Chapter Text
As far as Wèi Yīng was concerned, the Cloud Recesses had to be the most boring place in all of China. Gūsū Lán's endless rules pretty much ensured that no one could have any fun. It was no wonder that their disciples wore stuffy white robes suitable for a funeral: they buried happiness everyday.
Even their most interesting lessons could have made a fierce corpse cry with boredom. As it was, most of the students struggled to stay awake while Lán Qǐrén droned on about the foundation of the Lán sect. No one but him could have made the original tale of soulmates sound so dull. There wasn't an ounce of romance, no sense of adventure in the drab collection of dates he was asking them to memorize, and yet, for once, Wèi Yīng had no trouble keeping his eyes open.
To think that Gūsū Lán had been founded by a man who left his life as a monk to follow his soulmate on the path of cultivation! It was bizarre, to say the least. Especially since his descendants all seemed to be about as loving as wooden planks.
Wèi Yīng’s eyes landed on Lán Wàngjī. How could this man, with his blank expression and stiff demeanor, be the descendant of Lán Ān? It was hard to imagine him loving anything but the Wall of Rules and the Library. Actually, now that Wèi Yīng thought about it, his golden mark would probably end up being a detailed reproduction of his clan’s punishment ruler!
Smirking, Wèi Yīng turned his attention back to the lesson. For some reason, the concept of soulmates had always intrigued him. The idea that there was someone out there who held a missing part of him was hard to believe.
He didn’t feel incomplete. If anything, he felt too full. The never-ending energy that simmered under his skin always made him feel restless. He couldn’t stay still, his fingers or legs always tapping to a rhythm only he could hear.
In fact, even the best jars of Emperor’s Smile couldn’t make his body feel large enough to contain him. To have someone who could steady him, balance him, when even his Senior Sister couldn’t keep him still for more than a few seconds… He didn’t think such a person existed.
And yet, undaunted by his lack of belief, a golden mark shone on his chest, its shape still as changing as him. It wouldn’t settle until his golden core had found balance, but it was undeniably there, promising him companionship and understanding.
His eyes flickered back to the Second Jade of Lán. Hopefully his mark wouldn’t settle into something boring.
Intellectually, he’d already known that Lán Zhàn was handsome. It was impossible not to notice. Not after being locked in the Library with him for days on end. And certainly not after dedicating hours to painting the cut of his perfect profile. And yet, he still wasn’t prepared for the way his chest fluttered as he watched a small smile bloom on Lán Zhàn’s face.
It must have been surprise making his heart rate spike. After all, he’d believed that he was done cataloguing every possible change in Lán Zhàn’s expression:
The tightening in his jaw whenever Wèi Yīng was being especially annoying;
The way his eyes narrowed as he focused on a difficult bit of text;
The angle of his brows when he issued a challenge with his sword;
How his eyes w i d e n e d in shock and outrage when he was given erotic art;
The way his lips slackened as he stumbled over his words, drunk after a glass of wine;
(How they shone with spit as he lay on Wèi Yīng’s bed, eyes unfocused...
Wèi-Gēgē. )
A rabbit painted on a lantern made him realize his collection was entirely lacking. Mouth open in awe, Wèi Yīng felt a spike of jealousy. Whomever Fate had chosen for the other man had been blessed beyond compare. He wondered what it would be like to be the one this smile was addressed to.
(He figured it would feel like the first rays of sunlight on snow after a moonless night. Like seeing the world be born anew in a sea of light. Like a bowl of warm lotus root and pork rib soup after weeks of starvation.)
It only took a heartbeat for Lán Zhàn’s soft look to harden back to white jade as Wèi Yīng resumed his usual teasing.
He told himself he didn’t mind.
It was raining flower petals and Lán Wàngjī was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. It was silly of him to be so taken by the other man’s face after spending days magically shackled to him, but Lán Zhàn’s lips had parted in wonder and he couldn’t look away. It was truly unfair. No maiden could ever hope to compare, not even the Seasonal Flower Lady.
Next to him, Niè Huáisāng was having the same problem. “Second Young Lord Lán is most definitely an unsurpassed beauty,” he sighed. “Such a fine gentleman.”
Wèi Yīng had a sudden urge to use the fan he’d borrowed to smack him. Instead, he frowned, “Really? He looks like he’s in mourning.”
“Brother Wèi, you have no eye for beauty. At this rate, your golden mark will settle into a pig.” Niè Huáisāng scowled, taking his fan back.
Wèi Yīng laughed. “Mine may well settle into a pig, Brother Niè, but if you keep seeing beauty everywhere I’m afraid yours will turn into a magpie, and fly off your skin and never return.”
“If it flies to a maiden even half as arresting as the Second Jade of Lán,” Niè Huáisāng quipped back, hiding his smile behind his fan, “I don’t think I would mind letting her keep it.”
All things considered, Wèi Yīng thought, it was fortunate that the Yīn Metal interrupted them before he could answer. He wasn’t sure that he could have disagreed convincingly.
Stuck in a cave next to a sleeping Lán Wàngjī, bleeding and barely conscious himself, Wèi Yīng uncovered his chest. The branding iron had seared the flesh where his mark usually swirled, his swollen skin burned beyond blisters, turned black and leathery. With a hiss of pain, he opened his robes further, desperately looking for a sign of his mark, for any remaining hint of gold. He peeled his robes further and further until a shy light peeked out from under his belt.
With shaking hands, he gently removed the fabric hiding his right hip. The swirl of gold he knew very well was there, unmarred by the fire birds now and forever etched on Wèi Yīng’s chest. Shining softly in the dark, it still moved. He slowly put his robes back on, some of the tension bleeding out of him in a relieved sigh.
He settled down again next to Lán Zhàn, studying him. As the fire turned his pale skin into gold, Wèi Yīng took in the unfamiliar shadows on his face. The events of the previous weeks had obviously taken a toll on him. He looked wan and vulnerable without his forehead ribbon. Traces of clotted blood dotted his full lips, and his usually immaculate robes were stained far beyond saving.
He suddenly felt the need to soothe the wrinkles in the white fabric, to brush away the unruly strands of hair that clung to Lán Zhàn’s cheeks, to run his fingers over the other man’s face until the lines of pain disappeared.
When the urge to reach out became overwhelming, he turned away and closed his eyes. Lán Zhàn wasn’t his to touch.
Lotus Pier was destroyed. Yúnmèng Jiāng was gone.
There was no one left to mourn but Jiāng Chéng, Yànlí and him.
Then, for one heart-stopping moment, there was only Yànlí and him.
In the end, it wasn’t even a choice.
When Wēn Qíng warned him about the risks involved in the surgery, he didn’t even blink. He didn’t mind losing his chance to find his soulmate if it meant saving his brother’s life. She, with her unwavering love for her brother, was the only person who could ever understand that. She agreed to help him.
(He didn’t tell her that erasing his golden mark was the best gift he could offer his soulmate. After all, no one deserved to be shackled to someone like him, who seemed to attract misfortune wherever he went.)
As Wēn Qíng opened up his chest, Wèi Yīng spared one last thought for his still shapeless golden mark. He wished he could have seen it settle.
When the transfer was over, the only mark left on him was a pair of fire birds, drawn in cruel lines of flesh over his heart.
The Burial Mounds had taken everything bright left in him and crushed it to dust, scattering the ashes of his heart over the graves of unnamed bodies. The space where his golden core had once existed was now filled with resentment, strumming under his skin with barely contained power.
He remembered a time when the mark on his heart could light up a room. When laughter followed every curve of his mischievous smiles. He was still a child then, begging for attention and friendship from the one person who would never acknowledge him. Attempting the impossible, and preening when he finally managed to draw blood from a stone.
Wèi Yīng!
Now he’d earned a new name, and painted shadows wherever he walked. The fall of his robes whispered tales of revenge to the beat of his steps, as he distributed justice and revenge in the same breath. His every exhale tasted like blood when he played murder and destruction in Chénqíng’s smooth tones.
Yílíng Lǎozǔe.
During the day, he tried to pretend there was still something good in him. For the people who believed in him. For Wēn Qíng and Wēn Níng. For A-Yuàn.
But at night, haunted by the cries of the dead and the hopes of the living, he tried to forget the reflection of Lán Zhàn’s face on the Pool of Blood.
Come back to Gūsū with me.
There was no space for two on the single-plank bridge in the dark.
He’d always been too full of energy.
Unable to stay still.
Restless.
It was only a matter of time before he lost control of his powers.
As Yànlí’s blood soaked her white mourning clothes, he became acutely aware that he had nothing to fight for anymore. No one to protect. No one to live for. Not even a hypothetical soulmate.
He flew away from the battlefield, to the nearest cliff.
Maybe it would be better if he disappeared. After all, he’d only invited disaster on the people he had tried to save. His mind flashed back to Grandma Wēn’s severed head, proudly displayed like a hunting trophy. To Wēn Níng and Wēn Qíng’s ashes scattered to the wind.
(To the people he’d loved and who had loved him in turn.)
The houses he’d built would be torn down. The lotus flowers he’d painfully nurtured would wither. And A-Yuàn, A-Yuàn would… No. He couldn’t abandon the little boy. Wèi Yīng turned his back to the cliff.
There, he saw Lán Zhàn, pale and bloodied, his elegant hand clutching Bìchén tightly. He remembered a perfect afternoon, a full meal shared with a friend, a child sitting between them. Lán Zhàn’s soft look as A-Yuàn had sat in his lap. The unflinching curve of his arms around him, as he’d carried the child back to the Burial Mounds.
He sighed in relief. Everything would be fine.
Wèi Yīng stepped backwards off the edge of the cliff. Smiling, he let go of the hand Lán Zhàn wrapped around his to keep him from falling to his death. He watched as the Second Jade of Lán cried, his icy composure finally shattered.
He felt Lán Zhàn’s tears land on his cheeks, and closed his eyes with an amused huff as he realized…
He already knew how to fall.