” Jin Guangyao’s tone is dry. “Build their house, too, as far away from everyone else as possible, or none of you will get any peace.”

Lan Xichen laughs. “That’s what the silencing talismans are for.”

They sit a while longer, neither speaking. Jin Guangyao should really know better than to pick at a scab, but he can’t help it.

“You’re thinking of Lady Jiang, correct?”

Lan Xichen’s expression becomes slightly more closed off. “At the moment,” he says, “I’m not thinking of anyone. My house is a pile of ashes; I have no place to bring a wife to. Wangji and I have not even buried our dead yet. It’ll be… some time before Cloud Recesses are habitable again. This is partially why I’m lenient with Wangji and Wei Wuxian now. We have a lot of hard work ahead of us. There will be little time—or indeed energy to spare—for indulgences soon enough.”

Jin Guangyao nods thoughtfully. “She’s a good choice. She’s in mourning for Jin Zixuan now, but, if love is not on the table, it might be better this way. She’s hardworking and intelligent, and everyone sings praises to her kindness. She’ll be a good partner for you. And she wins, too—if she can’t marry for love, who is going to treat her better than Zewu-jun?”

“A-Yao—”

“Besides, it’ll be a good opportunity to restore the Jiang’s good name. With Jiang Wanyin as a war hero, and Jiang Yanli as your wife, who’ll remember the misdeeds of their parents? And, from what I’ve seen of her, she favors Wei Wuxian before her brother. She’ll be happy to be near him.”

He falls silent finally, having been unable to stop running his mouth until his analysis had finished. He is aware that Lan Xichen is looking at him, but he can’t meet his eyes.

When Lan Xichen speaks at last, he says, “A-Yao will have to marry, too. You can’t be truly settled in your position as the Jin Sect heir before you have an heir of your own.”

Jin Guangyao closes his eyes. “Xichen-ge is very wise.”

He knows; he’s even begun looking for possible candidates. There’s no rush, but not much room to delay, either. A sect requires stability and order. Jin Guangyao is very well aware.

When he looks up, he finds Lan Xichen already looking at him with a smile.

“I have been very fortunate to meet A-Yao,” he says, saluting him with his cup—tea, not wine. “Fortunate indeed to make such a friend. I hope… I hope we can remain friends for as many years as either of us has. After all, friendship, too, is a form of love. Perhaps the most precious one of all… is it not?”

Jin Guangyao smiles back and lifts his own cup, refusing to acknowledge that his eyes are misty.

“Yes, it is, Xichen-ge. Yes, it is.”

EPILOGUE

The first thing Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji do when they arrive back in Gusu is bury their dead—all the bodies they were able to find in Qishan, including the remains of their uncle. They hold a cleansing ritual to settle and honor their spirits and build a temporary, rudimentary shrine where the ancestors hall used to be—where it will be rebuilt in time.

The next day after the shrine is finished, Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji bow three times and pour tea for Lan Xichen alone, as the Jiangs could not be in attendance.

Lan Xichen’s prediction proves devastatingly correct. For the next three years, all of them work so hard that, by the time night falls, all they can do is fall more unconscious than asleep. It holds especially true for Lan Wangji, who’s still recovering but insists on taking on an equal part of the workload.

However, eventually, three years pass, and Cloud Recesses, while still in the midst of being rebuilt, now look like a great sect residence once more. Disciples begin arriving from all over, though from native Gusu most of all, Caiyi having long since been restored. All are attracted by the story of incredible resilience and righteousness, and the fame of both the Twin Jades and Wei Wuxian.

There comes a moment when Lan Xichen says, “Wangji, Xian-di. We’re not starved for hands anymore. Don’t you think it’s time you celebrated your wedding?”

Lan Wangji wants to object on reflex, but then looks at his husband who smirks at him and thinks better of it.

And so they go and do, barely managing not to wake any dead with the joy of their celebration, while Cloud Recesses stand tall and quiet once again on the mountain, and all is right with the world.

Notes:

♥ Thank you everyone for coming along for the ride! It would have been a lonely one without you ♥

Bring Your Wonder (Lose Your Faith) - kianspo - 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī (2024)

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Interlude

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Notes:

Chapter Text

Notes:

Chapter 9

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

Notes:

Chapter Text

Notes: