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Chapter Text

Screams echoed in his head. Over and over.  Flinging through the air and bouncing across the walls. His lips parted but no sound escaped. 

Do not lose control, you must not lose control, do not lose control! 

Controlcontrolcontrolcontrolcontrol-

The single word raced through his mind as the needle stuck the skin of his abdomen. Over and over--again and again- marking it with ink. The talisman was his own invention. He had worked on it for days? Weeks? He did not know. 

There were moments where he did not know time. When he did not eat and did not sleep. He could not see the sun in his cave that smelled of blood. The only thing he knew was the darkness that surrounded him, that seeped into his pores and bled into his soul. 

It was in these moments that he would work. He would invent and create. He would try anything to stop the insidious cold slurping inside of him. 

It had taken so long to complete this talisman, his legs were numb and his arms were useless, but it should be perfect, perfect, perfect, perfect.  

Wei Wuxian looked down at himself; at the talisman’s that littered his skin. 

The ink that he had carved, stroke by stroke. Each with careful precision, because he had to get each just right or they wouldn’t work, and they had to work. They had to. He needed them. To keep the voices away. To keep them quiet. 

The ones that said, kill, kill, kill.

The ones that said, let us help you. Let us make you strong.

The one that said, Wei Ying! Come with me to Gusu. 

He hit the needle again with the back of Chenqing. Adding the last of the ink. He called this one ‘barrier against evil’. 

It was the latest in a long list of sigils he had added to his skin. Each a new and different approach to combating the darkness that swelled where his core should have been. 

He was trying, trying so hard.

His fingers danced across the skin of his left forearm, tracing the raised scar. 

A broken laugh escaped his lips. Fractured like his body. Shattered like his heart. 

A golden letter rested on the floor beside him, and a little box with a hand carved bracelet lay upon the table.

Chapter Text

The ambush came as a surprise. It shouldn't have but it did. Wei Wuxian’s heart sank in his chest when he spotted the figures standing on the ridge. Even more so when the man spat his accusations. 

By the time Wen Ning’s beads hit the ground Wei Wuxian’s heart was to his knees. He closed his eyes.

He knew what was happening. He knew they were taking this chance to kill him--to rid the world of the Yiling Patriarch. The knowledge hurt. 

He could feel the resentful energy feeding on his emotions. He knew it was gnawing on his anger and the pain. Absorbing them and twisting them into something dark. Black air curled around his hands, shooting like talons from his fingertips. 

Controlcontrolcontrolcontrolcontrol. Do not lose control.

He lifted his hand and let his fingers dance over his left forearm, feeling for the scars even beneath the cloth. The talons receded.

He looked up. The man from earlier stood before him, sword pointing at Wei Wuxian. Chenqing smacked the sword away. 

Each hit Wei Wuxian blocked. Each slash he dodged. He could feel the darkness approaching, felt the shadows swirl around his feet, crawling up his legs. His hands shook with each block. 

Do not lose control. He told the voices in his head. The ones that told him how easy it would be to kill. Kill them all. To make them all his puppets. To kill and kill and kill and never stop…

His bracelet, his gift was on the ground, and then it was in the other man's hands.

“You are dirt, You are nothing! How could you think you would actually be invited to the one month celebration?” The words rattled through his ears. 

Wei Wuxian’s vision began to darken. Black around the edges. 

When Jin Zixaun arrived it was too late.

He could not remember the words that he spoke. Only the feeling of betrayal. The dark twisted versions of the anger and the pain. 

This had been his chance! He was going to see his family! His sister and her son. But they were trying to take that away. They were trying to take his family from him. Again. 

His bracelet shattered. Jin Ling's present lay as dust upon the ground.

Wei Wuxian lifted Chenqing to his lips and began to play. Notes fill the air. Eerie in the calm, but the scar on his arm burned. The ink across his skin itched.

Controlcontrolcontrolcontrolcontrol. They reminded him.

He yanked Chenqing away but the music didn’t stop. Didn’t anyone else notice? 

Stiff fingers tore through flesh. Bones crunched. 

Wei Wuxian yanked Wen Ning back, but blood already coated his hand. Wen Ning screamed and thrashed. Wei Wuxian locked his arms around his chest but he continued to twist in his  arms. 

Something was wrong. But it was too late. 

“A-Li is still... waiting for you...” Blood gurgled from Jin Zixaun’s lips, and pooled from the gaping hole in his chest. Each breath was short and slurred. Dark eyes clouded over. 

No, no no. Wei Wuxian’s arms slackened and Wen Ning tore away; he fell to his knees and held his head in his hand as he screamed. But Wei Wuxian didn’t have time to care. Instead he flung himself towards his brother-in-law, arms outstretched to catch him before he tumbled to the ground.

Shijie I’m sorry. I’m sorry, so so sorry . 

“Get the fuck away from him!” The man, Jin Zixun-- his name was Jin Zixun- pushed Wei Wuxian away. His back hit the dirt, he felt the gravel dig into his skin, the rocks slicing into his shoulder blades, as he watched in horror as the man caught Jin Zixuan, who laid limp in his arms. “ You killed him! You killed the heir to the Jin Sect!” 

“No! No. Please I can fix this! I can… I can bring him back! Just let me…” Wei Wuxian stumbled to his feet, only to hit the ground again when a boot connected to his chest. He didn’t feel it though. His head was too full. 

Your fault, your fault, your fault. Why didn’t you listen? We could have helped you! We could have made you strong! The voices said. 

Wei Ying, let me help you. Lan- his voice said.

Wei Wuxian gripped fist curled around the cloth covering his abdomen. 

Jin Zixun sneered down, “What do you mean bring him back? He is dead! By your hands! You and that… that creature that you keep!” 

He lifted his sword and pointed it at Wei Wuxian’s chest, arm pulled back ready to thrust, when Wei Wuxian felt his body wrenched back. Wen Ning slid his arms around his waist and hauled him up, leaping out of the fray. 

Wen Ning sprinted out of Qiongpi Path, Wei Wuxian unceremoniously over his shoulder. Dust flew up around them, the trees passed in a blur. 

“No! No Wen Ning! We have to go back! We have to...Shijie...I…” His voice broke, he didn’t know what he could do but he had to do something… anything. His open palms slapped uselessly against his friends back.

“Young Master we can’t,” Wen Ning’s face crumpled in pain, more emotion than he should have been able to show, and Wei Wuxian knew, he knew he had to do something. 

Those men had wanted them dead, they had planned it. There was a moment where music had played that wasn’t his. 

The ink on his skin itched like ants. The scar on his arm burned. 

Wen Ning was right, they couldn’t go back, but that didn’t mean he couldn't do anything.

8-8

She hadn’t wanted them to go. She hadn’t from the moment she read the letter. She knew--she knew-something would happen. 

But she had let them go anyway. Wei Wuxian had been so happy and Wen Ning would follow him to the ends of the earth. 

She watched without protest as they walked out of the Burial Mounds, down the path and away from her. Away from where she could keep them safe. Wen Qing looked on in silence as the dead, weeping trees tore at their clothes. She watched from the top of the mountain until they passed the barrier, and then long after she could no longer see even their shadows. 

She trusted them to take care of each other, but she worried. 

But she had hoped . She had hoped so much that this would be the moment life would work out for him. She had prayed that he would get to see his sister, his family, his... friend. 

Wen Qing had spent so much of her life being afraid. She was scared for her brother, and scared for her family. 

Now she was scared for this shell of a man who huddled before her. Whose core she had helped rip out. The same man who had saved her family; her brother. This man who had saved her, who had given his life for them. 

This man who had lost everything.

So she had stood on top of a lonely mountain and watched as Wei Wuxian and her brother had walked away. 

She had hoped that this would be the chance that Wei Wuxian deserved. She had hoped that for once the world would give him a break.

The moment she saw both men had stumbled back into the Burial Mounds her hope crumbled. 

It was a cruel parody to watch them stagger back up the path they had walked down not so long ago. All the joy had been syphoned from them as they held each other up. When they reached her they stopped and stood before her for a long moment; broken and silent. They had said nothing but she knew; something had gone terribly wrong. 

Hope was for the weak. 

They shared a long solemn look before Wei Wuxian had dragged Wen Ning with him, past her and past the other Wen Remnants back to his cave. By the time she caught up with him, Wen Ning was already seated, robes torn open and needle digging into skin.

“We cannot lose control…” Wei Wuxian had muttered over and over again until he was done. “What can I do? We cannot lose control again.” 

Hours passed. The sun had set long ago. The tattoo across her brother's skin had long been completed.

Now Wei Wuxian hunched before her, tattoos etched across his abdomen. They lined his chest and shoulders.  She had done that. She had given him the herbs to make the ink. She had added to the marks upon his skin. 

But she hadn’t known what else to do. Not after that first night she had walked into his cave to see the flesh of his forearm sliced to ribbons. He had held the knife in his other hand, slowly methodically etching a talisman into his arm. 

She didn't know what to do, after she stitched up the skin. The scar was perfect, not a line out of place, and Wei Wuxan had smiled at it, feverish and dazed.

“It’s perfect,” he had whispered, “perfect...” 

She didn’t know what to do so she had brought him the herbs. She had brought him a stick with one her needles protruding from one end, and she had shown him how to use both. She taught him how to draw the ink and then pierce it into the skin with each jab of the needle.

She didn't know what to do but she had done the best she could. Wen Qing was tired of watching her savior fall apart. She was tired of the blood, and she was tired of  stitching this man back together as he bleed and bleed for them. 

Now Wei Wuxian was crumpled on the floor. Fading in and out of consciousness, shaking and crying. His body shuddering and shaking, the dark energy swirling around his limbs. As soon as the screaming began so did her brother's apologies.

 “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! It’s all my fault,” her brother sobbed, tears still unable to fall from undead eyes. He was flung across the ground next to Wei Wuxian. Fresh ink tattooed into dead flesh. 

“Who can tell me? What on earth can I do? What can I do?” Wei Wuxian screamed into the dark. “It wasn’t me! The evil spell wasn't me!”

Wen Qing stood amidst the chaos. Tears tracking down her cheeks. She stood there and watched as the two men she loved, her brothers, tore themselves to pieces. She stared at the shells of two gentle souls, forced to be something they were not. Demonized by the world. 

She didn’t know what to do. So Wen Qing stabbed a needle into Wei Wuxian’s skin. 

His cries stopped. Wen Ning picked himself off of the floor and looked at his sister.

A long moment passed, a silent conversation flying between once matching eyes, before they nodded to each other. Each lifted an arm, hauling Wei Wuxian off the ground, and valiantly drug him across the dirt floor of the cave. They drug and drug until they made it to the bed, where it sat broken and rumpled in the corner. With as much care as they could they lifted his body onto the bed, adjusting his arms and legs. They laid him down as best they could. 

Wei Wuxian watched it all. Trapped inside a body that would not move, with lips that could not talk. But his mind screamed, his voice this time and no others.

Why, why, why? He begged and pleaded inside his head. What were they doing? Why couldn’t they just trust him? Why couldn't they just let him fix it? Let him do something? 

They read the question in his eyes.

“They targeted you, they knew you would be there and they knew you would lose control,” Wen Qing said as she sat down next to him on the bed. She sat like royalty upon the dirty, shredded sheets. She sat like there was no better place than in the little space by Wei Wuxians side. 

“You are the wielder and Wen Ning is the knife,” Wen Qing’s gentle hand caressed his cheek, tears shining in her eyes. “They aren’t going to stop. They will never stop hunting you, not if they think you are a threat.” 

Her fingers trembled on his cheek, and he wanted nothing more than to grasp them in his, to reassure her maybe, or to scream at her stupidity. He could do neither. A tear leaked down his cheek, running along her fingertips.

“Maybe this way--maybe now you will have a chance,” her voice cracked. “Maybe they will let you live. Let us do this for you. Let us protect you.” 

She leaned over, hand still holding his face. And pressed her lips against his forehead.

“I am sorry and thank you,” she whispered, lips caressing the smooth skin. 

Abruptly she stood and backed up to stand next to her brother, wordlessly they bowed. Then she took Wen Ning’s hand and together they turned and soundlessly moved toward the mouth of the cave. 

Unable to move, unable to scream, Wei Wuxian watched as the remnants of his family walked towards death. 

8-8

“The Yiling Patriarch has killed the future Sect Leader!” 

“He has killed Jin Zixuan!”

The sound of boots thundered against the tile floors and the disciples screech lingered in the air, heedless of the occupants of the room. The disciple fell to his knees before Jin Guangyao, head touching the floor.

They had gathered in this hall. Waiting for Wei Wuxian. They had gathered in hopes of finding their brother, their friend . 

They had gathered in preparation for a celebration. Just like the guests down the hall. 

They were not prepared for those words that shook and split and hung in the air.

They were not prepared for the broken disciple on the gold gilded ground.

No one moved. No one breathed. 

Jiang Yanli thought she may have gasped, but no air made it to her lungs. The toy she held up to her son clattered to the ground. No. 

She felt strong arms surround her but they were wrong, they were too cold, too corded. Purple instead of gold.

She clutched the babe in her arms tighter, stumbling back, deeper into the not-right arms. A sob tore from her chest. Tears flowed like rivers, like streams, like the water that surrounded Lotus Pier during a midsummer storm.

Her heart shattered. It splintered and it bled. She thought she could feel it as the blood leaked from the remains of where her heart should have been. It leaked and it spilled into her lungs. Choking her. A-Xuan. 

XianXian killed him? 

XianXian? Who she held as a child? The little boy she saved from dogs. Who ate her soup? The little boy with the clouded silver eyes, who clutched her robes and whined "Shijie, Shijie won't you play?" 

The little boy who smiled like the sun? 

She thought of her brother: gentle and kind. Laughing eyes and dancing steps.

She thought of her husband: righteous and forgiving. Straight spine and loving caresses. 

She gagged on the air, on the blood,  and held the bile between her teeth.

Jiang Cheng held his sister. He clutched her close to his chest as he stared at the other people in the room. His eyes met Lan Wangji’s. He thought he saw a flicker of...pain? Before gold eyes blinked and the emotion was gone. 

Jiang Cheng clenched his fist and his heart. He thought maybe… but no. No. His bro- no not brother. Not anything. Wei Wuxian had betrayed them. He had killed the man Jiang Yanli loved. Jiang Cheng grit his teeth and forced the tears not to come. 

He forced his heart to close. He would feel nothing for the other man, the murderer. He had no loyalties to him anymore. No loyalties to anyone but the woman in his arms and the baby that she held. 

He met Lan Wangji’s eyes again and snarled.

Four stunned figures stood still in the grand receiving hall of Carp Tower, and one young disciple whose head did not lift from the tile. 

And then two bodies were brought in through the massive doors laid upon stretchers. Gently they were carried. Disciples on each side. Their eyes were damp and their robes were ripped, coated in mud and blood and death.

Jin Zixuan and his cousin Jin Zixun. 

Crystal light shone through painted glass, drawing shapes upon the floor washing each face with grotesque shadows. 

The light did not know the horror which it cast. It did not know the pain it brought to sight. 

The light did not know because it did not feel. But the people did.

No Jiang Cheng thought. Not in the hall, not in the open like this, not where-

Jiang Yanli screamed. She thrashed and sobbed and ripped herself from her brother's hold, and thrust Jin Ling at him instead. The baby wailed.

On quaking legs and hollow feet she stuttered to the corpse of her husband. She did not know how many steps it took, if she walked or fell or flew. Then she was there, fingers entwined with his; they were stiff and cold and unyielding. 

She pressed her cheek against his wetting it with her sobs. She let her other hand against his abdomen. Hoping, praying, waiting, desperately to feel anything. She closed her eyes trying to feel anything. A flicker of his soul. The warmth of his golden core or the comfort of his spiritual energy. 

The rest of the room turned their heads. Some disciples did not try to hide their devastation. 

Jiang Yanli waited. The shattered remains of her heart sharpened into needles. Small and splintered and sharp . A million needles punctured her lungs, punctured her chest, blood seeped from her heart as she waited.

And his body lay silent, no breath passing his cold cracked lips. 

And she thinks in that moment that maybe she died instead.

And then she felt it. The shiver of a shudder. The ghost of a breath against her cheek. The flicker of a core that was not extinguished. 

He was not dead.

Chapter Text

“This isn’t how it was supposed to go!” 

“I know.” 

He was supposed to be dead!”

“I know.”

“What are we going to do? He wasn’t supposed to live through that! This is not part of the plan!”

“Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I know? I’ve been planning this for months. Years. I. Know.”

“So what do we do?” 

“We stick to the original plan. Jin Zixuan isn’t long for this world any way, he won't make it through the night.” 

“What about the Yiling Patriarch?” 

“What about him? We still attack. We just need to speed up the process. We can’t give him time to prepare. Gather as many cultivators as you can. There are enough sects here still for the celebration… We leave as soon as possible.” 

8-8

Wei Wuxian what the fuck did you do?  

Jiang Cheng thought as he strode across the grounds in front  of Carp tower. His body shook with anger and betrayal, a feeling he knew no one else understood. His shoulders sagged with the weight of the utter devastation pressing hard upon them. 

He could feel the burning glares as they bore holes through his robes, and felt the stink of hate from the Jin clan for what Wei Wuxian had done to their young master.

He knew his sister felt them too.

It didn’t matter that Jin Zixuan wasn’t dead, there was still a hole in his chest. It doesn’t matter that Jin Zixun was obviously killed by a sword, something that neither Wei Wuxian or the fucker Wen Ning carried.

The moments after Jiang Yanli told them Jin Zixuan was still alive could only be described as chaos. Servants and disciples swarmed, rushing about the room. People shouted, joy and shock and suspicion. 

The doctor was summoned by a disciple who sprinted out the door. Then Madam Jin was there; sobbing over her son, holding Jiang Yanli as they wept together.

Jin Guangyao had disappeared. Lan Wangji left soon after, posture stiff and face unyielding.

And Jiang Cheng was left in the corner holding his nephew.

When the doctor finally arrived he was swift with his diagnosis; Jin Zixuan was alive, but barely. 

So Jiang Cheng had followed his sister silently as they lifted her husband's body once again, this time carrying him to a room. He sat outside the door and listened as the doctor stitched his brother-in-law back together. He stood by and listened to his sister's choked sobs. At some point one of the attendants had taken Jin Ling, but he didn’t remember when and he didn’t remember who. He simply stood against the door, eyes glazed and heart in turmoil.

The sun began to rise again over Carp tower, but he  couldn’t remember when it set.

“...A-Cheng. A-Cheng!” His neck popped with the speed he turned at hearing that voice. He rubbed the pain and stared wide eyed at his sister. Her skin was pale and there was deep purple smudge beneath her kind eyes. Eyes that still welled with tears. But she smiled, slow and small and barely there. 

“A-Cheng, have you been out here all night?” her gentle voice caressed his aching mind just as her soft hand smoothed down his temple. He nodded numb but she merely tipped her head in understanding.

“Ah… My A-Cheng, He will be alright for now, why don’t you go get some rest?” 

Jiang Cheng heard the lie in her words. His beautiful sister could never fool him, she was too good, too kind to tell a lie well. He could hear the doctors muttering words, and the whispers of the servants. Jin Xixuan's condition had not improved, his chest was stitched together, and his ribs were wrapped but he would not wake up. Infection was tearing apart his body and resentful energy was tearing apart his mind.

But Jiang Cheng had nodded anyway, and pushed himself away from the wall. His steps were stiff as he began to walk across the cobblestone. 

He could never say no to his sister. So he had left. He knew he would not sleep. So instead he wandered the palace grounds, the ramparts and the wall before the city. He felt useless and he hated it. He could do nothing for his sister as she mourned a husband halfway to death. Just as he could do nothing for his brother who lived on a mountain built on the bodies of the dead. But no--he wasn't his brother anymore was he? The idiot had relinquished that title. Had kicked Jiang Cheng to the side. 

He had chosen everyone-- everyone over him. Over Jiang Cheng. 

First it was Lan Wangji, then Wen Ning. Then the rest of those Wen-dogs.

A promise broken long ago. Twin heroes forced on different paths. Jiang Cheng snorted.

And now? Now what? He has killed the one person who finally brought a smile to his beloved sister's face. And for what? To save the fucking Wens? To save a bunch of useless cowards who hid behind his robes? 

Wei Wuxian had nearly killed the one man who would love and protect Jiang Yanli when her brothers could not. He didn't like the Peacock but at least--

Jiang Cheng huffed and looked up at the sky. The sun was high, casting mid-morning light upon the grass. It was later than he expected. He had been gone longer than he meant. His stomach churned. What if something happened? He had to get back. He had to see his sister.

Each step quicker than the last as he walked back. His strides were long and sure, but his mind did not calm. Every thought was a curse. And every thought was of Wei Wuxian.

Stupid stupid stupid. He couldn't leave well enough alone, it hadn’t been his problem.  None of it had been his problem. 

Jiang Cheng's fist clenched at his side and his step shuddered, one slip, on uneven ground.

Why did it always have to be him? Why Wei Wuxian? Why did he have to be so selfish?

If he had just let them die… then they could all still be together. 

Back at Lotus Pier.

He had just crossed the front of the complex--nearly to the main gates--when he saw it. A flash of red then a flare of black. He turned. His head shot up and he scanned the road and the bushes, heart in his throat. Desperately trying to catch the flash of colors again. 

There. 

Jiang Cheng's body moved on its own. He stepped. He ran. Arm outstretched he reached without looking. 

It couldn't be? He would be so dumb! He wouldn’t-- 

Jiang Cheng felt a smile spread unbidden across his lips. But his fingers curled around a red clad arm, not black. The wrist was too small and delicate.  And the eyes that stared up at him were brown not grey. 

His heart stopped beating, no blood pumped through his veins, and no air made it to his lungs.

It was her.

His lips parted as if to speak, as if there was something he could say. A wooden comb burned through his robes and ignited the delicate skin against his chest. Before he could speak, strong, cold hands were on his shoulders, wrenching him back.He shoved his elbow back into the abdomen of the person who grabbed him but it felt like hitting stone. He looked back to see his opponent. His eyes raked over grey skin, and met dead eyes.

Wen Ning. 

“Let him go Wen Ning,” she said.

The fierce corpse bowed his head, strong fingers loosened their hold. Jiang Cheng yanked, and stumbled away. He tried to draw his sword but his hands were shaking. He didn’t even think about releasing Zidian. 

He looked up at the two before him. 

Wen Ning had moved to stand half a step behind his sister. He looked the same as the last time Jiang Cheng had seen him. His skin was still dull and grey. His movements were still stiff, face emotionless. But his hair had been brushed and pulled back. His clothes were frayed but clean. 

Jiang Cheng let his eyes drift to Wen Qing.

His heart thundered, against his ribs and in his ears. She stood before him regal in the morning light. Her hair spilled from the bun atop her head, it hung like ink across her shoulders and down her back. The sun shone along her skin, pale from her time in the Burial Mounds. Her dress was beautiful, heavy silk that fell about her slight frame. It was bright and red. Like fire, like luck; like flowers on the trees in spring. Like a wedding dress. Like a Wen.

He sneered.

She lifted her arms and dipped her head in a flawless bow.

“Sandu Shengshou, we have come to turn ourselves in on behalf of Wei Wuxian."

He released Sandu. If he wasn’t watching him stutter through his own deep bow Jiang Cheng  thought maybe Wen Ning’s hand was choking him. His throat constricted.

His hands shook so he clenched them into fists. He tried to hide the tremors that threatened to shake him apart. He stood up straight. 

Jiang Cheng would stand before them strong and proud. He would not crumble before any Wen-dogs, even these two. He would stand before them unbending, unbreakable,  like a sword. Like a pillar at Lotus Pier.

He let the sneer deepen and did not try to hide the hate. He let it transform his face. He felt it as the loathing darkened his brow and stained his heart. 

If it wasn’t for them, he wouldn’t have left.

Before anyone could move he drew his arm back and flicked his wrist, letting Zidian crackle through the air. It stuck Wen Ning in the chest, burning his robes, and throwing him to the ground. Wen Qing rushed to her brother, kneeling next to him, trying to pick him up.

Jiang Cheng stood before them. Tall and proud. He spit on the ground by the fierce corpses' feet.

“Stay!” He shouted when he saw Wen Qing try to move, try to push her brother farther behind her.

Jaing Cheng’s voice was sour, “Stay where you belong, begging on the ground like a dog.” 

With a sharp whistle he called for the guards.

A wooden comb fell heavy against his chest.

8-8

The hissing chink of metal sent a shiver down her spine as the cell door clanked behind them. Nevertheless, Wen Qing stood as regal as an emperor, she stood like a mountain in the wind. Inflexible. Unyielding.

She would not let the guards see the fear that she felt. She would not break before her brother who stood desolate at her side. She would not bend for the memory of the man she left paralyzed in a cave. 

Wen Qing would forever be grateful for Wei Wuxian; for those happy months at the Burial Mounds. She will treasure those happy moments deep in her heart. She will not forget the hungry nights and constant fear, but she knows they just made the little pockets of laughter so much better. Because for Wei Wuxian, Wen Ning and herself, those months were the hardest time of their lives; in many ways she knew it was also the best.  They had been broken, people pushed together, shunned and cursed by the world, but despite all odds they had made a life together on a mountain that was only meant for death. Wen Qing had been prepared to die from the moment she had stepped out of the cave. She had. 

But now she did not know.

As she and her brother had been marched across Lanling, there had been something wrong. The guards surrounding them had looked stiff and nervous. More so than was necessary, even if she and her brother were infamous. 

The normally bustling Carp Tower seemed on edge. At first she thought it was because of Young Master Jin. She thought maybe his death had stained the air and sullen the faces of those in the golden city. But the air tasted of anticipation, not mourning. 

Before the cell door had closed the guard assigned to them had almost looked guilty. 

She knew Jiang Wanyin noticed it too. The air had crackled with purple sparks and the frown between his brow had deepened. He barely snarled when he gave the guards his final instructions. Instead his face had been pinched with worry.

She wanted to reach out to smooth the wrinkles and ease the hurt. She dug sharp nails into the palm of her hand. Wen Qing glanced again at her little brother. Wen Ning had sat himself down into the corner and was drawing into the dirt floor. 

She wondered if they had made a mistake. 

8-8

Jiang Cheng stormed down the stairs. His steps pounding like rain and his heart sounding like thunder. His eyes filled with lightning as each person he passed avoided eye contact. No one looked at him, not the cultivators. Not the servants. No one. Each person he passed looked down or away. One skittish servant had about-faced and sprinted down the hall. 

Something was wrong. 

Long strides brought him to the main hall, he nearly collided with a pillar of white. 

Lan Wangji.

"What the hell is going on?" Jiang Cheng snapped. 

Sharp gold eyes met brown. Lan Wangji stood as still as the stone he was known for. He looked as if he was assessing the man before him. Judging him, searching him for flaws. Jiang Cheng hated it. Hated him. Why was it always him?

Jiang Cheng wanted to push him, to punch him; to force him to speak. His stomach plummeted as his heart rose to his throat. He opened his mouth ready to say something, anything when Lan Wangji spoke.

"They are laying siege to the Burial Mounds.”

The world froze. 

“Who are ‘they’?” The question was choked out of a throat suddenly gone dry.

“Jin Guangshan, my uncle and some of the smaller sect leaders have already left. My brother is to meet them as well.” Jiang Cheng  felt the censure in those words though there was no inflection in the delivery. He wanted to do something, but did not move. He felt numb.  

He knew what that meant, They were going after Wei Wuxian. 

Zidian crackled and Sandu felt heavy at his side, but his feet were rooted to the ground. 

His mind raced. He did not know what to do, where his loyalties should lie. He was torn, uncertain what was right and what was expected of him. His brother or his clan? Did he even have a choice? 

He thought of his sister mourning a husband, who lay dying. Dying because of Wei Wuxian. Deep down he knew, his indecision was his answer, 

"I will go," Lan Wangji continued ignoring the silence. "I will take Wei Ying back to Gusu." 

Jiang Cheng flinched at the familiarity in the name but he did not mention it, and he did not move. He thought he imagined the anger in Lan Wangji’s eyes. He looked down. He stared at his boots, at the bell jangling at his waist. He stood still as dark clouds circulated in his veins and he did not move when a flash of snow breezed past him. He didn’t understand why he still aches so badly for a betrayal made long ago. Why did he still care? 

He stood in the open doorway of Carp tower, midday light casting dangerous shadows across his face, darkening the scowl marring his brow. Wei Wuxian had made his choice months ago and now Jiang Cheng had made his. He could not waiver now.

Finally he turned, legs shaking under amethyst robes. He made his way back to the lonely room where he knew his sister still lingered. 

Chapter Text

A-Yuan stood in the mouth of the cave. His little body trembled as wind blew through the Burial Mounds. The nights were cold in the hills where only the dead should live. Even young A-Yuan knew this place was not quite right.

It wasn’t like the warm fields he barely remembered; where the sun was bright and hot upon his face. 

But he didn't like the little shack from a few months ago either; where it was wet and cold and he could hear the screams of the grown-ups outside.

So when all of the grown-ups said that this was their new home, he hadn’t protested. But that didn’t mean he didn’t still have nightmares. Nights where he would wake up, his tummy tight and hurting, sweat on his forehead and tears in his eyes. He wasn’t a baby so he wouldn’t cry. He still wanted to. 

It  was nights like these that A-Yuan would tip-toe as quietly as he could across the old broken stone to the mouth of the cave. He would sneak across the dirt floor and into the arms of one of the few people who would make the bad dreams go away. A-Yuan stood in the mouth of the cave looking at the man that lay before him and their eyes met.

He looked so sad too.

He toddled over to the man, his little straw butterfly held tight in his hand. When he made it to the edge of the bed he reached up his arms up and whined, begging to be picked up. 

There was no response, not a shift in the man before him, “Xian-gege up! Up! Up!” 

When he realized his gege was not going to move he whined again and huffed.Then he settled his butterfly gently down next to the man's head and patted it once before scooting closer to the middle. He placed his little hands on the edge of the bed and heaved; clamoring up the bed as well. 

This wasn't the first time he had crawled into Xian-gege’s bed. He never felt as safe as he did when his big brother wrapped his long arms around A-Yaun. His tummy always felt warm inside. The icky feelings would go away. He would cuddle against the strong chest and would finally feel safe. 

He knows his Xian-gege has bad days. He knows that there are days when he is sad. Where his eyes would look scary, more red than silver. Where the mean black mist would swirl around his ankles and cast shadows on his face. 

Qing-jiejie told him so too. She said that on those days he has to be extra good, to tell Xian-gege how much he loves him and to give him extra big hugs. 

And he knows Qing-jiejie told A-Yuan before she left to let Xian-gege sleep. She said that it had been a really bad day. Like when Ning-gege was really sick and couldn’t get up to play. Or when the mean man in purple showed up and stabbed Xian-gege with his sword. 

Or the night when Xian-gege screamed and screamed and blood trickled from the big cut in his arm. A-Yuan’s body shivered. He hadn’t seen either of them for a really long time after that. 

But he had had a nightmare and he was scared. He wanted to be held. Xian-gege said he could always come to him if he was scared, so A-Yuan had snuck past Granny and all his uncles and into the cave.

Now he wiggled up the side of the bed and layed down next to the man, cuddling up to his side trying to get comfortable. He curled up on his side and felt the warmth of the big body next to him seep into his skin. A-Yuan didn't remember what it was like to have a baba but he thought this was it.

But Xian-gege didn't budge. He didn’t curl up around A-Yuan and pull him close. He didn't poke his nose or rub his head. Xian-gege didn’t tease him or make him giggle and forget about his nightmare like he normally did. 

A-Yuan shifted again, turning over to lift the big arm that lay heavy next to his side. He wanted to crawl underneath, and cuddle closer to his gege’s side. But the arm flopped hard against his waist.

A-Yuan whined again,”Xian-gege!” 

But no response came. He looked up to see why Xian-gege wouldn't hold him like he always does. But when he looked at the man's face he saw tears rolling down his cheeks. 

A-Yuan panicked. 

His heart raced and his tummy hurt.

Xian-gege wasn't holding him, He wasn’t laughing or teasing or hugging A-Yuan. He looked sad and hurt and A-Yuan just wanted him better. He wanted Ning-gege and Qing-jiejie back. He wanted all of the grown ups to stop looking so sad!

He wanted Xian-gege to hold him and to play! He wanted to sleep with strong arms wrapped around him. He wanted the nightmares to go away.

He sat up fully on the bed and crawled onto the wide chest before him. His little hands cupped wet cheeks as he cried, "Gege wake up! Wake up to play! Gege please! I'm scared... Gege." 

He squeezed the man's cheeks but he didn’t move or flinch or tickle A-Yuan’s ribs. So he pinched and slapped each cheek in turn. Nothing happened.

Getting no response A-Yuan laid his little head against his gege’s shoulder and sobbed. Little fists balled into black robes.

It was then he noticed something sticking out of Xian-gege’s shoulder. 

He reached for it, running his fingers along the shiny metal. It was one  of Qing-jiejie’s needles!

She always told A-Yuan not to play with them, she told him they were dangerous and that he could get hurt. Xian-gege must not have listened. He must have been playing with them and accidentally got poked with one! That’s why she said Xian-gege was having a bad day. A-Yuan would be having a bad day too if he got poked with a needle. That must be why he doesn't want to play right now! It probably hurt really, really bad. 

Maybe if A-Yuan pulls it out he will feel better! 

So he sat up again, determined pout upon his lips and his eyebrows furrowed. 

Little fingers, pudgy and dirty curled tightly around cool metal and yanked. 

8-8

Wei Wuxian groaned. Everything hurt. 

His limbs ached with a deep burning pain he could feel in his bones. His heart sat behind his ribs, still and tattered. He didn’t know if it still beat, he didn’t know if it was pumping blood to his stinging limbs. 

They had left. They had walked out  of the cave and left him behind. They had sacrificed themselves. How long has it been since they walked down the dirt path? Farther and farther away from him? 

They had left him here, and he had been able to do nothing but stare blankly at the rock face above. His body was cold, stiff. Like the corpses that he raised. Was he dead too? What did it mean to be alive? 

He did not know. He did not think he was. 

Wei Wuxian lay upon a tattered bed and thought of all the things that had gone wrong. He recounted all of his missteps. 

Your fault, your fault. You should have been stronger. You should have listened--

You are the harbinger of death. And yet you cry over a few measly lives. You are the Yiling Patriarch, why do you care?

The darkness swirls. In his eyes and in his mind. It sucked and slurped at the remnants of his soul. 

Who did he have? 

Not Jiang Cheng. Not Shijie--not now. 

Not Lan Zhan. 

And now not Wen Qing or Wen Ning.

Wei Wuxian’s dying heart twanged.

You have nothing. You are nothing.

He lost everything. 

He made to shift, to turnover or sit up--he wasn't sure-- but he stopped when he felt the pressing weight sitting upon his chest and a little hand gripping the collar of his robes. 

“Xian-gege don’t cry! I pulled it out see! I took it out so you can feel better now…” 

Unconsciously Wei Wuxian lifted his arms wrapping them around the trembling body sprawled on top of him and blinked. 

A-Yuan?  

He looked to the side and saw the needle laying innocently against the straw. 

His arms tightened around the trembling little body. Maybe he hadn’t lost everything.

“Shhh.. A-Yuan, don't cry, I am alright see? I’m okay,” if  Wei Wuxian’s voice cracked at the end the child did not notice.The whimpering began to ease.

“What are you doing here A-Yuan? Did you have a nightmare again?” 

A little head bobbed slightly against his shoulder, as the child cuddled deeper into his chest. Wei Wuxian shifted onto his side and curled around the boy. The wind began to howl across the courtyard outside. It screeched through the night rustling the leaves and whispering through the lotus. Wei Wuxian listened to the hiccupping breaths of a child too young to know the true dangers of the night.

“Xian-gege? Sing?” A-Yuan whispered, as though afraid to break the silence. 

A small grin flitted across Wei Wuxian's lips, "Anything for A-Yuan.” 

He held the child close and hummed a familiar melody. A song from long ago; heard in a different cave, from another life. He gently rocked them back and forth. Fresh tears ran in rivers, his heart was still sputtered and his body still ached. 

However, A-Yuan had calmed, little breaths began to puff even and gently against Wei Wuxian’s neck. For a moment he thought that maybe this would be enough. He thought-- maybe.

And then the howling wind ceased. He heard the thundering of feet, pounding against the ground. He began to itch, as ants began to crawl beneath his skin. The warning talismans he had set up burned, illuminating the cave. Shouts could be heard in the distance. The streaks of fierce corpses and the hiss of swords. He bolted up, limbs screaming in protest. 

Panic seized him. For a long moment he sat frozen clutching the child hard against his chest. He didn’t breathe.

For a split second he thought he had been stuck again by Wen Qing’s needle. His arms tightened. A-Yuan felt his fear, and burst into tears. 

Wei Wuxian gasped. Then he flew. His feet hit the dirt floor, the child still in his arms. One arm pounded the bed until his flute rolled from the sheets clattering to the ground. He picked it up before it could roll any farther and shoved it into his belt.

Then he ran. A-Yuan sobbing against his chest.

“Shh, shhh A-Yuan, shh it will be okay. Gege has you, it will be okay.” he repeated the words as he dashed through the forest. His words only ceased for short moments, when his lips would purse together. In stolen seconds he whistled into the night manipulating the forest around him. He called the dead to cover their tracks.

He continued to sprint through the trees as they grew together behind him, branches intertwining shielding his steps. Until he found what he was looking for. A hollow tree stood amidst the bramble, burnt through the center but only to those who knew. With blood in his lungs and bile on his teeth he sat the weeping child into the tree.

Little arms reached up for him, but he hardened his dying heart. Instead he cupped the little boy's face and tried to ignore the hurt in those pale eyes. 

“Shh A-Yuan, it will be alright. We are going to play a game, okay? We are going to play hide and seek, you can’t come out, though, for anyone but me okay? Promise me?” 

The child only sobbed. Wei Wuxian wiped at the tears,“promise me. A-Yuan. Promise.” 

A long moment passed, before a choked, “promise, gege…” passed through trembling lips.

Wei Wuxian looked at the little boy for a long moment--longer than he should--memorizing the short messy hair and light eyes. The delicate features of a child too young for all the death he had seen. He leaned down and kissed the little boy's forehead.

And then he turned, dashing back through the forest. He tried not to think, tried not to feel. Thought only of the enemy storming down his door, threatening what little family he had left.

He tried to close his heart, but he could not close his ears, and so he still heard the panic-laced screams, “Please, Xian-gege, please come back!”

Wei Wuxian ran. Dark voices in his ears, black energy consuming his steps. Ancient woods parted to let him pass. He could not hear the sounds of battle through the echoing screams in his ears. 

When he made it back to the main encampment, he was met with fire, and a row of bodies dumped before the entrance of his cave. Knuckles whitened as they clenched around the pitch black flute. 

You are the harbinger of death. Everything you love dies, everything you touch turns to dust. You do nothing but destroy, why foolish child did you think this would be different? 

He turned at the notch of a bow string, jolting when an arrow pierced his shoulder. He jumped to the small ledge above the entrance of his cave--his home--and looked down upon the cultivators below.  

He stood before a sea of familiar strangers. A rainbow array sent to kill him. They shouted words and threats, so similar to the ones inside his head. 

“You have killed the Jin heir!” 

“Come down here monster! Where is your sword? Still too good to use it? Even to defend yourself?” 

“You cast that vicious spell on Jin Zuxan! And then killed him anyway!” 

“Is there anyone you wouldn't kill? Even your own sister's husband lies dead!”

Arrogant. Unreasonable. Heartless. Evil. Murderer. Know your place.

“Your sins shall never be forgiven!”

The words twist and stab. They are dark, turned black with anger and hate. The resentment. They transform into the wretchedness he craves.

“Kill The Yiling Patriarch!” They chanted. 

Resentful energy coated his skin, seeping in through his ears and eyes and mouth. His frantic heart searched for and hoped, but found nothing. The rainbow held no purple. And the white clouds lining the edges only held censor, and no golden eyes.

Wei Wuxian was alone.

The last remnants of his dying heart shattered, piercing his ribs.

Then he brought Chenqing to his lips and played.

8-8

Lan Wangji stared at the figure standing high above the others. On a sliver of stone protruding from the mountain. He strode across the entrance of the Demon-Slaughtering Cave.

He had arrived just as the haunting melody of the dizi began to play. But he feared he was too late.  The other cultivators stood in shocked silence as they stared in horror at the man before them.

Wei Wuxian looked like hell. 

He looked like death, like the energy he wielded. His skin was drawn tight across his bones, pale and grey, like the corpses that he raised. His tattered clothes hung from his near skeletal frame. Resentful energy did nothing to help the deep shadows that pulled so heavily upon hollow cheeks, as it swirled around him like a shadow. 

His arm shook with the effort it took to lift the glimmering black flute.

There was no way to describe how the Wei Wuxian of old had moved. Each step he took was light. Floating in the air languid and relaxed, but with an undercurrent of lethality. He had danced through the air. With each move he played a game of passion, bright colors and affectivity. Laughter whirling in silver eyes, a smile tugging at the corners.

Now his eyes were glowing red.

This man did not move the same. He did not dance on the wind.

Now he oozed virulence, sharp lines and bitter edges. Rage made his cheekbones sharp. He stalked along the narrow beam. He played a song of longing and pain, of betrayal and hurt. 

He played a song of death.

Then when a shill note pierced the air, and the ominous steps of those long dead began to drag across the ground the battle began.

Corpses rolled from the hills, from the ground and through the thick trees. There was no end, there was no beginning as they rose from the mountain that was theirs.

Cultivators drew their swords and notched their arrows, they stuck, stabbed and sliced; but there is no killing that which is already dead. 

And so the wave kept coming, and with every cultivator that was too slow the wave only grew. Lan Wangji watched the carnage and felt only sorrow for the man who stood so high above them. 

Lan Wangji glanced up trying to catch Wei Wuxian's eye, But they were closed. Instead he watched as the other man teetered on the edge, tears straining his cheeks. He drew Bichen from its sheath and joined the fray. 

He watched the others die and thought only of getting to Wei Ying. 

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian leapt from his perch, feet landing hard upon the ground. Boots splattering in the muck, mud crawling up the hem of his worn robes. Resentful energy rose up to meet him, curling about his body.  His steps were heavy as he made his way through the carnage he had wrought. His strides were long--a deliberate prowl. All around him chaos ensued. Screams ruptured the air, pried from lungs both living and dead. He watched impassive, as the corpses killed and killed and killed. The air tasted of ash and the dirt was drenched in blood. The night was on fire, ignited by resentment and fueled by slaughter.

The voices in his head laughed. 

Wei Wuxian felt nothing but empty.

There was no end, there never could be; with each death more would rise. With each death his power grew. With each death there was more hate and anger. The resentful energy filled his veins. It coated his tongue, his arms, his lungs. It grew wild and untamed. His body was no longer his own, it moved in ways he did not wish, and thought of things he did not want. 

He knew nothing but the feel of a flute against his lips, the darkness in his soul.

He had lost control. 

A brilliant light swirled in the corner of his vision. 

Lan Zhan.

Wei Wuxian blinked. Inky shadows began to shrink. His muscles jerked, and he halted. Chenqing fell from his lips. He held the flute loosely in his fist. For a long moment he stood, and simply watched. 

Bichen glided through the air, slashing through the bodies of the undead. Lan Wangji spun in an elegant arc dodging a corpse that had tried to sneak up on him from behind. He swirled and darted. Ducked and weaved through the fray. He blocked attacks with his sheath, and parried and pierced with his sword. In everything he was elegant and restrained. 

Beautiful. 

His finger twitched, black heart beating erratically in his chest.

What was he doing here?

For a moment, a blossom of hope filled his chest. It unfurled with the memory of flowing white robes, and long fingers plucking a guqin; golden eyes that looked almost fond. Memories of teasing and white rabbits, of a precious ribbon wrapped around both their wrists and a little boy held between them. 

He took a stuttering step forward.

He is here to kill you. He wants you dead! Just like the rest of them! 

He froze once again. Unable to move. Chenqing hung loose in his fingers. 

Why would he want you? You are the darkness, the death! He is the Bearer of Light!

You are nothing compared to him, you never were. 

Silver eyes met gold across the battlefield. 

For a moment neither moved. The war continued--the night still held the sound of swords and the smell of burning flesh. 

A severed hand began to crawl up Lan Wangji’s boot, only to quickly be punctured by his sword. And then he was fighting again. 

Wei Wuxian could not blink. He could only stare as the other man resumed his elegant dance, each step bringing him closer to Wei Wuxian. Closer to their destruction. There was no hesitation, no pause. With each slice of his sword he edged closer and closer but Wei Wuxian could not move. The resentful energy slowly retreated from his vision, from his blood. He began to take in the world around him.

He heard the screams, the sounds of bones breaking, the squelch of blood puddling in the dirt. He saw the lives being severed; the rainbow turning red, red, red. 

He recognized the horror he had wrought. 

He sagged. His body felt heavy, the weight of all he had done crashing into him at once. The burden of years gone wrong, of mistake after mistake that had left all those he loved bloody and broken pressed harder and harder upon his shoulders. He gasped for air that no longer resided in his lungs.

Chenqing fell to his side. He let the feelings consume him, he let it wash away the darkness; the sorrow, the anger, the fear. The pain.

You are the harbinger of death. They had said and in that moment he knew it was true.

He looked down, to skeletal hands and only saw blood. 

Jiang Fengmian, Yu Ziyuan, the disciples at Lotus Pier. Jin Zuxuan. Wen Ning and Wen Qing and all of the Wen Remnants.

He had killed them all. 

He hung his head low, letting the tears fall, mingling in the bloody ground. 

“There! I see him!  Wei Wuxian is injured!” 

“Kill him!”

“Get the Stygian Tiger Seal!”

Cultivators surged towards him, but corpses rose from dirt, surrounding him. Around him the battle raged, the forest burned, corpses rose over and over again as limbs littered the ground. Smoke filled the air and death hung in the night. An army had come, but now they were dying. And for what? For him? 

Death was all he had known. His only achievement in this world.

And now it surrounded him. 

Manic laughter bubbled from his lips and tears clung to his lashes. 

He glanced up again, the swirl of light was getting closer. Hanguang-Jun, Lan Wangji, Lan Zhan. In the center of the chaos he was a beacon. 

In that moment Wei Wuxian knew he would never be enough. 

Numb, he let the Stygian Tiger Seal fall from his sleeve. He grips it tight in his hand. Eyes never leaving the man before him. 

With one last chuckle, he channeled all of the resentful energy into the cold metal. With a snap, he clicked the Seal into place. The darkness that consumed him slipped away. The power keeping him alive leached from an empty core. 

Pain exploded inside him. His organs twisted. Blood leaked into his mouth, slipping past his lips. 

The Stygian Tiger Seal shattered, a wave of energy knocking both living and dead to the ground.

We Wuxian’s heart thundered uselessly in his chest, but he made no effort to move.

A slow chill encompassed his body. This is inevitable , he thought. This is what you deserve , he knew.

And when the fierce corpses turned to him he didn't stop them. 

He felt the dark. He felt the voices screaming, screaming, screaming inside his head. He sensed the black mist tearing at his clothes. It bit like frost against his skin. Like a thousand pin pricks. 

It was an agony he did not know. His skin was shredded, leaking rivets of blood, exposing the muscles and the meat inside. 

A shattered smile pulled  at his lips and he reached  a hand out as the first corpse bit into his leg. He reached in the direction he last saw his glowing light. The distance is too great.

There is no way Lan Wangji can get there in time. He didn’t want him to. He didn’t want those beautiful white robes to be stained by the blood. He didn’t want the man to be stained by him. But as he looked up, through the bodies piling around him, their eyes met again.

Bichen sliced through cultivators and corpses alike. He didn’t stop. He didn’t stop fighting. And he didn’t look away. Wei Wuxian almost wished he would. He wished Lan Wangi would give him this last shred of dignity. But that would be a lie, because he finds comfort in those eyes. In that determined look. How did he ever think those eyes were cold? How did he ever believe that that man was stone? 

Teeth tore at his legs, nails bit deep into his arms. Each moment his body being stripped, shredded, torn and yanked and ripped. His bones were breaking and every ligament, every  muscle was dust. His blood was pooling against the forgotten ribbons of his skin. It pooled across the ground, out of every pore. 

It flowed and it flowed, staining the world red. 

All he saw was blood. All he felt was pain. Like a thousand sword wounds, like a million dog bites. Like the sounds of his sisters' heartbroken cries and Wen Qing’s screams. Each breath hurt, scratching down his throat and exploding in his lungs.

He thought he may be screaming.

Gold eyes faded faster and faster, the only color in a sea--in a world slowly turning black.

The voices began to quiet. The constant screams inside his skull finally subsiding, with every second his body was devoured.

But one voice remained. Wei Ying, it said.

And he smiled.

8-8

Bichen dripped blood, but Lan Wangji didn’t care. It didn’t matter who lived, who died. 

It didn’t matter who he killed. The only thing that mattered was--

“Wei Ying!”

Fierce corpses surrounded him. But his arm was outstretched. Reaching, reaching. Lan Wangi wanted to reach back. To pull him from the growing pile of undead. To hold him in his arms. To stop the screaming. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop fighting. If he stopped fighting he wouldn’t make it to him in time.

It didn’t matter.

It was minutes, secondshoursdays --by the time Lan Wangji reached the pile where Wei WuXian had once been. It was so much longer as he tore through the growing mountain of death. He slashed through bodies, hacking at the limbs of those long dead.

His white robes were drenched in blood, sticking tacky to his skin. Red dripped from his fingertips. It did not matter. By the time he made it through the corpses there was no one at the bottom. 

Wei Ying was gone. 

All that remained was Chenqing laying in a sea of blood.

He dropped to his knees, picking up the flute. He watched numb as blood dripped from its tassel, slithering off the black lacquer, into the talismans carved into the side.

The rest of the army shouted and cheered. Lan Wangji stood up, but his legs were weak. He swayed before he felt a hand on his shoulder steadying him. He glanced behind him to meet his brother's eyes. 

He felt the pity winding in their depths and shrugged off the hand, but he did not move away. They stood in silence. Lan Wangji watched through a fog as the others rejoiced. No one seemed to notice them. 

No one seemed to care. He clung to Chenqing harder.

Fire still raged around them, and a few fierce corpses were crawling across the ground, but it didn’t seem to matter. Time passed as he stood numb. Empty eyes stared blankly at the scene before him. The decay was illuminated by the morning light. Bodies littered the ground. There were no thoughts in his head. He could not move, could not think. All he knew was a growing, never ending ache, deep inside his soul. It hurt.

His breath hitched when his eyes landed on the pile of Wen Remnants. His chest clenched as he scanned the cadavers desperately for a small body. With numb legs he managed to walk towards the corpses. There was no sign of the little boy he once knew. No small hand iced with death, no eyes glassy and glazed.

His heart hammered in his chest. A desperate hope clogging his throat. 

Before he knew what he was doing he shoved Chenqing into his belt and drew Bichen. With a swift step he mounted the sword and was rising into the air. Ignoring his brother's confused calls, he sped off. A sharp star in the dull morning light. 

He did not know how long he flew. Searching for a sound, for a sign. For the little boy who clung to his robes and smiled up at him with a gapped tooth grin. 

For the little boy who held Wei Ying’s heart. 

His eyes scanned the ground for a sign, for something, anything. His senses hunting for any clue. Finally-- finallyfinally-- he heard the stuttering sobs. 

Bichen plummeted to the ground. He stumbled from the sword, undignified, improper. It did not matter anymore. 

He followed the sound of the crying. Heart in his throat. The forest seemed to move, to open up before him with every faltering step he took, until he stood before a hollowed tree. The wails grew louder and louder as he floundered closer to the blackened tree. He peered inside. He was met with wide, light eyes, filled with tears. 

The boy screamed. Lan Wangj’s blood curdled. He reached out, the boy flinched.

“A-Yuan,” he tried again, fingers gently touching soft curls. This time the boy didn’t move. Recognition flitted through tear blurred eyes. 

“Rich-gege?” Lan Wangi nodded. The child flung himself against his chest. Hesitantly he wrapped himself around the shuddering body. 

“Rich-gege! Rich-gege! Where’s ba-Where’s Xian-gege! I want Xian-gege!” The child clung to Lan Wangji’s robes, his tears soaking through the blood stained cloth. 

He let the child cry, unsure of what to say, what to do. His fingers curled tightly into rough fabric. A tear rolled down Lan Wangji’s cheek.This child had lost so much. His family, his clan--

He has lost Wei Ying too .

The thought brought both comfort and guilt. Long moments passed, as they clung to each other, consumed by grief. 

Finally when the sobs began to subside Lan Wangji spoke, “A-Yuan, would you like to come live with me?” 

The child jolted in his arms, terror filled his eyes, “No! No, no no! Xian-gege is coming back! He said--he said...He promised!” He began to wail again. 

The remainder of Lan Wangji’s heart shattered. A-Yuan began to thrash in his arms, his screams were getting louder, shriller in the morning air, “Put me down! Put me down! I want Xian-gege! I want Xian-baba!” 

His little fist beat against Lan Wangji’s chest and his feet kicked him in the stomach. “I want Baba! NOW!” 

Lan Wangji’s white robes were drenched in blood, hemmed with dirt. They were torn and irreparable. He was the most disheveled he had ever been--a disgrace. But it was the tears that soaked his shoulder that he hated the most. 

He clutched the child tighter against his chest and whispered, “It’s alright, I am here.” 

Then he began to hum; a song he composed long ago for the man they both grieved. 

8-8

Lan Wangji wasn’t sure how long his search had taken. But by the time he returned to the scene of the massacre the sun had made its way high in the sky. He needed to find his brother. He needed to take this child back to Gusu. 

A-Yuan had collapsed from exhaustion after he had finally stopped crying, he had not woken up for the trip back, sleeping fitfully in his arms. It did not matter, though. Lan Wangji still wanted to get him as far away from here as fast as possible. He held A-Yuan tight to his chest, shielding him from the horror that was his home, his family. Burnt and destroyed. 

He landed lightly on the ground, balancing the child in one arm as he somehow managed to sheath his sword with the other, Chengqing still at his side. With gentle fingers he caressed the ebony tip before he chanced a look up, searching for his brother.

However, as he scanned the area around him, his anger surged. He took in the decimation the cultivating world had toiled.

He had arrived originally in a panic, desperate to get to Wei Ying before it was too late. Distantly he had known they had come to destroy. He knew when he left that there was a fire, that buildings were burning, but this, this--

The Burial Mounds had been decimated.

Everything the Wens-- Wei Ying --had worked for was ash, dust, trash strewn across the earth.

The wooden houses had been torn apart, clothing and trinkets scattered and broken across the uneven stone of the courtyard. The lives of those who lived here, bared before the world, but the world did not care. 

The lotus pond had been dug up. 

The remaining cultivators had gathered before the entrance of the Demon-Slaughtering Cave. They clambered together, their shouts rend the still cold air.  Their enthusiasm oozed into a  ravenous uproar. 

“What do you think is in there?” 

“Is this where he kept his corpses? Where he made the Ghost General?” 

Rage consumed him. That was Wei Ying’s home. This was where they had sat together, drinking water because they could not afford the leaves to make tea. This was where Wei Ying had worked, molded and twisted cultivation and theory to create. To help. 

This was where he slept, where he lived . And they were decimating it.

And then he saw another group of cultivators, smaller and off to the side. He watched as they carried the last fragments of the Wen clan, one by one, into the back of the Cave. He stood as they heaved each body into the bloodied pool. Bodies upon bodies. An old man, laugh lines etched into his cheeks--a young girl, barely old enough to even develop a core--the wrinkled face of the woman who had cuddled A-Yuan--the stooped elderly man who had glowered at him when he stepped close to Wei Ying--as if he was the one who needed protecting.

All of his emotions crashed into him at once. Anger ached, but not as bad as the betrayal and guilt. Nor did it stab like the overwhelming feeling of loss. Together, it conjoined until the only thing it could do is grow. It grew and grew into a living thing. It's fingers wrapped around his heart, his lungs.

It's all because of Wei Ying.

Long legs and rage carried him through the carnage, until he located a group of white, confusion and mistrust written across their faces. Lan Xichen stood in the center. Swiftly, he moved towards the group.

“Lan Wangji--” his brother started, eyes wide in shock, as he caught sight of the bundle in the other man’s arms. Lan Wangji did not stop however.

He shoved the little boy into his brother’s arms. And strode to the growing body of cultivators. They hooted at their discoveries. They tore and smashed the remaining belongings littering the ground. They celebrated and rejoiced in their triumph--in their destruction.

He stepped over the wreckage of a little town that had tried to thrive--of a group of people who had wanted nothing more than to live. Wei Ying had wanted nothing more than for them to live. 

He stood in front of them now--these cultivators, these people who were supposed to do good -- and refused to let them past. 

“There is nothing more here.” His voice was sharp, hard. Filled with a confidence he did not feel. 

The group in front of him stood in shock. Before the shouting began. 

“Why do you care?” 

“That demon lived there didn’t he? Of course there is more in there!” 

“You of all people should know how evil he is! Let us through!”

They argued and they cursed, but Lan Wangji did not care. Their voices bled together, nothing more than static in his ears. A man stood before the others vaguely familiar, louder than the others.

“Hanguang-Jun,” he said, “ is it not our duty as cultivators to banish the evils in this world? And we all know there is no one more evil than the Yiling Patriarch. You hate him too, do you not? You judged him so harshly during the Sun Shot Campaign.” 

Lan Wangji wanted to flinch, but he refrained. It did not matter--not anymore. 

“You are not qualified to speak to me,” he said instead, hand placed firmly on Bichen’s hilt. 

The crowd began to shout louder. When he did not move and did not respond; swords were drawn. Bichen left its sheath. Anger, rage, and sorrow clouded his vision. He knew nothing, saw nothing. 

Numbly he watched as his blade sliced through the air and thought only of Wei Ying. 

Chapter Text

“The troops have returned!”

“He is dead!”

“They really killed him?” 

“The Yiling Patriarch is finally dead!” 

A porcelain tea set shattered against the ivory tile. Jiang Yanli stumbled back and crashed against the nearest wall.

A-Xian was dead? 

Her baby brother, with his sunshine smiles and his dancing steps. The boy with gentle hands and trust in his eyes. The young man with kindness in his heart and steel in his spine. The child she raised with love and lotus root soup.

He was dead.

Her ribs constricted around her heart--around her lungs. Something crawled up her neck, and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. 

She had thought when she had realized that her husband was not dead… she had prayed that there still may be a chance. She had known her brother was not lost. She knew that his golden smiles could never be dimmed, and his flittering laugh could never be tamed. She had known her brother's soul could never be consumed so entirely by the darkness that so often surrounded him. 

When she had felt the flutter of life still within her husband's chest she had felt the fledgling hope burn brighter in her chest. Her brother could still be saved. But no one else knew her brother like she did. No one else could forever see the goodness within him. Jiang Yanli knew the world was fooled by the arrogance Wei Wuxian wore like a shield. They closed their eyes to the man, and saw only the monster they wished him to be. 

Another sob tore from her lips. Her heart, patched together again and again by prayers of hope and love, splintered anew. It felt like all she did was cry. All she did was stand by and watch as everyone she loved died. Her eyes drifted to the body draped in sheets of gold.

Regal even when his chest barely fluttered. Honorable even when a fine row of stitches bisecting his chest. Distinguished even as the doctors were uncertain why he would not wake. Because although his injuries were great--flesh shredded and the bones of his chest cracked--his heart was still intact. 

It was his core still pulsed dim within his body that posed a problem for the medics. It was not helping to heal Jin Zixuan's ruined body. 

She felt the agony she had tried so desperately to temper, creep along her skin. It slithered up her neck and down her throat and choked away the fledgling hope she had so desperately nurtured. Her family was in tatters. Her parents long turned to ash. Her husband lay comatose. Her brother was dead. 

Spilled tea seeped into her robes but she did not care. The air around her was fuzzied and dull.She let her body crumple to the floor. She let the tears fall useless and endless. She let the whimpers wrack her body. 

She let the anguish consume her soul.

8-8

Jiang Cheng stormed through the medical pavilion, until he made it to the room he knew housed his brother-in-law. The room he knew he would find his sister in. His strides were long and hurried. The troops had just returned. He had to make it there before word spread--before A-jie heard-- before...

When he slammed the sliding door open, he knew he was too late. His sister lay curled on the ground. Her shoulders shaking and her breathing uneven. His heart fell. It weighed like lead, so heavy it made a home near his stomach. 

He let rage swallow him. He let it devour all other emotions and focused on the anger. 

At that moment he hated him. He hated Wei Wuxian. 

Jiang Cheng despised him for the pain and wreckage and death the other man had dragged upon his family. He cursed Wei Wuxian’s foolishness, his selfishness; the fucking pride that brought them to this moment. He loathed him for the choices he had made, for the lives Wei Wuxian had dubbed worthy and those he had decided were not. What place was it of his to decide who lived? Why did he have to play the fucking hero? 

What made those lives so worthy? What made them so much better than his family? 

With a stab wound and a broken arm he had let their ties become nothing. Jiang Cheng had nursed a broken promise like a sore and let it fester and rot. The anger and the pain threatened to bubble up, to overwhelm in and consume him. He let it.

And then he let his eyes focus on the shaking lavender robes splayed across the ivory floor. He clenched his teeth against the wrath. He wanted to hate him. He wanted it so badly he could bleed.

But he could not let go of the memory of a man; a brother with a quick smile and faster wit. He clung to the impression of hot days and warm nights. Of a wooden pier beneath bare feet. He could not let go of a heart so pure, with kindness so strong that it got him killed. 

His foolish pride got him killed, he thought. There wasn’t anything I could have done. 

Bile flooded up his throat, riding a tidal wave of guilt as it overthrew the rage he was trying so hard to focus on. 

But that wasn’t entirely true was it? He had known where that army was going. Deep down he had known they would not simply bring him back. He had known what they planned on doing, and he had done nothing.

He had been naïve. He had been weak. 

A whimper sliced the air. Finally he fell to the floor and pulled his sister’s shivering form into his lap. He wrapped his arms around her shaking shoulders and held her tight. It seemed to be all he did now. It was all either of them did. 

Jiang Yanli sobbed as her world fell around her, and all Jiang Cheng did was watch. All he did was try to hold the broken pieces of his sister together. All he did was watch his splintered family as it crumbled to dust.

The siblings curled together. Two lotus petals quelled by fate. Their purple robes stained by cooling tea. As they clung to each other Jiang Cheng found as much as he tried, he could not hate Wei Wuxian. 

The grief and pain won its war against wrath, and left the battle field inside his chest desolate. 

Achieve the impossible? He wanted to scoff. He wanted to scream. He wanted to whip Zidian against anyone who said that damn motto to him again. 

He wanted to rip a golden core he shouldn't have straight from his chest. 

He had never achieved anything in his life. And now the embodiment of his clan, his father's pride--his brother (because no matter how hard he tried, Wei Wuxian would always be his brother) was dead. 

And he had done nothing. 

He had stood by and watched as the clans villainized the man Jiang Cheng had grown up with. He had stood by as Jin Guangshan had gathered as many clans as he could in such short notice and laid siege to the Burial Mounds. He had stood by when he knew what sort of people the army would be met with. Had known they would meet no resistance but for the man who controlled the shadows. 

He had stood by and watched as a figure in white had left in his place. 

He wanted his clan. He wanted his parents. But most of all he wanted his brother.

He clung hard to his sister as she sobbed, and let the regret drench his soul. 

He had to do something. 

8-8

Fear coiled deep in her belly as Wen Qing stared up at the shadow that hovered outside of her cell. Wen Qing stared silently as the shadow shifted. Still it did not enter. She had been alone in the cell for days. Trapped in the lonely solitude of dirt floors and stone walls.

Guards had come shortly after Jiang Wanyin's departure. They had locked cuffs around her wrists and bound chains across Wen Ning's arms and chest. They had bound him up, so his arms could not lift and his steps were slow and disjointed like the corpse he tried so hard not to be. 

She had wanted to protest, to argue. She wanted to scream at them, demand that they stop, explain how unnecessary it was. Wen Ning wouldn't hurt anyone. But then she had caught her brother’s eye. He stood determined and resolute--bound and silent in a dirty cell. He stood with a confidence she so rarely saw. A confidence that had stiffened his spine and straightened his shoulders.

So she stayed silent. She reminded herself why they had come. 

Then they had demanded that the great Ghost General be taken to a different cell. One more secure they said. Both siblings knew it was a lie. Nevertheless her brother had let them drag him out the door. Why wouldn't he? 

They had done this for Wei Wuxian. There was no price they would not pay.

How naïve they had been. 

The lock on the cell door rattled. She stood from her huddle on the ground and dusted off her robes. She swallowed the fear and the bile as it churned up her throat.

The door flung open, hitting the stone wall. Vaguely Wen Qing wondered if it might splinter.  A purple storm blocked the entrance. Jiang Wanyin stood before her. Silhouetted by the light she had not seen in days. His visage was clouded by rage and grief. The two emotions warring across elegant cheekbones and dueling in his eyes. 

She lifted her cuffed hands before her and bowed, “Sandu Shengshou.”

He glared down at her silent and foreboding. Then he scoffed, "You still act so noble, so proper. Even when you have nothing left?"

Accompanied by the clinking of chains, slowly she let her hands fall before her again and straightened her spine. She did not deem his comment worthy of a response. She stood before him, unreadable. 

He wanted to break her.

“I thought you might want to know, your savior is dead,” he watched her, searching for a reaction. She gave him none. 

“Those Wen dogs he tried so hard to protect were annihilated. I heard their bodies were thrown into that--” 

She blocked out his words, not wanting to hear the vile that he spewed. She knew it would anger him more if he could not elicit a response. Besides, his news was too late. The rumors had spread.

The sects had united. They had attacked the Burial Mounds. 

The Wens were dead. 

Her family had been slaughtered.

The Yiling Patriarch had been consumed by his own army.

Wei Wuxian was gone.

Their sacrifice had meant nothing.

She didn't know if Wen Ning had heard about Wei Wuxian's death. She hoped he hadn't. It would break him. 

"Jin Zixuan is not dead." 

The words broke through her mind. They swirled through her ears and tipped the axis of her world. She could not stop the soft gasp that left her lips. 

For a moment she was days--was it only days--ago, standing in a cold cave that smelled like blood, listening to the shattered screams of breaking minds. 

If Jin Zixuan was not dead--then that meant, that meant--

Jiang Wanyin's voice shattered through her thoughts. A malicious smile twisted his lips and darkened his tone. He savored the confusion in her eyes--the reaction he had finally won. 

"Did you hear me? Jin Zixuan is not dead, yet. "

He continued still, infusing each word with the venom that laced his tongue. "There is resentful energy that surrounds his heart. It is only because the remaining Lan disciples that he has lived this long. He will probably die soon, though, now that the Lan's are leaving."

He stood like stone waiting for a reaction. A response that she heard his words.

"Why are you telling me this?" Her heart hammered in her ears, in her throat as she tried to process all that this could mean. 

"Because you are going to save him."

The air hung between them, silent and heavy. 

She took the moment to observe him. To see the pain that flitted through the war of his emotions. She watched as it softened his features until she saw the boy she had met years ago. Only to be disappointed by the man he had become. She saw his body with an incision, clinical and precise, bisecting his chest. A golden core that was not his glowing bright, as his brother screamed and screamed and screamed.  

She tamped down hard on her incertitude and shock.  With an imperceivable shake, she reminded herself who she was. 

"Why should I? What do I owe you?" She let a smirk curl and twist her lip. 

"Why?" The question ripped from his throat, Wen Qing did not flinch as it echoed off the walls. "Maybe because it was your precious little brother who tried to kill him!" 

He stalked closer, looming over her slight frame. "Maybe because it's what you owe for everything your sect has done!" 

He sneered when he saw his words again had no effect. And then he scoffed, "He gave up everything for you, and you won't even try to help his precious sister’s husband? And here I thought you cared about him." 

She glared up at him for a long moment before she released a stuttered sigh. Something nasty unfurled inside of him when he saw her resolve waver. When he realized she would do it for Wei Wuxian. When she would do it for his brother, now dead and not him . 

"I will look at him." Her voice was a whisper, and her shoulders lost some of their tension. 

His fist unclenched, but his gut still ached.

"But… you have to protect Wen Ning."

"Why should I?" He asked, mocking her earlier question.

She leveled him with eyes like steel. 

"Because he did," her eyebrow arched and her voice cut like ice across his skin. 

"Because, as you say, he sacrificed everything for us. Funny that you wouldn’t honor his death. Here I thought you cared."

She didn’t flinch as the storm swept out of her tiny cell, or when the wooden door slammed shut once again. She did not move as footsteps thundered down a long hall fading into nothingness.

It was long minutes before she let herself fall back to the dirt covered floor, and let a tear fall for the broken boys left in the wake of a war. 

8-8

His eyes stopped breathing and his ears stopped seeing and his tongue could not feel a sound. 

He swirled in the black. In the dark. In the death. 

There was no time. There was nothing at all.

Wei Wuxian woke with ash on his tongue and the smell of blood in his nose.

Chapter Text

The room he woke in was dark but for the light of a lone candle flickering on a nearby table. Wei Wuxian glanced around, inspecting his surroundings. It was clean, sparse; there was nothing to identify who the room belonged to. Or where he was. 

His mouth tasted bitter, like death upon his tongue. 

He laid his head back down. 

Was he dead? 

His body ached, slow and dull. Not like the agony before.

Experimentally he wiggled his toes, then his fingers. 

He lifted his arm, then his leg. 

They were all there, all his limbs attached, all of them functioning properly. 

What was going on? 

He lay there in stunned silence until he heard the gentle sobs. 

He shot up, stumbling to his feet. A-Yuan? 

His heart thundered in his ears as he sped across the room following the whimpers. He stepped around the divider that must have led to the bed.  A-Yuan! A-Yuan was alive! His little boy, His so-

He stopped, paralyzed. 

Lan Zhan?

Before him on the bed lay what could only be Lan Wangji. He rested on his stomach, crumpled, broken. Tears clung to his long lashes but his eyes were closed. His hair hung loose around his shoulders, running like ink across the blood stained bandages. The fabric was wrapped tightly around his torso, his arms. A thin blanket was draped across his lower half.

One hand was outstretched, gently cupping the head of a small child.

A-Yuan was sitting beside him, he looked like he was trying hard not to cry. He was failing. 

Wei Wuxian’s feet moved before his mind could process the scene before him. His hand was outstretched. He wanted to touch, to ease the pain before him. He wanted to lift the little boy into his arms, cuddle him close and whisper comfort into his hair. He wanted to hum the notes of a song that always brought him solace. He wanted to run his fingers along the bandages; to grasp the hand that lay so still against the sheets, to hold it tight and never let go. He stepped up to the side of the bed. A-Yuan didn’t move, too absorbed in stifling his tears. 

He had stopped thinking about his actions long ago. Wei Wuxian had always acted with impulse. He had always followed his heart.

This was no different. 

In desperate need to do something he reached out for the bandages. 

His words were raw when he spoke, "Oh Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan. What did you do?"

Phantom fingers ghosted down a back once smooth. Wei Wuxian froze when he did not feel the soft bandages upon his finger tips. He had not felt anything at all. He glanced down and gaped at his hand when he saw the gentle candle light reflecting through his fingers. He gasped, and tried again, but his fingers still did not make contact with the red soaked cloth. They disappeared.

What? What was happening? 

He reached out to shake Lan Wangji’s shoulders, but his hands sunk straight through. The other man didn’t even flinch.

Wei Wuxian felt the spectral pounding of a heart he did not have thundering in a chest gone hollow. His body remembered the feel of a stomach sinking with terror.

He turned to A-Yuan. He tried to pick him up, to lift him into his arms, but every attempt was met with failure. Fingers and hands slipped through the little boy, who shuddered none the wiser.

“A-Yuan,” he tried, voice tinged with hysteria, “ A-Yuan! Look at me! Look at Gege! A-Yuan Please!” 

But he didn’t move, he didn’t hear the voice calling out to him, filled with desperation. A-Yuan sat alone, curled in on himself as his body continued to wrack with silent sobs. 

Wei Wuxian dropped his arms to his side, and clenched his fists. He noticed then the tingles that spidered down his shoulders and across his chest. His arms shook as they lifted to his collarbone and his body trembled as he tore open his shredded robes.

Black robes, covered in mud, covered in blood, ripped by teeth and nails and dead-

The talismans he had etched so painstaking upon himself glittered. They shone bright, beautiful and warm. 

They were gold, like Lan Zhan's eyes. 

Gold like a core Wei Wuxian no longer had.

He stumbled back and fell upon the ground. But there was no thump, no sound of a body hitting the wooden floor. Because he had no form. He had no body, no heart. He had nothing. He was nothing. 

Manic laughter bubbled in his chest-- do I even have a chest? Did it count if it was hollow, empty, unseen? --and busted through lips that could not feel. 

He thought of all the moments he had begged for control. The pick of the needle as it dug into his flesh. 

He thought of all the times he had tried, triedtriedtried- 

He tried so hard to keep control, to keep the madness at bay. 

He had carved symbols into his skin with knives and ink and needles; to preserve the man he was, to banish the evil that threatened to consume him. He had covered himself with arrays and talismans in desperation; in a last resort. To save himself and everyone he loved. 

He had failed. Over and over again he had failed. 

Now he was this. He was lost between the living and the dead. He was nothing . 

He let himself fall, a crumpled heap upon the floor. 

Was the throbbing ache consuming his heart even real? 

He did not know. 

He stayed, unmoving on the wooden floor, as the candle light flickered. It cast shadows across the wall, illuminating the  sorrow etched upon the faces of the other occupants in the room. 

Three people laid in the Jingshi, broken and despondent, but only two were seen.

8-8

Wei Wuxian has no idea how much time has passed. There were moments where he was present and moments where he was not. He does not sleep in this world of in-between. He cannot talk, cannot touch. He can only watch silent. He cannot leave the Jingshi either. He is tied to something within, unable to move much past the entrance. But for that he cannot complain. Those that he cares for are also sheltered within the silent room.

He is no ghost, and he is not filled with resentment. 

He has learned that he is nothing but the energy that sustains him. However, it is not yin energy that binds him to the earth. Nor is it yang. It is something other.

There were moments where he wanted to laugh. He couldn’t even die right!

Every night he pulsed what little energy he can spare into the deep bloody gashes along an otherwise flawless back. It did not do much, but it helped a little. At least he hoped. The wounds began to close.

He is not living, and he is not dead. He hears the haunting melody of inquiry but cannot respond. 

In silence he saw a face of jade crumple with each failed attempt. In silence he watched a little boy cry. Aching to hold and to comfort. 

He watched as another man held the child instead. As though he is precious. It is the only thing that makes him smile, because that little boy is the most precious thing in the world. But then he would ache in a whole new way, with emptiness and loss. The longing for what he cannot have. Will not have. Will never have.

He does not sleep. He almost wished he could, but anytime he thought of closing his eyes for longer than a blink, he flickered out of existence, only to return an unknown amount of time later. These moments make him shudder, they remind him that there is something worse than being unseen. 

Instead he simply stood witness as the world progressed around him.

He does not know time. Only the flicker of a candle against the walls and the intrusion of the sun against the floor. Days passed. 

Lan Zhan bled. 

Occasionally Lan Xichen wandered through. He would change the bandages. They have tea. 

Sometimes when he left after, he took A-Yuan with him. They would leave for long stretches of time. Wei Wuxian does not know what they do while they are gone, but the child is quiet and withdrawn when they return. Wei Wuxian hated it. 

He would worry that he may become a vengeful spirit but he knows that is impossible because he is no spirit at all.

He was nothing. 

8-8

Lan Wangji spent his days lying on his stomach, back flayed by a punishment he had earned. A punishment that should take years to recover from.

He did not know what to think about the phantom fingers he felt tracing the lashes lacing his back. Nor did he want to acknowledge the little pulses of energy that would flit into his wounds. He could feel them healing and closing, but did not know what caused it.

They were healing faster than they should. Faster than his spiritual energy alone was capable of. His brother was concerned. He asked him once if he knew what was causing this. 

Lan Wangji did not. He could remember so little from the days following his punishment, but what he did could not answer his brother's inquiry. 

The first month had brought pain. The second month was marked by fever. The third he remembered the caress of fingers along his back. He did not tell him about the last, as he could not explain it himself, but it felt too private to share with another. 

He clung to the feeling though, and imagined that the gentle pressure was accompanied by a quick smile and tittling laugh. It eased the stuttering tremors of his heart. 

Days were marked by the changing of bandages and the sips of fresh brewed tea.

Weeks ago he had healed enough to sit up and to roam freely around the Jingshi, on better days he would sit at the little table in the center of the room, guqin placed before him. He would play the song of Inquiry but was always left wanting. 

The deep ache within him chasmed. 

A giggle snapped the silence that seemed to be cloistering. Lan Wangji let the child pull him from his thoughts. He looked to where Lan Yuan sat with him, playing calmly with the little straw butterfly. He always kept with him, he would whisper words and conversations to the toy made of grass. He would giggle and laugh and smile. Lan Wangji felt his fingers dance light upon the young boy's head, as he had seen another do months ago, combing through short hair. 

With effort he had tied it up this morning, with a red ribbon .It contrasted with the white robes of Gusu but Lan Yuan had loved that even more. 

His gaze lingered on the child; who did not seem to notice, too busy conversing with the butterfly.

He had spent months unsure what to do. Lan Wangji had little experience with children--coupled with his current health-- made matters difficult. He had done his best with his brother's help. However, Lan Yuan had become so quiet in the months he had resided in the Cloud Recessess, so different from the bright little boy who clung so ardently to his leg. He wondered what he could do to bring that smile back. 

He did not know what to do sometimes when he would catch Lan Yuan staring at nothing, a solemn look on his little face. Or why sometimes in the middle of the night the boy would cry so loud he would wake Lan Wangji up. He would watch helplessly as the child  would curl deep into his bed and hiccup, "Xian-gege, Xian-baba, Baba.." over and over. 

Lan Wangji was not made to comfort, he did not know how. 

Once when Lan Wangji had gained the courage to try (it was early enough in his recovery that blood still dribbled from his back, but late enough that his fever had dissipated). He had lifted himself on quivering arms and heaved himself to a sitting position. On shaking legs he had stumbled up and across the room. By the time he had made it to the little cot Lan Yuan slept on; he saw a gentle breeze rustle through the child's hair. Only then did Lan Yuan sniffle slightly. He then took a deep breath and abruptly stopped crying. 

Lan Wangji had stopped in confusion, lost in the abrupt switch of emotions.

A giggle had spilled into the night, and then his little limbs had unfurled. Lan Yuan had shreiked a delighted “Baba!” before he cuddled down into his blanket and fell back asleep. As Lan Wangji stood beside the bed, staring down at the little body now relaxed, he felt a gentle caress against his cheek, a ghost of laughter wavering through the air.

He did not tell his brother about that moment either.

In a distant part of his mind he wondered if this was a result of his grief. A manifestation of his mourning. A desperate attempt to cling to a man now dead. 

Then he realized he did not care.

He knew what life he had left would be haunted by laughing eyes and sunshine smiles and dancing steps. He knew the rest of his life would be haunted by Wei Ying. 

So instead he continued to card his fingers through short strands of hair, and watch pudgy fingers as it flew a straw butterfly through the air.

If the butterfly sometimes fluttered a second or too on its own, he pretended not to notice. 

8-8

A-Yuan remembered the day that Rich-gege had found him in the tree, and the day that he had brought him to the pretty place at the top of the mountain surrounded by the clouds. 

He remembered the day that he had told A-Yuan would be his new baba; but only if that was okay with him. Rich-gege had been laying on a bed with blood dripping down his back. A-Yuan had nodded and said okay. He had hoped it would make the tears in those pretty gold eyes go away. 

It did, but only for a moment. There always seemed to be shiny tears in Rich-gege’s eyes. In A-die’s eyes. 

Each time A-Yuan called him A-die the big man would look a little bit less sad. So he tried to call him that lots and lots.

He had a new home now, and a new father. A-Yuan was happy, but he missed the family he used to have too. 

Everything here was so quiet, so clean and pretty. A-Yuan didn’t know what to do with himself most days, but he noticed A-die was always quiet, even when he spoke it was gentle and calm. So A-Yuan tried to be gentle and calm too. He played quietly and slept quietly and ate quietly too. It didn’t make the sad gold eyes go away though.

A-Yuan doesn't know why A-die always looked so sad. 

He had asked once, if it was because of the big owies on his back. The big man had softly shaken his head then gently patted A-Yuan head. He told him that it was not; that his back hurt but it was not why he was sad. He didn’t seem to notice that he kept patting A-Yuan’s head. A-die did not talk for a long time after that. A-Yuan was not brave enough to ask again.

He doesn't know why A-die looked like he wanted to cry each time A-Yuan asked when Baba was coming back. Those pretty eyes would shine with wet tears before they would close for a long moment. When he would open them again his eyes would be dry but he would be silent. Eventually A-Yuan stopped asking. 

The man was so big and so quiet. So different from his Baba, but they both made him feel the same. They made the sad go away and the warm feeling bubble in his tummy. They both made him feel safe. 

Sometimes A-Yuan liked to curl up in A-die’s lap. It reminded him of curling into Baba’s side. He liked to wrap his little fingers around the white ribbon in man’s hair. Sometimes he pretended it was red. 

A-die had bought A-Yuan a red ribbon just like Baba’s, and now he wore it everyday. A-die would tie his hair up into a little tail each morning. The first time he did this, the man had looked at him and whispered, “Wei Ying.” 

That was the first time A-die hugged him. 

 He missed his baba.

He missed his laughter and his cuddles and tickles and being buried in the dirt. He did not understand why all the grown-up’s looked so sad every time he mentioned any of those things. Sometimes he thought he saw Baba flickering before him, or felt long fingers ruffling his hair. He watched sometimes as his butterfly skittered along the floor with no hands to move it. He felt warm and cherished whenever these things happened, the happy feeling bubbling in his chest.  He felt safe.

He did not know where Baba had gone but he knew that he was coming back. He just had to be good for A-die and Bobo until then. 

Chapter Text

It was dark within the cell where they placed Wen Ning. No light filtered in because there were no cracks, no bars, no pockets to the outside world. There was nothing but darkness and the bitter smell of decay. 

He sat long hours upon the ground and etched the days into the dirt. He knew it was not an accurate count. Since there was no light, there was no way for him to truly know how much time had passed, but he tried anyway. Wen Ning would carve another line in the little dirt corner when trying to sum up the hours began to be too overbearing. 

Sometimes he sat alone in the center of the little room and meditated. Other times he tried to draw little sketches into the ground. His eyes did not need light to see but it was still difficult. Nothing he drew ever looked the way he wanted it to.

He always remembered happy laughter and gentle smiles; he wondered why he felt no fear. Was it that he no longer could? 

He had no need to eat or drink and so no food was brought. 

Sometimes between his inadequate sketches and useless meditating, he wondered if he had been forgotten. He thought that that might not be so bad.

So days--or was it months--pass and nothing happened.

Wen Ning sat alone in a dungeon and waited for death in a body long gone cold. Until one day a man with a snake-like smile crept through his door. He was garbed in gold, and stood in the doorway illuminated like a deity. 

When he opened his mouth he spoke words that had no meaning, but curled in pleasant ribbons through the air.  

The shadows around them began to move, until one withdrew itself from the wall. The shadow smiled. His teeth looked jagged in the dark. Resentful energy twisted through his fingers. 

Blood eyes watched Wen Ning for a reaction that did not come. He was used to the shadows, to the darkness, and despite what this boy wished, he was not their master. The pointed smile morphed into a petulant sneer and the boy drew a flute from his belt. 

Dread pooled in Wen Ning’s stomach as the child--because he could be nothing else, could he? He looked so young --began to play. 

Wen Ning tensed, preparing for the uncomfortable rage, the darkness that he knew would fill him. He did not want to be a puppet. He had tried so, so hard to not become the monster so many thought him to be. He waited for the resentment to curl though his body and destroy the little humanity he clung to.

Nothing happened. 

There was no blackness swirling in his vision or wrath within his mind. He blinked up at the two men cramped in his little cell, dirtying their golden robes as they drug across the scum encrusted ground. He watched the disbelief flicker across their faces. 

The boy tried again. The air became heavy--stagnant--as it was filled with resentful energy, but still Wen Ning did not move. He did not flinch or flicker. He did not even blink. 

The boy began to scream obscenities and the man with the snake-smile dropped his grin. His eyes began to calculate. 

A hidden talisman itched upon Wen Ning’s skin.

His head was clear. There was no darkness, no resentment in his soul. The music did not have any effect upon him. 

He let himself smile. He wanted to laugh. 

The man did not share his joy. Anger marred a pretty face, but only for a moment, before the dimpled smile returned. There was failure reflected in his eyes. No amount of playing, no song, brought about the destruction they sought. 

They stopped trying and began to converse. Wen Ning let them talk, uncaring of the result, He let his eyes glaze. He let himself get lost in turnip fields and lotus ponds, always tinged with the bitter twang of blood. 

He should have paid better attention, he would think later, Master Wei would have been disappointed.

Something sharp stabbed against his skull. A different type of darkness stole his vision. 

8-8

Jiang Yanli watched the woman before her. Her elegant lines and delicate face. She watched as Wen Qing bent over her husband, as her physician's hands took his pulse. It had been a little over a month since A-Cheng had come to her, with the assurance he had a way to save her husband. She didn’t know what she expected, but she had not been prepared when her brother had whispered the name, Wen Qing.  

She had remembered the other woman. Adorned in the finest red silk with sharp needles and an even sharper tongue. She had cared for the Jiang siblings after the horrors of Lotus Pier, she had cured their fevers and hidden them. She had saved them. 

Jiang Yanli did not think they could ask her for more. Jiang Cheng did not agree. 

But Jiang Yanli was desperate to save her husband. She knew his heart was fading and she couldn’t take the loss of anyone else. The siblings had gone to the only person Jiang Yanli knew she could still trust. The only other person she knew would do anything for her husband. 

She watched now, silent, as the blue shimmer of spiritual energy passed from Wen Qing’s fingertips into her husband's wrists. Jiang Yanli could swear she saw him stir. She felt a small smile tug at the corner of her lips. Jin Zixuan’s eyes began to flicker behind their lids. She turned back to the woman, and watched as she moved about her tasks as regal as a queen. Her posture was straight, her steps sure.

“He should wake soon,” Wen Qing’s voice flicked through the air, calm and efficient. 

“He will be very weak, but the resentful energy has dissipated, it should no longer disrupt his qi flow. He will begin to heal much faster now. Though it will still be a slow process as we flush the rest of the resentful energy from his body.”  

Jiang Yanli is reminded of the swirl of lavender robes and the crackle of Zidian. 

Look at yourself child. Why would he want you? With a heart so soft and looks so plain? The words echoing in her head, spoken by a mother now dead.

She almost felt a flicker of jealousy, until she met Wen Qing’s broken gaze.

She was quickly reminded of all that had been lost in such a short time. She was reminded of brothers, those lost to death and those lost to the torment of their own mind.

Jiang Yanli shifted a fussing Jin Ling so she could hold him with one arm. Wen Qing’s eyes softened as they wandered to the little boy, before they seemed to fracture once again. 

She offered the other woman a cup of tea. Wen Qing nods her acceptance. They sit in silence in a little corner of the medical pavilion, surrounded by a glimmering sea of gold, and neither had felt more lost. 

8-8

Both girls startled as she entered the room, her lady's maids standing like statues outside the door. 

Twin looks of alarm began to shift as they recognized the intruder, one to mild fear (before being quickly squashed into an inscrutable calm) the other into relief. She smiled at her daughter-in-law before shifting her gaze to the other.Madam Jin’s hard eyes assessed the slip of a girl in front of her. 

She was dressed now to blend in, to be ignored; clothed in mute brown robes, hair tied up on a neat officiant bun, but there was no way to disguise the elegance as she walked or the steel of her spine. There was no way to hide the regality of her baring, or the strength of her spirit. 

Madam Jin wondered if in another life, she would have liked this girl, despite her unfortunate surname. But it didn’t matter whether she liked her or not. All that mattered was that this girl could save her son. There was nothing in the world that mattered more to her than her family. There was nothing she would not do to save her child. Even if it meant putting her trust in this little Wen girl. 

It was no secret that Madam Jin did not love her husband. How could she when his bastards littered the country? He was a greedy, self-indulgent fuck. 

Her marriage had been a sham, cold and unending. She had lived a life of luxury with no love. She had had to endure the humiliation of a husband who did not try to hide his pleasures. She was forced to endure as he weaseled his way through running a sect. She watched in shame as he covered himself and his whores in jewels and gold and cowered away from conflict. 

That was her lot in life she had learned, and she had accepted it. She doted on her son, and decided he was the only family she needed.

It had seemed for a while that her Shijie had done better. Yu Ziyuan had fallen in love with Jiang Fengmian. She had been enrapt by his gentle demeanor and his soft easy smile. 

Until he had fallen for that damn rogue. Yu Ziyian hand born it with grace. She had leveled the other woman with a condescending eye and placed her hand across Jiang Fengmian staking her claim.Cangse Sanren had laughed and laughed and then ran off with a servant . All had been forgotten for years, Jiang Fengman and Yu Ziyian had fallen into an unsteady rhythm. A rhythm ruined when Jiang Fengman had brought that child home. And look where that had gotten them. 

Both heartbroken and both dead.

Now their children seemed to be doomed to live through horrors worse than hers--worse than her Shijie. She did not want to see either child bear another heartbreak. She owed it to Yu Ziyuan to keep them safe, to help them any way she could.

She loved her son, and she loved Jiang Yanli, so when the Jiang children had come to her with their plan she had assented. It had been simple to send her lady’s maids down to the cell Jiang Wanyin spoke of. Simpler still to procure a new pair of robes--dull and unassuming. It was a laugh to think that her disciples would have trouble sneaking the Wen girl through the halls and to the medical pavilion. It was easier still to explain her presence. 

Everyone knew Madam Jin loved her son. It was no question she would ferret out any and every doctor in a desperate bid to save him. 

No one recognized her. Few even knew she was a prisoner here. Any others only saw what they wished to see. The girl proved to be knowledgeable. There was marked improvement as the dark energy began to dissipate and the wounds began to heal at a more natural rate. Everyday Jin Zixuan's health improved. 

Madam Jin began to feel a small measure of calm that she had not known since long before the war. She thought it might be hope. However, there were whispers on the wall, and they moved silently through the halls.  She had spent years as their master. But now their loyalties seemed to be shifting. 

For decades there were few things that happened within the golden gilded empire that she did not know, but recently she could see the subtle shift in power. The gaps between the whispers. She could tell there was information she was not privy to and that irritated her. 

She loved her son and she loved Jiang Yanli. She would do what she had to to keep them both safe. 

She leveled the Wen girl with a glare that made her husband cower, and was met with a stony impassive facade. She saw the worried glance Jiang Yanli sent the other girl, her subtle shift as though to step between the two. She repressed a smile, then sat herself down at the table with them and waited as Jiang Yanli served her tea. 

8-8

Jin Zixuan woke up in stages. 

First there was nothing. Nothing but a fiery pain that burned and ached. It felt like fingers tearing at his skin and nails cracking bone. It lasted for so long that he thought it would never stop. It felt like every organ inside of him had been flayed. He writhed with it. It hurt so bad he was not sure how he was still alive, but he knew he would die if he let go of the pain. A part of him knew that if he let it go, if he did not embrace the torment with both hands and grip it close to his chest then he would surely perish. 

So he did. Jin Zixuan focused on the agony and hoped it would be enough to live. 

That was Stage One.

Stage Two was different. 

That was where the screaming began. There began the voices in his head that promised him the world. 

We can protect you. We can help you. We can give you all the power that you need. Don’t you want to be the most powerful sect leader? We can help you.

They whispered to him from the darkest recesses of his mind. They offered him too much. They offered him everything. They did not offer him the only thing he truly wanted. 

They could not give him the comfort of his wife’s embrace--her warmth or her heart. 

The voices could not replace the way his heart beat the first morning he woke up with her in his bed. They did not know the way the dawn light glistened through the window casting gentle light along her ebony hair as it cascaded across his pillows. They would never know how incredulous he felt in that moment when he realized that he would get to love this woman for the rest of his life, or how humbled he felt when he remembered that she loved him too. 

The voices that spoke to him so sweetly did not know the wonder he had felt the first time he had held his son in his arms. They could not fathom the euphoria he felt the first time Jin Ling had granted him a gummy smile. 

The more he held onto the memories of his little family the less the voices screamed. 

It got easier from there.

Eventually the voices eased. They spoke sometimes. They still whispered hollow promises--vows of revenge he did not need--but it was less often. 

Sometimes he thought he could hear A-li speaking to him. She would say that she loved him and beg for him to wake up soon. He wanted so badly to hold her, to curl around her and shield her from the world. He longed to wipe away the tears he heard in her voice. 

He almost hated Stage Three more than the first two, because that stage teased him with a wife he could not touch. He yearned for his little family he had left behind, to hold and comfort them, to reassure them that he was there. He was not gone. Not dead.

He wasn’t sure how long it took him, if he entered another stage or five, but soon he knew he was close; he knew he was close to reaching the family he craved so badly. The burning ache had lessened. It was still present, but so much less so. The screaming had all but ceased. The voices were only a flicker in his mind. 

He wiggled his toes and curled his fingers. Gentle humming danced in his ears and the faint scent of lavender and lotus blossoms settled in the air. 

His mouth tasted like cotton and tea. 

With a shuttering breath Jin Zixuan opened his eyes. 

8-8

Jiang Yanli sat at a low table in the center of the medical suite. It seemed to be the only place to find her recently. Her days were filled with tea and grief. Her nights were filled with sleeplessness and dread. She rocked Jin Ling in her arms. A serene smile graced her lips, softening the frown that upset her brow. 

She let her eyes wander to her husband resting softly in the bed across the room. He had woken up, recently, though it was bleary and only for a short moment. She had not been able to stop the flood of relief that flowed through her belly. He was going to be okay, She reminded herself with every shuttering puff that left his lips; and so she sat in the too spacious room and breathed in the cool morning air.

She let her eyes wander back across the table to where an amethysts storm sat in all of his fragmented glory. 

He sat with his arms braced on his knees and his head hanging low between his shoulders.  She could see the strain the last few months had had on him. It was easy to tell where the pressure of running a sect crushed upon his shoulders, and where the guilt etched deep lines along his brow. 

Jiang Yanli had spent so much of her life picking up the pieces her brothers left behind. From the day A-Cheng was born she had sworn to protect him. From the moment she met A-Xian she had promised to love him. 

Now one brother was dead and the other was a broken shell of the little boy he once was. 

Now she could only watch from a golden tower as Jiang Cheng worked himself ragged--as deep bags formed under his eyes and his frame lost its ever present arrogance. 

She could not help him now as he strove to rebuild his clan and she did not know what to do as he clung so hard to an empty wooden pier. 

In the dark of night when the winds would whip along the roof tiles and she desperately listened for the sound of her husband's breaths she let herself wonder how her brother could stand to haunt a once vibrant home. She tried not to let herself contemplate what would happen if he did not have his responsibilities to clutch too. Both of her brothers felt so deeply, but where one covered his hurt with a glimmering smile and infectious laugh, the other guarded his heart with nasty words and louder shouts. 

She wondered how long it would last.

Across the table he met her gaze. Eyes wide and glassy with tears he refused to acknowledge. She reached across the short divide and laid her free hand upon his head. She wove her fingers through his hair like she did when he was small.With an imperceptible tilt of his head, he let her hold him for a moment, before consciousness caught up to him and he shrugged her off. His expression shuttered away.She took a deep breath. The tender, tattered bits of her heart fluttered at the loss. 

"Oh my, A-Cheng, it's okay to mourn, " she said. It's okay to cry, was left hovering in the air.

A mottle mix of shame and panic flickered in the depths of his eyes, highlighting his liquid gaze. His brows furrowed until they met. "A-Jie… I, there is something I want to…" 

But Jin Ling took the moment of silence to make his presence known. He keened and stretched in his mother's arm and then promptly let out a wail. By the time she got him quiet again--rocking gently against her hip as she swayed around the room--her brother had vanished and the Yunmeng Jiang sect leader had taken his place. 

He sat regal on his mat, shoulder stiff, face fierce. Any spec of vulnerability vanished. Her heart ached for the boys she had raised. 

I miss him too. She didn't say, but she hoped he heard the words anyway.

Chapter Text

It had not been difficult for Lan Wangji to obtain the alcohol that now sat before him.

Despite being in seclusion there had been no one to stop him as he climbed the walls that surrounded the Cloud Recesses. There were no disciples on the path as he headed towards Caiyi Town, or as he made his way to the nearest inn and purchased two bottles of Emperor’s Smile.

There was no one to recognize him as he broke the rules engraved into him from childhood. Each step took effort.--he freshly healed skin on his back pulling with every motion--every twitch. The long lashes no longer hurt. He wished they did. 

He wished he could feel something. 

There were no thoughts floating through his head as he made his way up and back the lonely dirt path; only an inconceivable want.There was only an unavoidable yearning that consumed him. There was little he was aware of, now that he sat alone in the center of the Jingshi. 

He could not see the waning light as it fluttered through the window, or feel the evening breeze as it curled in his hair. He knew none of the present, because his mind was lost in the past. 

Instead he heard the screams of cultivators as they died. He saw the blood of innocence as it was soaked up by dirt, dry and dead.

He watched his blade slice through robes of rainbow colors and felt no remorse. He saw white robes stained red and did not care. 

He saw Wei Ying die, over and over again, and thought how much he wished to follow.  

Each time he closed his eyes, he saw the sad smile stretched across blood red teeth. 

A year ago, fierce corpses had shredded his heart to pieces.

A year later, it still bled. 

He brought the bottle to his lips and drank. 

8-8

Wei Wuxian floated into existence like he did any other day. Blood on his lips and a dying scream in his throat. He would drift, lost in a void for the stretches of time when he was not in the Jingshi. 

It was always dark; there was no light left in death. Sometimes he could hear the screams echoing in his ears; he could feel a body he no longer had as it was being ripped to shreds. He heard a whispered plea. His name filled with tears.

Each time he reawakened, it took a moment for him to blink away the nothingness. Then another for him to let the warm light of the candle seep into his mind. Longer still for him to be released by the cold trendles of dead hands digging across his skin. 

When all this was done, he released a long sigh. No air left his lips, but the remembered action brought him ease. Then he glanced around as he always did, in an attempt to locate the typical residents of the room.

A-Yuan was not there, but that was not unusual, He would spend long hours away, typically with Lan Xichen. Wei Wuxian tried not to frown at the thought of the little boy becoming even more of a Lan . The child had already matured so much as time had passed. He had quieted, and had calmed. Wei Wuxian was uncertain if it was age that evoke the change or the demure world he was now living in. He tried to shake the thoughts from his mind. 

Wei Wuxian continued to scan the room until his gaze fell on the sole presence within. 

Lan Zhan sat alone at the little table in the center of the room. He was folded in half, head leaning against the table.

"Lan Zhan?" He asked though he knew he would not be heard. He glided across the room until he stood next to the other man. He reached a hand out to grip his shoulder though he knew he could not touch. As his fingers reached the white robes, Lan Wangji bolted awake. Wei Wuxian sputtered back. 

The other man's eyes were fogged and glazed, his gaze falling on nothing. Wei Wuxian waved his hand in front of his face, light refracting through his fingers. 

“Lan Zhan? Lan Zhan, are you drunk?” he asked, a smile tugging gently at his lips.

There was little response but the other man blinked. His face was as cold as ever but his eyes were cloudy and half lidded. Wei Wuxian wanted to laugh.

“Ah Lan Zhan, after all the years I asked you to drink with me! Now that I am gone you drink without me? That is so unfair!” He flitted around the table poking uselessly at the stoic man before him. He wanted to laugh at the dazed look on Lan Wangji’s face. Instead he poked at the bottle of wine placed before them.

“Emperor’s Smile, too? Ah Lan Zhan, you know this is my favorite! Why are you so mean?” Wei Wuxian’s grin only grew before he leaned over the table, leveling his face inches before Lan Wangji’s. 

“How much have you had to drink? Hmm?” he peered inside the bottle, and then at the empty cup. “Lan Zhan! You haven't even had that much! How can you be this drunk already?” 

Still the other man didn’t move. He continued to stare with glassy eyes about the room, his eyebrows pursed the slightest bit. A mild look of concentration bloomed across his face. Wei Wuxian thought this might be the most expressive the other man had ever been. 

Wei Wuxian settled himself along the mat on the other side of the table, content to simply watch the man before him. He had quickly discovered that this was one of the few perks of not being truly present. When no one could see you, the concept of personal space became quite null. He could observe Lan Wangji at his leisure. After discovering this he had seized every opportunity he could. With both hands he had clung to the chance to watch the other, to get lost within his grace. He had studied the sharp lines of his cheek bones, the perfect bow of his mouth, the strong arch of his jaw. He was captivated by the delicate wisps of hair that curled around a ribbon made of snow. The sorrow that seemed ever present in his eyes. 

He wondered what could cause the great Hanguang-Jun so much pain. 

He pushed closer a mere breath away from the other’s face, in an attempt to get a better look. Lacquered amber stared through the concerned swirls of mercury. With little else to do, Wei Wuxian had memorized every nuance of Lan Wangji, and so it was easy to see the difference in him.

Wei Wuxian could see the devastation heaved upon Lan Wangji’s shoulders, bowing them from their usual perfect form. He could see the black shadows polluting the ivory skin of his cheeks. Most apparent, however, was his eyes; those eyes looked so different. The sorrow was still there, but it seemed so much more . There was a new agony now congealing within the golden pool, hidden beneath hooded eyes. 

Wei Wuxian wanted to ease the hurt he laid out so plainly before him. 

He so badly wanted to tease. He wanted to pull on that infernal ribbon that looped so perfectly across his forehead. He wanted to ease the furrow in his brow, and calm the hurt reflected in those beautiful golden eyes. 

He wanted so badly to be seen.

When Lan Wangji began to move, Wei Wuxian decided to follow.

With a determined air the man stood. With deft fingers he undid the sash about his waist, then shrugged off his outer robes, they landed in a heap upon the floor. Wei Wuxian watched in mounting confusion as Lan Wangji’s inner robes soon followed. With sure steps he strode across the room until he stopped before a bookshelf. His expression was shut as he reached behind the shelf until his elegant fingers gripped a long piece of dirtied iron. Wei Wuxian watched in horrid fascination as the other man moved before him.

Lan Wangji shoved the tip of the iron into a lit candle hanging upon the wall. He then turned the smoldering tip towards himself.

Wei Wuxian realized what was happening a beat too late. 

He threw his body between the glowing iron and the unblemished chest. But it did not matter, because he did not have a body to block with. No chest to mar instead. No body to be remembered. And so the iron passed through a form not corporal, over a scar shaped like a sun and seared against a chest made of jade.

The man made no sound as the iron met his skin. 

It was only after when the rod had clattered to the ground, and Lan Zhan traced the blistering brand; When tears began to fall from golden desolate eyes, that he spoke. The sound was raw--empty and lost. 

He said, "Wei Ying." 

Wei Ying could only watch. A heart he did not have ached in a way he did not remember. Lungs that did not breath constricted, in a body that did not exist. 

He remembered the smell of burning flesh and wished that he could cry.

8-8

There was a searing pain against his chest, but it was nothing compared to the torment that lay beneath the skin. 

He sensed another presence within the room. It was always there, lingering about the edges of their lives. It plagued him, and he wished to never let it go. He coveted the attention, though he knew with a tender certainty it would never fill the gaping abyss within him. 

When he chanced a glance up the air retracted from his lungs. The world stopped turning and he could do nothing but stare. 

Before him shrouded in a golden halo, stood Wei Ying. 

His hair hung limp around a gaunt face. The black robes he wore were cheap, tattered and worn; stained with blood and mud. He looked the same as the day he died. His feet didn't touch the ground, but still he glided across the room. 

The silhouette grew closer and closer, until there was little space between them. A crinkled smile twisted pretty lips. There was the glimmer of blood between his teeth. 

“Oh, Lan Zhan,” a voice like water sunk through the air, impaling his already aching chest. “What have you done to yourself?” 

Trembling, Lan Zhan stretched forward, arm extending, reaching for the flickering figure before him. When shaking fingers passed through shimmering gold, tears filled his eyes. 

“Wei Ying?” He croaked.

He looked at the other and knew by his crumpled smile that the confusion was present on his face. His heart hammered against his blistered chest. He heard it echoed in his ears.

A glittering hand lifted to cup his cheek. Their skin did not meet, but he felt the soft familiar pulse of energy wafting heat into his pores. 

“Yes, Lan Zhan, yes,“ his voice cracked then, “I’m here.” 

For the first time in many years, Lan Zhan let himself weep. 

8-8

He did not remember falling asleep, but when Lan Zhan woke again, it was to silver eyes set in a familiar face, now framed with golden glow. Light shimmered through his opaque features but the playful grin was still the same. 

His head was clearer than it was the night before, and he saw now the grey light cascading through the widow, and felt the chill of the early mornings along his skin. The burn scar upon his chest seared. He reveled in the pain. 

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,“ Wei Ying said in a voice finally heard. Lan Zhan watched as fingertips ghosted along his jaw, but he could not feel them. 

“I am glad you are finally awake.” The figure before him said. He stared solemnly before him; then blinked long and slow. When he opened his eyes again, he was met with the same shimmering grin. 

His heart beat a rapid tattoo against his bones. 

What is happening? Why are you not dead? Are you dead? How are you here? Why did you not answer me, all this time? The words were screaming in his mind but trapped in his throat.

Instead he sputtered out a crumpled, “Wei Ying?” through lips that shook.

The body before him froze, this close Lan Zhan could see the shock plastered across glowing cheeks.

“Wait, Lan Zhan! You can see me?”

“Mn.”

The hand retracted. He watched in shuttering fascination as the same hand moved to scratch along the bridge of Wei Ying’s nose. A contemplative look stole his face, but a golden smile grew. 

“Wei Ying.”

“Yes, Lan Zhan?” 

“How?”

The smile knotted at his lips. Lan Zhan saw the moment Wei Ying decided to deflect the question. He read it in the flickering of his eyes and the stillness of his arms. He hated the barriers between them. Then Wei Ying still felt he had to lie. 

"You had Emperor’s Smile! It was enough to bring me back!" 

The laughter that left his lips was wooden and fake. Lan Zhan's expression hardened. Their eyes met and he did not look away. He watched golden shoulders as they fell. There was a familiarness about his movements; Lan Zhan realized he would be able to recognize this man anywhere. He also knew he had won.

“Ah, Lan Zhan, did you really think I could leave you alone? You would be too bored without me!” But the smile he gave was brittle, and Lan Zhan heard the stain in the words.

Lan Zhan leveled him with a long look, softer than the last, but still searching, still pleading behind a stone façade. 

Wei Ying released a long pent up sigh.  “I don’t know why. I didn’t mean to come back, and even if I had, I would not have asked for this.” Light shimmered in a shrug. 

There was a heavy truth that hung in his words. Lan Zhan recalled the comforting presence he felt within cold, wood walls, the tingle of fingers brushing against torn skin or the flutter through a child's soft hair. He remembered a voice humming a haunting tune. A song only he now knew.

The words Wei Ying next spoke were haunted and bruised. “I have always been here, since the moment I woke up.”

An indelible look encroached, shifting silver into slate.

“I don’t know why I am here Lan Zhan.” The resignation slipped through once laughing eyes and stained his whole face dark. 

Lan Zhan hated that look. He hated more that the light that permeated Wei Ying began to dim with each shutter of his shoulders. 

He lifted his hand, mirroring Wei Ying’s earlier action. He hovered his fingers next to the others  cheek, not touching, never touching, but it was close. He cupped a cheek he could not feel with a hand that shook. He wondered if Wei Ying could tell. 

He did not know what controlled his tongue, as he spoke the words he was just now learning the shape of, “I am glad you are.” 

He watched as a jolt shot through the other man. His image flickered, then brightened. Their eyes met for a long breath. Neither seemed willing to break the silence. Then Wei Ying smiled, golden and beautiful. Brighter than the sun, it blinded and it shined and Lan Zhan would follow that light anywhere. 

In that moment it was enough.

Chapter Text

He had not believed it when Lan Zhan had looked straight at him or when he had said his name. 

He had not thought it possible when the other man had cupped his hand so close to Wei Wuxian's cheek, closer than he had ever been before. He was sure he was hallucinating such tender words said from a man known for being made of stone. 

They had sat facing each other for a long time after that, neither speaking nor moving. Their eyes met and for the first time in a long while Wei Wuxian thought he might be content. 

It was not until the silence was interrupted that Lan Wangji pulled away. The shuttered door of the Jingshi slid along the floor, the morning air filtered in, silhouetting Lan Xichen in the entryway.  

“Wangji?” Concern was apparent in the older man's voice when he saw his brother on the floor. “What happened? Are you alright?” 

Lan Xichen had looked right through him as he always had. His eyes skimmed past him as they had on every visit for a year. The same as Lan Wangji’s and A-Yuan’s. There was a flutter where Wei Wuxian’s heart should have been when he realized he was still unseen. He could see Lan Wangji’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.  For a moment his insides clenched, then sunk below his knees. Why were the only emotions he could remember those that hurt so badly?

Maybe none of it had truly happened. Lan Zhan had never seen him--never spoken to him or tried to hold him. He had wondered briefly if it was all a new aspect of death. To give him everything he could ever want, but was unable to have. 

Then their eyes met once again, and the look on Lan Zhan’s face was heartbreaking. He nodded once with a determined air, then faced his brother once again.  

Wei Wuxian had let himself drift. He moved away from the little table and across the silent room. He listened to the brothers converse in a low murmur, but did not process the words. He was too intent on trying to understand what had happened, but no answers came forth and no solution presented itself. And when Lan Xichen left and Lan Wangji’s eyes drifted back to him, following his movements across the silent room, he wondered if he truly wanted answers. A warmth he had not felt in a very long time bubbled within him. He drifted closer to the other man. 

In that moment he resolved not to ask questions he may not want the answer too. He still did not know what tied him to this place, or why he was finally seen--if only by one person. He did not know why he glowed or what he had done to make this happen.

He did not know, still, what had broken the great Hanguang-Jun so completely, but if this meant Lan Zhan would not be alone any longer then he would not ask. Wei Wuxian settled himself down at the table, gold eyes staring intently across from him. 

He felt a grin tug playfully at his lips when he asked, “So Lan Zhan, what are we gonna do today?” 

8-8

The pattern of their days changed. No longer were they counted by silence that stretched through an unreachable divide. Instead they were replaced by quiet conversation; they passed with study and meditation. Their time now passed in compatible silence as Wei Wuxian read over Lan Wangji’s shoulder as he transcribed ancient texts. 

It reminded Wei Wuxian of years ago--of long days spent in the library pavilion--where he would tease and poke and prod the other man just to watch as his perfect facade split in anger. Every time he thought of it he wanted to laugh. Time had changed them both, it seemed. Now, he did not mind the quiet. Now, he did not want to see anything but happiness on that peerless face.

Together they would watch as A-Yuan settled into a clan that was now his own. They watched as he recited Lan rules and the things he had learned about the world following at Lan Xichen’s heels. They watched as he played as a child should; as Wei Wuxian did all he could to make a little smile flit across a face too serious for one so young. 

Wei Wuxian still did not sleep, but he no longer let himself drift away from the Jingshi. He no longer lingered in the world of in-between. He no longer visited the world of screaming darkness. Instead he forced himself to stay. He focused his energy--his being--on staying within the rooms that have become his refuge.

At night, he would watch over the sleeping occupants of their little home. This was not new, he had been doing so for so long now. He would still calm a crying child and he would still soothe a furrowed brow. He would protect them each from the night terrors that plagued them. 

What was new was the candle that flickered through the dark, accompanying him through the stretching night. It was lit for him each evening by Lan Zhan. When Wei Ying had asked, had questioned him about the candle he lit right before preparing for bed, he had replied, “If Wei Ying is staying up past curfew, he should not have to do so in the dark.” 

He did things like that. He treated Wei Ying like he was actually there ; like he was more than a figment of the air, like he was more than nothing. Wei Wuxian did not think too heavily on how that made him feel. 

He tried not to concentrate too hard on a lot of things, too afraid that if he did he would get trapped, stuck in a typhoon of regrets and shame, there were too many things that could not be fixed, too many things he had broken. Instead he tried to concentrate on the lives before him. 

And so the days elapsed as they found a new routine, one filled with companionship, but he knew it was one built on hollow ground.

There were so many things he wanted to know, but did not ask. He wanted to know about his brother, and the sect he had promised to help rebuild. He wanted to know about his sister, about his nephew who was growing up fatherless because of him. 

Most of all, he wanted to know about Lan Zhan--about the angry marks that would forever be slashed across a once perfect back. 

But the peace they had built was based on a foundation too easy to crumble. Bringing up the past--remembering things they could not change--could so easily destroy what little they had. He knew they were both too desperate to let that happen.

So he never asked Lan Zhan about the scars on his back, or why he never seemed to leave the Jingshi; and Lan Zhan never asked about the year Wei Ying spent in silence or the talismans that glinted beneath his robes.

Together they read and cared for a young child and never discussed the world outside of their quiet sanctuary.

8-8

There were days where Wei Ying would talk, where his chatter would fill the Jingshi; and Lan Wangji would close his eyes and pretend it was another time. Another life where the other man was more than a figment in the air. 

He would let himself imagine they could touch; they could talk freely, with no secrets dividing them. Because there were things they still did not discuss.

Light reflected through a translucent body but it did not hide the marks upon his skin. Lan Zhan knew Wei Ying was hiding something. He could always see through the other man's lies. He knew the other man's presence had something to do with the symbols he saw glowing beneath shredded robes.

The sigils glowed and the talismans glimmered. But they were questions he would not ask, because he knew within them lay answers he may not want to know. And so, instead, he would listen to the laughter that flitted through the air, and pretend there was nothing wrong. 

These were the good days. 

There were other days, darker days, where Wei Ying would not speak. Where he would sit in silence somewhere about the room. When the silence would stretch too long, Lan Wangji would call his name, soft and slow. Wei Ying would snap to attention, a nervous chuckle escaping startled lips. He would wave his hand in a dismissive manner and say, “Ah, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan! Sorry, Sorry! I forget that you can see me! What shall we do today? Will you play for me?” 

And so he would. He would always do what Wei Ying asked. He would settle down at the table guqin laid out before him and he would play. It never made the haunted look leave Wei Ying’s eyes, and it did not fill the room in the same sort of happiness that only the other man can bring, but he tried. And eventually as he played Wei Ying would begin to whistle. He would match the tune and match the pitch and it would get them both through the day. 

There were days that were bittersweet in their happiness, when Lan Yuan would visit. They had learned that like Lan Xichen he still could not see Wei Ying. 

Wei Ying had tried to hide his sorrow, but Lan Zhan had known, he had seen it in hollow eyes and sagging shoulders. He had heard it in the stuttered broken laugh, dry and hoarse. It had not stopped him though, nothing ever did. Instead, Wei Ying would still sooth the child through bad dreams, and curl his fingers through his hair. He would still fling around straw toys and bits of folded paper. A small smile was always present on golden lips when he was gifted with the child’s giggling.

It reminded Lan Wangji of a small paper man who had once flitted around a stuffy classroom. 

Wei Ying had told Lan Wangji once that he did not truly know how he was able to manipulate the things he did. He wondered if Wei Ying knew that he glowed brighter when he did. He never asked.

Instead Lan Wangji watched the child sitting across the Jingshi. Captivated by the straw butterfly dancing through the air. At the man behind him; whose phantom hand was curling through short baby hairs, as the other glowed brighter as he focused on the toy, as he concentrated his energy into making it move. As he focused on entertaining a little boy who could not see him. Who could only share his appreciation for Wei Ying's efforts through muted giggles and small smiles.

The night was quiet outside of their little sanctuary. It was near curfew, and for little Lan's to be preparing for bed. But Lan Wangji had no heart to tear the two apart, instead, content to watch them play. The Jingshi is filled with chatter. Lan Wangji had no heart to make it end. It did not matter anyway, for no one except himself could hear the voice. 

"I'm glad you took him in, Lan Zhan," Wei Ying said, eyes never straying from his self-appointed task. "I don't know how you found him, but I'm glad he had a safe place to go, and someone to care for him." 

I looked for him because of you , he didn't say. 

You take care of him too , he could not voice.

"Thank you, Lan Zhan." He continued, still not meeting Lan Wangji's gaze. He could not say the words he wished, so instead, he simply nodded. The motion must have caught his attention, because Wei Ying looked at him then, a smile gracing his lips. It was small and sad, and held more sadness than a smile should.

There was a year where Lan Zhan did not see that smile, where he thought it was gone from his life. There was even longer before that where he willfully ignored how much he missed it. He watched the other man as his attention was snatched back to the child before him, both of them smiling at the fluttering butterfly, as it soared in a loop above the table. 

He did not have to worry about not seeing that smile now, because his days were now filled with the glitter of gold floating through the air, followed by a familiar laugh. Lan Wangji told himself it was enough. 

Chapter Text

Guilt ate at him. It slurped the marrow from his bones and left him a ghastly shell.It gnawed and festered at his mind until he clung with desperate hands to memories of brighter days. 

He hated being the cause for the tired lines etched around his sister’s eyes and the grief he saw in the corners of her smile. He knew he was the cause for the worry in her brow. 

He knows, too, that his sister can read this in him. She can see the guilt and grief eating away at him. He wonders if she knows why. If she knows that he is the reason that their laughter is dead. 

It is possible. He has never been able to hide anything from her. Neither of them had.

He was tired. Yunmeng was empty. Every pier, every room was haunted. Shadows walked the halls and reminded him of a family long gone. Reminded him of his failure. He was rebuilding a life he no longer wanted. His sister lived in a golden tower with a husband who could barely stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time. 

He was so tired; achieving the impossible was never something he was good at.  

It had been an easy decision for him to make the trip to Lanling to see his sister again. It was always easy now to step away from the ghosts of Lotus Pier. He had been with his sister in Jin Zixuan's sick room, when a fussy Jin Ling had pulled her away. When the doors had opened after many minutes, he had expected his sister. He was not expecting her .

Now Jiang Cheng stood to the side of the room. He was leaning back against a stone wall as he watched her. She strode from the bed to the table, laid heavy with medical supplies, then back again. 

She was ignoring him. He knew it. She would glance around the room occasionally and her eyes would flit past him as though he wasn’t there.

He wanted to hate her. He wanted to hate her for everything she had done and everything she did not do.  

He heard his sister's voice in his mind, calm and cool, as she told him to hold his temper. However, he also saw his brother as he stormed out of a crowded hall: watched him leave without realizing he wouldn’t see him again for months, and then he would be skeletal and dying.

What made them so special? What makes them more important than his brother's life?

He watched her work and remembered gentle hands upon his brow. It was a distant memory, colored as a dream. It would stream across his thoughts muddled with ear piercing screams and bloody hands. He tried not to think about it, even as he watched delicate fingers take the pulse of the man on the bed. 

He didn’t know what to do--what to feel. So he stood for long moments and watched her work. Then her eyes passed over him again, and he felt frustration boil up along his tongue. 

Why wouldn’t she look at him? 

So he snapped at her. 

“Why is he still not awake? Why did you even agree to this if you aren’t going to fix him?” 

She whirled to glare at him, glaciers in her eyes and a sneer on pretty lips. Her words were needle sharp, as she matched the vitriol he spewed. “I. Am. Trying. You can’t just fix people. Medicine isn't that easy. You can't just wave your sword at it and expect everything to be better. Not that I expect you to understand."

Her eyes flashed at him and he felt blood leak through his teeth. 

"Why are you even doing this?"

She laughed then, bitter and hard. "Isn't this what you asked of me, Sandu Shengshou? To save your sister's husband in exchange for my brother's life? " 

“You know that isn’t what I meant.” What do you owe him? What makes him better than me? He doesn’t ask.

“I am a doctor, it is my duty to help anyone I can, when it is within my power to do so.” She spoke loud and clear, as though reciting words long known. Then the timbre of her words morphed into bitter resignation. 

"But then there was a war and I did nothing," she said. "I stood by and watched as the world burned and people died and told myself it was not my fault.” Then he saw me and deemed me worth saving. Deemed us all worth saving. He decided we were worth saving. “ This is the penance I must pay. My burden to bear. What, Jiang Wanjyn, is yours?"

His throat closed and he stopped breathing; he choked and sputtered as he met her steady gaze. She was steel hidden beneath the broken bits of a once proud woman. He wondered how many of her cracks were caused by him. How much pain he had inflicted on her with his words? 

How much suffering he caused those around him--those he said he loved?

When he fled the room it was with a flurry of purple robes and pounding boots. He didn’t think she could see him shutter under the weight of condemnation. 

Guilt ate at him. It gnawed and festered at his body and his mind and forced him to look at fractured people left behind. People shattered by him.

What is your burden? 

8-8

Time passed as Jin Zixuan healed. His recovery had been slow. It had taken longer than it should have.

The resentful energy that had swirled through his blood was unwilling to release him, it coated his veins like poison infesting his qi . It prevented his body from knitting itself back together; from closing the stitched skin that held his chest in place. The resentful energy had to be completely eradicated before he could heal. 

It was a long process. 

The first time he had woken had been a blur. A-Li smiling, tears running down her face. Jin Ling’s cries in the background, the shouting of another voice as they send for his mother. It was a mess of sound and colors that had lasted barely longer than a moment.

The second time he woke up he had been met with the stern gaze of a woman garbed in brown features sharp and strict--a woman he would later learn from his wife and mother was Wen Qing--she had asked him a series of questions. Then stabbed him in the forehead with a needle. 

It was not until the third time, when he was able to drink a full cup of tea and sit up in bed, that A-Li told him of the events that occurred at Qiongqi Path. That night he let himself be comforted in his wife’s embrace as he mourned for a cousin who's bitterness had killed him.

The next day his mother told him what occurred two days after his cousin's death. She told him of the events that took place within the Burial Mounds.That evening he held Jiang Yanli as she cried for the life of a  brother-in-law he barely knew. But he remembered the look of horror on the other man’s face and he remembered the way the man had reached for him, screaming words, begging to help before being pushed into the dirt. 

He remembered the sound of a flute. A song Wei Wuxian could not have played.

It had taken months for him to recover to the extent that he could stand on his own. Longer still for him to be able to walk around the palace. He gathered as much information about recent events as he could. He reviewed recent sect politics from his sick bed. He listened as his wife and mother spoke of the shift of power within Lanling, and (when the other man visited) he conferenced with Jiang Wanyin about the unrest across the country. 

Half the world did not seem pleased to follow Jin Guangshan. The other half did not seem to care. 

Rumors spread of the Jin Sect leader’s promiscuity, and any audience was met by a man surrounded by women, lending truth to the gossip. Questions arose as to who was truly in power. 

In the dark there were other things said. There were whispers of corpses going missing being dug up from shallow graves. There were reports of unnatural deaths and of attacking corpses and unrest where none should be. Bodies were found miles from where they should be, bloodied and broken with heinous marks along their skin.

On his sick bed, he had gathered information and was left with an unsettling conclusion. When he was strong enough, he strode into the main hall, tall and proud. 

Jin Zixuan knelt before his father who sat high above all on his dais plated in gold. 

“Father,” he spoke with the utmost respect in his voice. Eyes so similar to his flicked to him for a moment, then back to the woman next to him. He opened his mouth to be fed a grape, then smiled while he chewed.

“My son! I am so glad to see you are well. It has been too long since I have seen you!”

He had not visited him once in the months that he healed. 

"I wish to speak to you about the future of our sect." He said because it was true. He wanted to believe that the man before him was one he could trust, if only for the betterment of the Jin. 

"What is it that worries you so?" Jin Guangshan asked, then opened his mouth wide so one of the women could pour wine directly on his tongue. 

"I have heard that there has been some… upheaval in the cultivating world. Disputes between the lesser sects…" he let his words trail as he waited for a reaction. 

One of the women settled herself on the older man's lap. Jin Zixuan felt disgust color his face. He waited a long moment before clearing his throat in a bid for attention. 

Finally Jin Guangshan glanced at him again, "And what does that have to do with us?" He asked before fluttering his hand in the air--a dismissive gesture.

Jin Zixuan wasn’t sure if it was the subject or himself that his father wished to expel. "Isn't it our duty to help those in need?" 

His words seemed to catch the other man off guard. A sneer twisted Jin Guangshan's lips. "What are you? A Lan ? It is not our duty to fix their mistakes! If they can't get their shit together, that is their problem. Why should we dirty our hands with those who are lesser ."

The contempt was apparent in his voice, but Jin Zixuan was sure it did not match the disdain he knew was written in his own eyes."I was under the impression that it was the duty of the Chief Cultivator to handle disputes such as this?" He asked before he could stop himself.

"They will figure it out or they will fail. It is no concern of mine."

He watched as Jin Guangshan fiddled with the edges of the woman's robes before he spoke again. "What about the resentful energy?"

Jin Guangshan's eyes were sharp when next he spoke. Jin Zixuan knew the answer he would be given would be false.

“Resentful energy is so dangerous. I am glad to see that the dark path has not taken my son from me,” his words were somber but he did not look again at Jin Zixuan. His attention was drawn back to the woman with the wine.

Jin Zixuan took the opening he was presented with, as slim as it was. “Father, I have heard...There are rumours of demonic energy spreading across Lanling.” 

He watched the other man carefully, searching for a reaction that did not come. Attention more on the women around him than his son before him, Jin Guangshan merely hummed in acknowledgement. 

“Father,” he said a little bit louder, in hopes of reclaiming his attention. It didn’t work. “I would ask what is being done about this? There is talk, they say that someone here is practicing Demonic Cultivation.”

He met his father's gaze then, as he finally turned to look at his son. Jin Zixuan wanted to shudder at what he saw. 

He had come to question his father--inquire of recent events. He had wanted to argue the innocence of a man who, with more information, he was starting to believe deserved better. 

The image before him presented an answer he wished he did not see. Instead he was left disgusted. How could he share blood with such a man? He was ashamed to be born to this man who sat unabashed on a cushion while others knelt in dirt. 

He had fought a war against a man who craved power. He had waged battles against the armies that man had led. He had cut down cultivators clad in white and red, and he had felt no shame. 

Now he looked at the man who had fathered him and saw something he had hoped to never witness again.He watched the greed glimmer in his father's eyes and realized he had to make a choice.

A smile shined as bright as the throne on which he sat as he looked down at his son before him, “I am well aware of the rumors, do not worry, only the wicked would think to command something so heinous. The situation is well under control.” 

He had almost died once with the taste of regret on his tongue, he would not do so again.

There were dark whispers coming from a tower made of ivory and gold. The likes of which could not be ignored. Their only option now was to flee. A plan formed as he bowed his head low and spoke words he did not believe. 

“Thank you, father. I trust that this matter is in good hands. I should not have questioned you. I will take my leave now, I see that you are busy.” He let the toxicity burn his tongue and did not flinch. 

He stood as regal as he had knelt and walked the way he had come. He watched silently as the gilded gates closed behind him and thought he might hate them.

He would take with him those he knew he could trust, hand picked by himself and his mother. He would search for a girl he had known his entire life, who relinquished her title in the name of honor.

Jin Zixuan would rebuild his sect, he would restore their honor and their glory. He would honor those who had died for the lives now housed within these walls. Even if he had to tear it all down himself.

8-8

Some say he went mad. Some say he was possessed. Others say it was the last great trick of the Yiling Patriarch, to make the esteemed Hanguang-Jun lose his mind.

Seclusion will do him good, the elders had whispered. It will give him time to clear his mind.

However, Lan Xichen knew it was something else. He knew what plagued his brother was not something healed by time.

Lan Xichen knew what had caused his brother to fight a horde of cultivators over a year ago. It was not madness that had consumed him. It was grief that had taken hold of his soul. 

That horrible day on a mountain of death, Lan Xichen had swept between his brother and the attacking group, child still in his arms, but it had been too late. The damage had been done. Few had the skill to combat Lan Wangji. 

His only equal had been torn to shreds hours before. 

It had been painful the first year. He had watched as his brother fractured to pieces. Watched as his brother grieved, clinging to a child he barely knew. And then a few months ago, on the anniversary of what was now called The Siege of the Burial Mounds, something had changed. The morning after, his brother had sat still at his table with a brand on his chest and a light in his eye. 

He would not answer any of Lan Xichen’s questions. 

Lan Xichen had given up when faced with an impenetrable silence even he could not interpret. 

Now he sat again, across from his brother, so similar to that day. They sipped their tea and barely spoke until Lan Xichen cracked the silence. 

“Wangji, I have a request,” he spoke as he gently sat the tea cup down. 

He hesitated for a moment when he met the other’s eyes. They were unreadable and that was a concept he was not used to. There had never been a time before that he did not know his brother’s every thought. 

"I know this is too much to ask of you, and I know that you are still in seclusion..” but you have been doing so much better recently, and such a drastic change worries me. “ But there is no one else as proficient in the guqin as you, and no one I trust as much.”

“Since you are so improved, it is possible to cut your seclusion short, if you are needed to perform sect duties. Wangji do you know what that means?” 

He was met with a blank stare, “Mn.”

He watched for an inflection on his brother's face, a twitch of  his eyebrows that did not come. There was nothing to tell him what the other man was thinking. He watched as his brother's gaze drifted aimlessly about the room.

"I know you have heard of the…" here he hesitated unsure of the phasing he should use, "I am sure you have heard of the side effects of the Nie Sect's cultivation techniques." 

Lan Wangji nodded faintly.

Lan Xichen knew this was the only response he was going to get so he continued. “Da-ge--Nie Mingjue seems to be suffering quite greatly… his--we are greatly worried that if there is not an intervention soon, that he will suffer from qi deviation.”

He lifted his tea cup to take another sip, using the motion to watch his brother over the rim of the glass. Lan Wangji’s attention had settled on something in the corner of the room. His eyes softened, almost imperceptibly, around the edges. When Lan Xichen followed his brother's line of sight there was nothing there. 

“Wangji?” He knew his worry could be heard in the words.

He snapped to attention. Their eyes met, gold against amber. For a long moment neither spoke. Then he watched his little brother’s feature harden once again. “Mn.”

He missed the days where he could read his brother. This new statue before him was almost worse than the broken man of half a year ago. 

No, that wasn’t true. Nothing was worse than that.

He tried to remember why he was here. He tried to push down the cloying worry that eked up his throat. Lan Xichen continued. "However, I also received a missive from A-Yao. There is unrest in Lanling and he has requested my presence."

There was still no response as Lan Wangji’s attention was drawn back to the corner. 

“Brother,” his voice was harder than it ever was before when speaking to his sibling. “Wangji.  I need you to go to Qinghe. I need you to go play Clarity for Chifeng-Zun.”

Chapter Text

"So, you're really going?" Wei Wuxian asked, as he hovered in a lazy sprawl above the wood floor, head tipped to the side as he watched Lan Wangji pack his Qiankun pouches. 

"Mn." 

“What about A-Yuan? Your brother is traveling to Lanling soon, isn't he? Are you going to send A-Yuan with him to the heart of the Jin sect? Or are you planning on leaving him here? With your uncle?" Wei Wuxian itched anxiously at his nose, shoulders tensed, as he contemplated all of the possibilities. 

Lan Wangji glanced over at Wei Wuxian for a flickering moment. His voice was smooth when he replied, "He will accompany me."

Then he turned back to the items waiting to be stowed away. 

“Oh, alright then.” Wei Wuxian said. He sagged again. His eyes darted about the room, desperate to land on anything but the broad shoulders before him. 

He couldn’t say; Leave him here. Leave him with me, I will watch him. 

He was hardly even present and not at all corporal. He could not care for a child. No matter how much he wished too.  So he swallowed hard trapping the words inside of him.

His attention landed heavily on a crack in the floorboard. He tried to run his foot over it, to scuff at the ground but of course his boot never made contact. Questions like needles pierced his once there heart.

What about me? He did not ask, so, of course, Lan Wangji did not answer. 

It did not stop him from wanting.He wondered what Lan Wangji would say. Would he even want Wei Wuxian to go with him?

Did he realize he was leaving Wei Wuxian behind? Did he know that Wei Wuxian could not follow? Did he care? What difference would it make? 

Anxiety contorted and tingled through his being. His light flickered.

He couldn’t leave this room. Panic skittered across his lungs, as he contemplated the very real possibility of being left here alone. He could not bear the thought of being left behind again. Not like this. 

Not by Lan Zhan.

He watched from the table as Lan Zhan loaded texts into his Qiankun bags.

You're always leaving me behind. He wanted to scream. But no words passed his lips. They joined the others lodged in his throat; choking him, blocking the air he did not breathe. 

He remembered being young and learning to swim at Lotus Pier. He knew the feeling of water in his lungs--of choking and gasping--sucking and gasping on liquid instead of air. He was familiar with this loss of control. He recalled regret. He knew, too, the feeling of rejection. 

Memories came unbidden. Wei Wuxian is fifteensixteenseventeeneighteen again and watching Lan Wangji walk away from him. 

He was at the Cloud Recessess, as each attempt for friendship was met with rancor. He is in the pristine library and in a frozen pond. There is a board slapping against his back.

He was laying broken and bleeding--shaking from his first taste of resentful energy--outside of a long forgotten cave. He was looking into the bleary face of Jiang Cheng; but wishing so much for Lan Zhan. 

He was standing tall on a lonely mountain, a child clutched in his arms as a beacon of light, strolled unmarred down the tree shrouded path leading out of the Burial Mounds.  

How ironic was it that now, Lan Wangji was leaving Gusu, and Wei Wuxian was forced to stay? 

If Lan Zhan left, what would become of him? Would he fade into the woodwork of the little sanctuary they had erected? Or would he simply haunt an empty home until his makeshift family returned? What if something happened to them? Would he even know? 

Dread bubbled and curdled. He clenched his fist at his side.

His family was going someplace he could not. And he hated it. It was acidic horror and it ate at him. It gnawed with snaggle teeth until it left his nerves raw. 

He was ignorant of what tied him to the Jingshi, but he knew he could not leave. He had tried so many times in the first few months, never able to step a foot over its threshold. He loathed that, too. 

He was left trapped. He was left a prisoner because he could not change what he did not know.The prospect of being here alone without Lan Zhan, without A-Yuan… 

He would rather drift in the repetitive pain of his death-- to feel his life leech from his soul, to feel the teeth tear at his skin--then reside in the Jingshi without the light and life he had come to know. He let the raw ends of his hurt and insecurities fester as he continued to watch Lan Zhan. It tumbled and boiled and became a monster all its own. 

Wei Ying watched as he folded a tiny pair of Lan robes and stored them into the Qiankun pouch. He could do nothing as Lan Zhan slipped a little straw butterfly into his sleeve.

He nurtured the stinging anxiety that clenched so insistently upon his intestines. It squeezed until there was only a foreign nastiness left in the wake of his tender nerves. He had known too much fear not to recognize it, but that did not stop him from letting it steal his tongue. 

Wei Ying had watched and watched the other man as he paced and packed and prepared for a journey that he would make alone. A trip that Wei Ying could not make with him. Could not help him or protect him or tease and laugh with him along the way. 

He moved before he could think, lunging up from his position upon the floor. In a flash of power he was across the room. Nose to nose with Lan Wangji. The edges of his glow were tipped with black. They twisted in an angry arch around him. Fingers flicking through the air. Cruel words left his lips, and he did not try to stop them. There was a red twinge to the brilliance of silver eyes. They looked like steel drenched in blood.

“I guess I will just stay here then, huh? And wait for your return? A dog awaiting their master?” Contempt was oozing into every word, it hid the terror in his eyes. It transformed the words into knives, intent to slash and stab, to make Lan Zhan hurt. To make him feel the same plummeting dread.

It felt like resentful energy was sweeping through him again, it felt dirt and dark. He had forgotten the feeling, but he remembered the bitter taste on his tongue. He hated the words as he said them but he could not stop. Even when he saw the shock and confusion consume a face of jade.

The words “ Come with me to Gusu,'' rang loudly in his ears, echoing through his memories. 

"You must be thrilled!” Hysteria pitched his words an octave too high. His laugh was shrill, sharp edges dipped in blood.

“Isn't this what you always wanted? Here I am in Gusu! Here I am where you always wanted me! And I am stuck here, like I always knew I would be." The sneer on his face was ugly, his emotions bubbled from deep within. 

His voice dipped to a whisper, but his eyes still gleamed like blood, “Aren't you happy Hanguang-Jun? You have done it. You have caught the Yiling Patriarch." 

He watched a perfect face crumple.

Lan Wangji stilled, hands hovering mid-air as he cinched the drawstring on the last Qiankun pouch. Emotions flittered past between the brilliant amber gaze; too many thoughts battled for attention, too many words that he wanted to speak, Lan Wangji stood frozen--unable to respond. 

They faced each other, surrounded by warm wood and the gentle glow of the candle that was always lit. There was the subtle scattering of toys upon the ground and a pile of texts on the table. The Jingshi had housed three people, and the marks of their lives were written upon the walls. 

There were no words to make this better. Nothing either of them could do to change the situation they found themselves in. Their little world was shattering, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. Wei Wuxian stared at him long and hard. He watched the other man. 

He waited for a reaction that never came.

The silence stretched between them, leaving his words hanging uselessly in the air. Then there was a crinkle in stone as Lan Wangji’s brows wrinkled.

Slowly, the anger and the hate sifted from his veins. He saw the turmoil barely hidden behind Lan Zhan’s eyes. Wei Ying was left despondent, his shoulders sagged and his light dimmed. Unaware of the dark tendrils that reseeded from his light. Wei Wuxian swallowed, thick and dry. There was comfort in the familiar action. He wished he could swallow the venom he had spouted.

It did not stop the desolation he felt in the face of Lan Wangji’s shattered amber gaze. Wei Wuxian had hurt him. He had spewed toxic filth into the air. He had coated Lan Zhan in all of his anger and fear, until it drenched his robes. 

He was always best at hurting those he loved most.

And for what?

For nothing.

It didn't matter what he said; what cruelty he spouted or cries he pleaded.

Lan Zhan would always go where there was trouble; he would always help those in need. That was what made him Hanguang-Jun. 

Who was he to stop Lan Zhan? 

A-Ying, the little urchin, orphaned and destitute; only alive due to the generosity of the Jiang?

Wei Wuxian, the man who died coreless in the Burial Mounds, unable to protect his family?

The Yiling Patriarch, Grandmaster of Demon Cultivation, enemy of the cultivating world, savior of none?

He was forever caught within the grave he had dug himself. He was nothing. Nothing in comparison.

Self-loathing made him reckless. Sorrow made him want to weep. The guilt that consumed him for the words he had thrust into the other man’s heart overshadowed both. He should not burden Lan Zhan with his own failings. He would not stain a man so great.

He felt himself fade and let himself vanish.

He did not want to hear the words the other man may speak. He did not want to know if they would be condemnation or apologies. Platitudes or anger. 

He deserved none of them.

The eternal screams were better than watching Lan Zhan leave him again.

“I’m sorry, Lan Zhan.” He whispered, raw and cracked. 

With the bitterness growing he flickered from existence, leaving Lan Zhan frozen in his wake. 

8-8

Long, lithe, fingers dug between wooden seams. With gentle tugs, Lan Wangji pried open a single board from the floor. 

Wei Ying had vanished the day before. He had stood before Lan Wangji, golden light shrouded and tipped by obsidian. He had shouted words coated in anger. Words Lan Wangji knew Wei Ying believed were true. 

Then he had dimmed and faded before Lan Zhan had time to gather his thoughts; before he had time to dispute the accusations. He had wanted to deny the words that hung like swords between them. 

Wei Wuxian was not a prisoner. A light so bright could never be dimmed. 

That was never his intent, even years ago, standing alone as the rain drenched his skin and hid his tears. Even as he asked the same question, time and again. He had only wanted to keep him safe. That was all Lan Zhan had wanted for him. 

Looking back, he wondered if he had not been clear enough. He wondered if Wei Ying even knew what he had been trying to ask. 

I want to bring someone back to the Cloud Recesses--take them back, hide them away. His own words linger in his mind.

Now he was here, hidden away, only visible to Lan Zhan.

He did not know why or how Wei Ying was with him now, but for Lan Zhan it had not mattered. 

He had spent a year mourning the other man. He had grieved. His heart had splintered and his skin had flayed and still he could not accept the death of half his soul. Lan Wangji had been prepared to live half a life, he had planned to raise Lan Yuan and then follow his heart wherever its fragments may lead. His suffering seemed inevitable. 

Until it wasn’t. Until the dismal walls of his placid room were painted in a golden light, and the air resonated with cherished laughter.

Lan Zhan did not care about the appearance Wei Ying had taken now. Whether he glowed gold or twisted in streams of smoke. He would take Wei Ying in any form he could. 

Early in the mornings when the sun still shied below the horizon and soft grey light first began rolling along the ground, when the wind still had the bite of early frost; he wondered if there was a way to take Wei Ying with him. 

He had wanted to ask if Wei Ying knew; if his brilliant mind had a solution only he could achieve.

He was never given the chance to form the words. 

When he had seen Wei Ying’s features darken--when he had felt the prickle in the air--he had been paralyzed. For a moment too long he was stuck by the venom contorting a face made only for joy. He was unaccustomed to that look. So rarely was it directed at him. 

His silence had damned him. 

Before he could formulate his thoughts, to beg for a reason for the biting words, he had watched as resignation moulded Wei Wuxian’s face into something new. Red eyes faded back to silver, but gold light shimmered like tears in their corners. The smile that sliced along his lips was an ugly little thing, filled to the brim with sorrow. 

Then, before he could blink, Lan Zhan had watched as Wei Ying had faded away. The silence he left behind was thick, and tasted like blood and smoke. 

He had called his name over and over. He waited for Wei Ying to come back. He lit the candle that now sat permanently upon the table in the center of the room. Then he laid in bed and waited for Wei Ying to return. Wei Ying never did.

Lan Zhan did not sleep.

He laid awake, afraid that if he slept, if he closed his eyes, he would wake up to a world again without Wei Ying. When morning had finally come, Lan Wangji had risen from his bed, exhaustion heavy in his limbs.

Soon he was expected to travel to another sect, a toddler in tow, with no idea if he would return to an empty home. 

He tugged harder, nails digging divots into the floorboard until it loosened with a crunch. He wrenched the board from its position and tossed it gently to the side. He peered into the hole left along the floor--at the dark and the dirt before him--before shoving his hand within the small abyss. Desperation stole his movements, as he dug through the straw insulation left exposed. For a singular moment his movements were wild and disjointed, so unlike himself. Pebbles scraped along his skin. Slim fingers dug through straw and mud as he searched for the remaining bit of his heart. His hand collided with a hard object hidden within the debris. He paused for a moment, then released a shuddering sigh. 

He came back to himself. His back straightened and his shoulders squared. His movements slowed. With infinite care, he pulled a long thin object from its hiding place in the ground and gently blew off the dirt, before placing it with graceful ease at his side. He rearranged the straw and replaced the floorboard. 

He paused, then, for a long moment. He breathed again, long and slow--in and out--collecting his thoughts; trying to school his emotions. He felt them all anyway, twisting deep inside of him. It was a familiar cocktail, tasting of regret and longing he had not felt for so long resurfacing. 

The long scars along his back ached. They hadn’t hurt in months. But now they throbbed and pulled tight across his skin.

He heard Lan Yuan murmur from where he still slept within his little bed, but when he glanced over, the little boy had not moved. His gaze was drawn back to the treasure beside him. 

He reached tentatively. His motions were cautious and unsure. Every shift opened old wounds, those upon his skin and upon his soul. 

He watched the item lie innocently upon the wooden floor wrapped in torn black fabric. The fabric did not flutter and Lan Wangji did not twitch. Time was still for an agonizing moment. Then he exhaled and he reached again. His fingers skimmed lightly along the edge, each touch reverent. He lifted it from the floorboards and held it gently in his palms. He plucked at the worn material as he would the guqin , unwrapping the cloth. Black fabric drifted to the ground, falling in a lazy sprawl along his lap, covering his white robes in darkness. 

The dim morning light filtering through the window reflected dull shadows along the ground. It flitted through a bright red tassel and caught brightly upon the ebony dizi held within Lan Zhan’s grasp. 

His fingers curled around the flute. He clutched it tightly to his chest, stroking the marks and divots that marred the once flawless black body.A tear threatened to fall from amber eyes. They clouded his vision until all he knew was a blur. 

Lan Yuan began to stir. Sleepy noises began to fill the room, as the child rolled over to his side, yawning loudly. 

His fingers clenched around the flute before he sighed, shoulders shuddering as he exhaled.

He rewrapped the dizi in its black fabric and placed it tenderly within his sleeve. 

8-8

A-Yuan did not know why A-die had packed him up early this morning and told him they were going on a trip. He was also not entirely sure where they were going.  But he was excited!

His life had been filled so long with white he almost forgot any other colors. White walls and white halls and even white robes. 

He hoped on this trip he would get to change what color robes he wore. Bobo always looked so disappointed when he got mud all over his bottom when he sat in the dirt. (Why couldn’t his robes be red? He liked red!).

They flew on Bichen and walked along the streets. Most of the time with A-Yuan was clenched tightly within Lan Wangi’s arms. Occasionally they would walk side by side, pudgy fingers curled tightly in A-die’s white robes.

There were so many things! So many colors! So many smells he did not know. There was an entire world he had never seen before, passing in a brilliant rainbow before him. 

He remembered another time, another street, another pair of robes. Black where these were white. He wondered if he could find Baba in the crowd, like he had found A-die the first time.

His little ponytail constantly whipped to and fro as he took in the world around him. Wide eyes flitted from vendor to stall, tracking the brilliant robes of finely dressed cultivators, lingering on the huddled forms of those hidden in the shadows. A-Yuan vibrated with constant energy. 

He knew A-die was watching him. He knew, too, that he was waiting for A-Yuan to cry or complain. But A-Yuan saw the sad look on his face and he wanted to make it go away. So he promised himself he would be good. Even when his feet started to hurt from walking, and his eyelids drooped because he was so tired. 

He just wanted A-die to stop looking so upset, because the look he wore was so similar to when they had first met. When A-die couldn’t move for months and months because of the big owies on his back. 

It made A-Yuan’s chest feel heavy and made his tummy do little flips. He did not like the feeling. The journey was tinged in sadness, so A-Yuan tried to be extra good to make up for it.

He tried to remember the things Bobo had told him when he first came to live in the pretty place in the clouds. About how A-die felt sad sometimes because he lost someone very special to him, but A-Yuan could make him feel better. He just had to be good, and mind his manners and follow all of the rules. 

He remembered, too, the words Qing-jiejie had told him so long ago in a dirty, smelly, cave that had felt so safe. About giving Baba extra hugs. About telling him how much A-Yuan loved him.

He wanted to make A-die happy again, so he tried to do both. But it was so hard. 

A-Yuan wondered if he missed Baba too. He wondered if A-die had been able to tell that their home had seemed darker when they left. He wondered if he, too, stopped seeing the flickering light of Baba sitting at the table.

They ate at inns and slept in unfamiliar rooms; rooms that were not filled with butterflies that danced on their own or the shimmer of laughter. Every night A-die would sit down on the bed and pluck a long, familiar, song on the guqin.  And each night A-Yuan fell asleep, curled up in A-die’s lap, wishing there was a flute playing, too.

Chapter Text

Lan Wangji arrived at Qinghe Nie with a child in his arms and weariness oozing from his being. 

Each step was heavy as he walked along the stone path leading to a set of impenetrable gates. When he reached them he placed Lan Yuan on the ground then he bowed to the guards, Lan Yuan executing a perfect imitation at his side. 

The guards blinked at him in vague confusion, their eyes wide as they stared. A long moment passed before Lan Yuan smiled a gapped tooth grin at them and with jerking movements they returned the greeting a bit too late. 

Lan Yuan’s fingers wrapped into the loose folds of his robes and tugged slightly.  Lan Wanji placed his hand atop the child’s head. 

“Hanguang-Jun! It is an honour to meet you!” One of the guards said as he rose from his bow, words tripping over his tongue as an awed look swept across his features. 

The other disciple seemed stupefied, unable to utter anything but a high pitched squeak of acknowledgement.He wondered vaguely whose presence had startled them so; his own or the child with him. 

He found he did not really care. 

Fatigue wormed its way along his bones and curled a path through his veins. Sleep had proved elusive without the gentle flicker of a single candle illuminating the Jingshi. Rest was evasive without the soft golden glow of a man sitting at Lan Wangji’s low table, as he sketched thoughts into the air or read one of Lan Wangji’s many tombs.

There had been no reprieve from the constant uncertainty that had plagued Lan Zhan’s thoughts. He only slept in the measly pockets of morning, when his body would crumble and succumb to the exhaustion that pulled so heavily against his eyelids. 

He leveled the guards with a blank stare, hoping they could not see the tiredness that slipped through his eyes or the dread that clung so heavily on his mind. 

“I am here for an audience with Chifeng-Zun,” he said, leaving the words to hang in the air and the young guards to scuttle about as they nodded and bowed (again). Finally, the older one offered to lead him to the main hall. Lan Wangji nodded his assent.

When their backs were turned, he released a long sigh and began to follow, A-Yuan trailing behind them. They walked through the gates, down stone paths lined by stone walls. When they reached the main hall there were disciples there to open the broad doors plated in bronze and juniper. Lan Yuan gazed around in wide eyed wonderment. 

They walked into an argument.

Nie Huaisang knelt before his brother and whined a shrill plea, "but Da-ge!"

"Huaisang enough!" Nie Mingjue roared, and it vibrated off the walls.

The guards at the door exchanged a long-suffering look before bowing and taking their leave. Lan Wangji stood in the entrance and waited for someone to acknowledge his presence. 

Both brothers whipped around and stood at the intrusion. Chifeng-Zun’s steel gaze pierced like knives on the interlopers, as the massive doors slammed shut. Their eyes met across the hall. Nie Mingjue’s brow furrowed, clouding his eyes and adding harsh lines across his brow. His mouth turned down in an ugly scowl. Baxia rattled at his side. 

Trepidation stole the wonder from Lan Yuan’s features as he gaped at the two men before them. He shuddered at the shouts and the anger that jumped in the air. He tried to bury himself in Lan Wangji’s robes, whimpering. 

“Chifeng-Zun, Nie-gongzi,” Lan Wangji bowed to them each in greeting, then placed his hand once again atop the child's head. 

He murmured, “A-Yuan, manners,” before gently pushing the little boy forward. Lan Yuan executed a wobbly bow and a mumbled, "Lan Yuan from Gusu greets you," before hiding again behind his ivory shield. 

Nie Huaisang reacted first, “Hanguang-Jun, welcome to The Unclean Realm. We are honored by your presence,” he said as he returned the greeting, his brother doing the same from his low dais. 

Nie Huaisang flipped open his fan then, covering his face as he surveyed the fluttering of Lan Wangji’s robes. His eyes flickered over to his brother, then back to Lan Yuan, then back again.

A moment passed before Nie Mingjue's eyes followed his brother's pointed look. He caught sight of the small feet poking out from white robes. In an instant his face softened, the sharp lines smoothed and his lips curled into a benign smile.He landed heavily when he stepped down from the platform and with pounding strides he crossed the room until he towered before them.He stared at Lan Wangji for a moment, before he knelt down in front of  A-Yuan and bowed a second time. 

“Nie Mingjue greets Lan Yuan and welcomes him into his home.” He said, his voice pitched low. 

Pudgy fingers unclenched slightly from Lan Wangji’s robes, as he peeked his head out from his hiding spot. Wide, light eyes lost some of their apprehension as they gazed at the man before him. 

“Did you travel all this way from Gusu?” Nie Mingjue asked in the same sweet tone so at odds with his imposing bulk. 

Lan Yuan gave a small nod.

“It must have been a very exciting journey. Did you see lots of interesting things on your way?” 

Lan Yuan stepped a bit further forward, hand still curled loosely in white.

“Maybe during your stay you can visit the markets of Qinghe. They have some of the best meat buns I have ever tasted.” 

Lan Yuan smiled wider and nodded more enthusiastically.

"Da-ge has always been very good with children," Nie Huaisang said as he walked forward at a more sedated pace until he halted at his brother's side. 

 "It is a pity he hasn't married and had some of his own. Then maybe he would get off my back," he continued, tone twinged with a whine. 

There was a twinkle in his eye that did not dim even as his brother sent him a withering glare.

“You’re big,” Lan Yuan said, his words barely above a whisper, “even bigger than A-die and Bobo.”

Nie Mingjue’s laughter boomed along the hall, ricocheting against the walls. 

“You laugh loud too!” He said, fingers releasing Lan Wangji’s robes completely and clapping his little hands together, “You laugh loud like Baba!” 

Lan Wangji’s hand froze where it was still stroking along Lan Yuan’s back. His stomach clenched painfully. Nie Mingjue shot him a somewhat baffled look, before turning back to Lan Yuan. 

“Hanguang-Jun.” Nie Huaisang said, and when Lan Wangji looked up--away from the interaction before him--the other man’s calculating gaze was upon him. A moment of panic seized his body; he felt raw and exposed; stripped of his barricade of ice. 

He wondered if this man could see the exhaustion lined along his brow, and the weariness in his shoulders. He wondered if he could see, too, the agonizing unrest that carved through his mind. If Nie Huaisang knew his heart was li away in a little home that was now too quiet. 

Those eyes flickered to the red ribbon tied around short black hair, then back to Lan Wangji.

The painted fan fluttered once, twice. It waved gently in the air. He watched it and worried that his impenetrable mask was breaking. He worried it had fractured, just as completely as the rest of his life had. 

And then Nie Huaisang blinked, and his eyes softened. He snapped his fan shut. A veil fell over his face leaving behind only a hesitant smile. 

“I am sure it has been a long journey, and you both must be exhausted. Shall I have someone show you to your rooms?” 

Lan Wangji dipped his head slightly as Nie Huaisang called for a servant.

8-8

Darkness fell upon Qinghe long before it was truly night, as the sun was hidden behind sweeping mountain ranges and towering ramparts. 

The rooms provided to Lan Wangji were imposing and oppressive with their stone walls and dark tapestries. The candles flickered in ghastly shadows along the walls. The air hung heavy and wet, each breath seemed to labor in his lungs. 

He missed the cool air of the mountains of Gusu. He longed for the gentle light that drifted lazily through the window to spill along wooden floors. For the merciful serenity he had found within the suffocating silence. He missed the man who had come to be a permanent presence in his life. 

Lan Wangji sat at a dark wooden table in an unfamiliar room and yearned for home.

He had been given the day to rest after his travels. He hated it. He wished only to get the task at hand completed so he could leave. So he could make the trek back to Gusu. He worried of what he would find. 

Food had been brought shortly after their arrival, they had eaten in silence, then Lan Yuan had played with his toys in the corner of the room before the yawns had racked his little frame one time too many. 

Lan Yuan slept peacefully on the bed provided for him, behind the partition. The journey had been long, even for a child as exceptionally good as him. Lan Wangji had seen the weary edge in his movements, and the tired tears collecting at the corners of his light eyes, but never a complaint on his tongue.

He had dragged the child across the country with a desperate determination stained by selfishness. 

Lan Yuan had smiled and he had giggled and his eyes had caught on every trinket they had come across. He laughed and bounced along the street, hair twirling with the red ribbon tied within, light eyes bright in the mid morning sun. 

Lan Yuan was the only thing he had left of Wei Ying.

Lan Wangji sat alone. He sucked in a deep breath, tasting regret on his teeth. 

Lan Wangji did not want to be here. He hated these stone walls that crept closer with every breath, that blocked the light and air. He did not want to play Clarity for a man who had sat by as Wei Wuxian had died. But he had sat across the table from his brother; had seen the strain pry the corners of Lan Xichen’s lips. Had seen the resignation and the distress cut lines upon his brother's flawless face. He had seen the disquieted shift in matching golden eyes each time Lan Wangji had glanced upon Wei Wuxian as he spun along the corners of the room. 

Lan Wangji had sat across the table from his brother; had seen as the weight of all of his brothers’ sorrows threatened to crush unerring jade and made a choice.  

He was Hanguang-Jun. He was the Bearer of Light. He was destined to be found in chaos. 

He was a Twin Jade, brother to a man who was righteous and just and good.  He had owed it to the man before him that wore his face with a kindly smile. The man that helped him raise a little boy that came to them dressed in red. 

He had sat within his sanctuary and agreed to leave it all behind. He had thought it would be temporary. 

Lan Wangji had not known if Wei Wuxian would be able to go with him. Nevertheless there had been a flicker of hope, ut in the first few days of travel his heart had sunk with the realization that Wei Wuxian would not appear at his side. 

He had left Wei Wuxian in Gusu. 

He could not suppress the fleeting little part of him that clung to the belief that Wei Wuxian would still be there when he returned. He could not let the thought go. He held onto it, until it pressed against the tender bruises of his heart, opening old wounds until they were fresh and stinging. He welcomed the ache. 

It burned away the whispers that told him he lost Wei Ying again.

When he closed his eyes he still saw the splintered edges of Wei Wuxian's smile, torn around blood stained teeth as he flickered away.

Lan Wangji hung his head, he felt the grief heavy along his spine, shrouding his shoulders in remorse.

With shaking fingers he felt around in his sleeve, until his hand landed on the hard length within. He pulled the flute free, then held it reverently in his palm. He stoked his fingers over the divots and groves. Nail digging slightly into a talisman etched into its side. He clasped onto the only part of Wei Wuxian he still had. Chenqing began to shudder, vibrating violently in Lan Wangji’s grip. 

A moment passed. A breath. 

A heartbeat. 

The etchings began to glow, the talisman flickered, once, twice, then rose up into the air. It sketched itself in a brilliant arc, written in a familiar hand. Light flashed. White and bright and blinding. 

8-8

Wei Wuxian came back as he always did; with the taste of ash and blood on his tongue and the smell of death lingering in his nose.

His body ached and his head hurt. His heart sank with the things remembered. He recalled the image of fractured jade, shattering to bits before him. 

He had done that, he knew. 

He had spoken words he did not mean. 

Wei Wuxian had let the malevolent emotions control him. He had let the anxiety choke him. He had spoken words through desperation, in hopes of gleaning a moment equaled pain. 

He had broken the only good thing he had left. He had been callous and he had been cruel and he had hurt Lan Zhan. He knew because he had seen it written in golden eyes. It had been scrawled along a face he was finally learning to read. 

He swallowed the thick dread that clogged his throat and prepared himself to apologize and beg a forgiveness he did not deserve.

He rose from where he lay hovering above the ground and turned. He spotted the figure before him. The man who looked haggard and drained and nothing like the immaculate Lan disciple he knew him to be. 

How long had it been since he appeared within the Jingshi? Days or months or years? 

He was grateful he had not been forced to endure the silent room alone, but now he wondered what he had missed.

What had broken the great Hanguang-Jun so completely? 

He was reminded of red stained bandages and a crying child; of Lan Zhan laying on his stomach with tears in his eyes and blood dribbling down his back.He had to fix this. 

He tried to smile but knew it was hidden behind too many teeth. It trembled and slipped and got lost between the cracks. He knew it looked more like a grimace. He infused false cheer into his words.

"Lan Zhan, how was your trip?"

But the golden eyes before him did not respond, they simply widened in barely concealed shock.

"Wei Ying?"

Wei Wuxian's brow crinkled in confusion.

“In the flesh! Well, I guess not really flesh .” He stumbled through a laugh, but it was too shrill to be real. “but yes it’s me! You didn’t answer my question Lan Zhan! How was your trip? How is Nie Huaisang? Did he bore you with his fans? No, that’s silly. He is too scared to talk to you! Let alone tell you about his massive fan collection. Did you see any pretty ladies? Hmm?”

He was met with silence. 

He blinked at the man before him, still kneeling on the ground. Amber eyes were wide with too much emotion. A rock plummeted where Wei Wuxians stomach should have been. It took mere seconds for Wei Wuxian to realize that there was something terribly wrong.

“Lan Zhan?” He asked, letting the trepidation slip into the name. There was no response, the moment hung with a heavy silence between them.

“Wei Ying, how?"  Lan Wangji asked and it sounded so much like a question spoken months ago. In a position so much like this one. It shuttered through the air in the same broken plea.

Wei Wuxian blinked at Lan Wangji in confusion. He simply stared back. Has it really been so long? Did he forget? Did he think I wouldn’t come back? Is he angry?

Wire curled around his heart at the thought. Was Lan Wangji so angry that he did not want Wei Wuxian back anymore? 

Wei Wuxian could hear A-Yaun's gentle snores muffled by a screen. His eyes followed the sound. A-Yuan was here! He stumbled on the air, hurtling across the room to the little boys side.  There was a desperation in him to see the child, to assure himself of his presence, his well being. He moved to drift around the screen and froze. 

It was in that moment he realized this was not the room he had come to know. It was not the sanctuary he had been so afraid would be his prison. There were forest green drapes hanging from stone walls. The wooden table was stained dark. There was no light filtering through windows curtained by white chiffon.This was not home. He knew these rooms, recognized them from somewhere within the hidden recesses of his mind. 

This was Qinghe. 

How? 

His gaze fluttered to the dizi clutched in Lan Wangji’s hands. The pitch of the flute stark against the bone white of Lan Wangji’s knuckles.

Longing bubbled through him. It started in his stomach and traveled through his veins. Chenqing gleamed like he remembered, teeth marks gnawed into its once flawless surface. The talisman etched into its ebony body, dyed burgundy by blood. 

His blood.

The same blood that soaked the dirt from a mountain of graves, that ran in rivers through the mud as he was torn-- rippedsheddedsplit- -until there was nothing left. The blood he bled as he gasped his last breath, eyes filled with the vision of a man in white, the edges of his robes stained red. 

The talisman glowed; white and gold, tipped with red. The matching sigil along his collarbone shined bright. It burned. He clasped and his chest, light spilling through his fingers. 

He met Lan Wangji’s eyes across the room. 

“Lan Zhan?” He said, and he could hear his alarm ringing loud. 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji stood and crossed the room, each step taking him closer to Wei Wuxian until they stood nose to nose--until they stood with no space between them. Wei Wuxian’s light refracted in shimmering spades along crisp, white robes. Silver crashed into gold as their eyes met. One shimmered with tears, the other with fear. 

Lan Zhan lifted his hand, reaching until it hovered over Wei Wuxian’s clutching at his chest. It lingered there over the glowing sigil. They could not touch, but for a moment Wei Ying thought he almost felt the pressure of fingers against his own.He watched as perfect lips formed a question he did not know the answer to. 

“Wei Ying, what is happening?” 

Chapter Text

Lan Wangji stood before the glowing spectre, one hand curved hesitantly around fingers he could not touch, the other clinging tightly to the dizi .

He watched as silver eyes dashed frantically across his face before convulsing about the room. He could see through them, the mind behind, buzzing and calculating; seeking answers. 

Wei Wuxian stiffened, their eyes met again.

“I don’t know--I just...I think I did this?” It should not have been a question. It was anyway.

Wei Wuxian saw the twitch in the perfect lips so close to his own.  A decline at the edges which he had learned to read as disapproval. He felt the answering compunction quiver along his diaphragm. 

“It’s not... I didn’t do it on purpose! I just--” He stumbled along his words, trying to choose his next with careful consideration. He could not bear the disappointment he saw hidden in Lan Wangji’s frame. Wei Wuxian could not carry the burden of failing him again.

"I knew something happened. Of course I did, when I--when you… when I appeared in the Jingshi. I knew, but I didn't know what, and I... I just--" his words were stuttered and stilted. There was wind rushing through his ears and he felt bugs crawling up his throat. He sucked in air that did not fill the lungs he no longer had. The action helped anyway.

There were things he did not want to tell, things he did not think anyone should know. There were promises made in the Burial Mounds and secrets sworn to keep. There were horrors he lived through and long nights spent hungry and scared, with lives on the line other than his. 

Nights spent with blood and needles and gentle hands and a firm voice stitching him back together again. There was no room in his heart to betray those who had bore those burdens with him.

He struggled to piece together the last year of his half-life, trying to answer the questions he still had. He thought hard and fast and slipped his way through an explanation even he didn't know. He pursed his lips and tried to calm the riot in his mind.

“Lan Zhan, did you know? There are common people that have learned how to permanently etch ink into their skin. They do it for so many reasons, too. Sometimes different clans do it to signify where each person's place in the clan is, others to indicate how many battles that person has won. Some even do it for protection.” 

He paused for a breath and let his words sink into the air. The man before him did not move, he continued to stare long and hard at Wei Wuxian. Then his body jolted, he took a breath, and breathed the unspoken answer into his lungs. Wei Wuxian could see the moment he tasted the relevance of it on his tongue. 

His eyes widened a fraction. “Wei Ying, you… Did this?” 

He gestured vaguely with the hand still wrapped around Chenqing. 

Wei Wuxian blurted out another laugh--high and reidy--like grass whistling in the wind.

“As I said, I didn’t do it on purpose,” he replied as he moved the hand still clutching at his chest. It passed through Lan Wangji’s fingers, sending a shudder through them both. 

Lan Wangji's hand fell limply to his side, as Wei Wuxian gripped the opening of his robes and began to pull them apart; baring his chest beneath. The sigils and talismans pulsed along his skin, they illuminated and rippled and gave the illusion of movement. 

Lan Wangji's eyes began to shift away, an attempt at privacy, before steeling himself, forcing himself to look (the small part of Wei Wuxian that cared what Lan Wangji thinks tried not to be insulted).

Wei Wuxian stared hard at a crack in the ground when he spoke next, “Resentful energy is a hell of a thing to try to control. It’s harder still when you are making it up as you go. There were times where it got… difficult."

He let go of his robes, leaving them open and hanging off of his thin frame. He rubbed his fingers over his left forearm, feeling for the raised scar that even in this form marked his skin. 

"There were nights where it… where it wasn't great, and I tried to stem off some of the worst of it. Lan Zhan there was just so much screaming , all the time. And I didn't know what I was doing, but I was willing to try anything . And then I got the invitation and I thought maybe--" 

He cut himself off. He didn't need to continue. They were both intimately familiar with what happened next. There were parts of the story he didn’t tell, gaps gaping and yawning; stretching wide with barely a bridge to cross to the other side. 

He did not speak of madness, all consuming, and a desperate need to stay present to stay there . He did not tell him of needles and knives driving and slicing and stabbing points against his flesh. He did not mention the voices that had screamed promises through his mind, willing to grant every wish if only he would just give in. 

He did not admit that part of him was still unaccustomed to the silence now within his head. 

Despite the aperture between his words, he glimpsed the moment Lan Wangji put the pieces together on his own. He could see it in the barely-there crinkle in his dark brows. He knew by the sadness he saw in Lan Zhan’s eyes. 

He hated that he had put it there. He hated more the twinge of regret perceivable along those thick lashes. What did Lan Wangji have to feel remorseful for? 

Wei Wuxian hung his head, and let his eyes drift restlessly around the room. He refused to look any longer at Lan Wangji, too afraid of what else he would find. 

Lan Wangi stood as stone as he tried to read the words that danced along Wei Wuxian’s skin. At the still shining sigil along Wei Wuxian’s collarbone, he ran his finger over the inscription on Chenqing. He recognized it now, now that he knew what he was looking for. He had seen it before in the air, and then felt it wrapped in blue light around his wrist. He knew it now as an adaptation of the talisman Wei Ying had created so many years ago. He identified the characters written now in a new form. 

The deep divot of Wei Wuxian’s robes spread open, exposing more of his abdomen each time he shuffled from one foot to the other.

Lan Wangji let himself look and saw the dull pulse of others. It was a strangled mess of characters, some he recognized and some he did not. 

Distinguishable in the tangle were the talismans for protection that were scrawled along the left side of Wei Wuixian’s chest. With inspection further, he could interpret the meaning of others.--ones meant to ward off evil, to discourage dark energy, and draw in light. 

He watched as Wei Ying shifted from foot to foot and twisted his fingers together. He still would not meet Lan Zhan’s eyes. His stomach met his heart where it was lodged in his throat. He read the uncertainty in Wei Ying’s shoulders. 

“Wei Ying,” He said.

Wei Wuxian’s head jerked up, his fingers twisted together in a deeper knot. 

“Lan Zhan?” And his eyes were blown wide, more black than silver and with the anxiety he was unable to hide. 

Lan Wangji sucked air into his empty lungs. He braced himself, wrapped every ounce of courage he had ever known along his shoulders.He stared at the man before him: who has seen too much life in too few years. Who had clung to life the only way he knew how. 

He thought of the teen who snuck into the Cloud Recessess, bottles clinking in his hand. 

He remembered the warrior who saved them all in a murky cave, smiling with a brand on his chest and blood on his lip. 

He mourned the man with dull and broken eyes, skinny and pale after long months on a mountain, doomed to death. The darkness entrenched in his being and the death that clung to his robes. 

He marveled at the bravery it must have taken to go back. To turn away from all he had known, to do what he knew was right. To try to save the lives of innocents he did not know. 

And then he thought of the phantom that stalked his steps--eyes sad but fragile, smile flitting across opaque lips. 

I wish I can always stand with justice, and live with no regrets.

He had faltered. For years and years he had stumbled and fallen with fear and uncertainty. He had let the words he wanted to say slip through his teeth and get lost along his lips. He had watched and stood to the side as his world was taken from him. He would not do so again.

He had made the wrong choice time and time again. He would no longer.

"Wei Ying," He said and his words were small, minuscule in the gaping room, “will you stay?”

And with the words he offered his heart. He held it out on shaking hands and waited for Wei Ying to take it. 

Silver eyes peered at him, large and wide. Wei Wuxian’s face was slack. He stared and stared, never blinking. He stood like a pillar, planted deep in a lake of lotuses; strong and tall and immovable. But now that Lan Wangji was looking, he could see the splinters. He could identify the knots and splits. He was painfully aware of the imperfections of the caricature before him. 

“What.” The single word was yanked from Wei Wuxian’s lips, but it was spoken without inflection. 

It was meant to be a question Lan Wangji knew, so he spoke again. 

“Stay with me.” 

Wei Ying gasped, an action unnecessary but never forgotten. He opened his mouth as if to reply, but he only wheezed and stuttered. He gagged on all the things he could not say and choked on the things he could not comprehend.

Something unknown churned in his stomach, a monolithic monster of everything he wished he did not feel. It burned as it pounced from his stomach to his lungs, lighting a fire along his abdomen. It constricted like a vice, and sent power through him, with strength he had not felt since he had saved his brother's future.He sagged with the weight of it all. 

Wei Ying stood and stared and wrapped his arms around his torso. He clung with fingers curved to claws. There was uncertainty staining his cheeks and disbelief trailed his lashes. 

As Lan Zhan watched, his heart fell from shaking fingers. It landed on the floor with a splatter.

He wanted to hold Wei Ying tight, to crush the other man against his chest and never let him go. He wanted so badly to soothe the ache he saw, flittering along the other’s face, the uncertainty still hidden deep within the hollows of his eyes.

But he could not, so he did not. 

Instead he stood silent, heart raw and bleeding on the ground before him. His only hope that Wei Ying would pick it up.

“You mean it Lan Zhan?” and the words were fragile little things, limp and terrified.

“Mn.” He hummed and he hoped it would be enough.

“You want me to stay with you? Even like this? Even if… Lan Zhan, I don't know what is happening, I don’t know what I am. I have no idea how long I will be in this form or what is sustaining me. I mean we know I guess that it has to do with this,” He waved vaguely at his person, “but Lan Zhan, what if I can’t? What If I...What if I can’t? I don't even know what I am . ” 

“Wei Ying,” he said again; his name was a song only Lan Zhan knew. "Stay." 

And then Wei Ying laughed, long and loud and brilliant in the dim room. The grin that curled upon his lips and twisted the corner of his eyes belonged to a boy of fifteen, laughing brightly through the halls of the Cloud Recesses.

He stepped closer, until there was nothing between them, until there was no room for a breath. A breath that Wei Ying could not take, nor was Lan Zhan able, for the air was trapped in lungs, frozen and piercing.  

They were so close that Lan Zhan could feel the buzz of energy that radiated from Wei Ying. 

In an instant, it was the same as only moments ago. But the air was no longer filled with uncertainty and the walls were less constricting. 

Wei Ying robes were still gaping. 

Lan Zhan gripped Chenqing, knuckles white.

He waited.

And then Wei Ying said, “Okay. Okay, Lan Zhan, I will stay.” The smile that curled his lips was soft and small and real.

Lan Zhan watched as Wei Ying bent to pick his bleeding heart up off the floor. 

There were still things they had not spoken of; still secrets they had not shared--they lurked in the cavities that have always torn between them--waiting to strike. 

But maybe now, those impasses would not be so wide. Maybe now their peace would not crumble, and their home would be built on a foundation stronger than dust, and sturdier than smoke.

Maybe they could figure this out together.

That night Lan Zhan went to sleep with fingers curled around a bamboo flute, and the hand of a golden silhouette stroking his scalp. 

A candle sat upon the table casting flickering shadows along the walls. 

8-8

Everything was dark. 

Wood scraped painfully against his sides as he huddled down farther in the forgotten tree. 

He waited. 

The wind whipped and tore off a branch. Moonlight filtered in and cast shadows, shaped like nightmares. 

The air smelled like ash and burned like fire. 

Something screamed and it sent a tremor through his body. His heart pounded like drums in his ears. He wished that was all he could hear. 

Why was he left here? All alone? Where was everyone? Where was his family? 

There were monsters out there, with their claws and their teeth.

They wore gold and they wanted him. They wanted to hurt him. They hated him and he didn’t know why. 

They smiled and lied and stabbed with their swords. 

They had stabbed Ning-gege. They had hurt him. It was only ‘cause of Qing-jeje and Baba that he was okay. 

He curled in a ball, tight and small. 

Baba? Baba! Where was Baba? He said he would come back! He promised! Promisedpromised--

A-Yuan woke to the feeling of fingers carding through his hair and his name called in a low familiar voice.

He blinked, the world was blurry through eyes half-lidded. 

The room was unfamiliar. Walls cold and imposing as the darkness sat stagnant in the air. For a moment he could smell the damp of a once-loved cave. He felt strong arms lifting him up and heard a booming laugh rattle his ears.

For a moment, it felt like home and he felt his tummy twist in excitement. He sat up, curling his body to the side to look around A-die. He craned his neck as he searched for familiar black robes. He listened for a different voice, one that once said, Ahhh A-Yuan! Look at how dirty you have gotten! Have you been helping your uncle's garden again? Come on! Let's get you cleaned up before Qing-jiejie sees. 

His gaze darted along the walls and caught on green tapestries and tears pricked his eyes. He blinked hard, holding them back.

He realized that this was not the cave and that there were no black robes or booming laughter, nor was this a wooden room filled with golden light and pretty music, surrounded by clouds. 

He looked back at A-die, and saw the wrinkle that was forming between his brow. 

“A-Yuan, What is wrong?” he asked and it made A-Yuan want to cry. He did not want to worry A-die, and he did not want to be the reason he was sad again. He was trying so hard to be good. 

He looked to the side and tried to avoid his A-die’s eyes. 

And that was when he saw it; a black flute sat still and silent on the table. 

His heart pounded. 

A-Yuan wriggled out of the blanket and off of the bed. Little feet pounded on stone until he stumbled to the table. He reached out, until little hands ran along the grooves of Chenqing.

His eyes widened, two pale pools absorbed his features, and his gaze dashed about the room with renewed vigor.

But there was nothing there. 

"Baba?" He asked. His voice was small. He turned towards A-die and they wobbled. He wanted to be good, he wanted to be strong and tough and not cry. 

He wanted to be like his Baba and his A-die. 

But he also wanted his Baba and his A-die. He wanted them here with him. 

"Baba?" He asked again, he tried to stop his lower lip as it began to quiver. He tried not to cry. 

He picked up the flute and clutched it to his chest, wrapping his arms around it and holding it tight. 

"I want Baba," He mumbled and tears filled his eyes; they ran in little rivers down his cheeks. He looked at the ground even when he heard A-die coming closer. 

He sniffled and tried to hold them back, but his throat felt tight and he didn’t want to. The sobs hurt as they passed his lips. 

“A-Yuan,” A-die’s voice sent a shiver down his spine, it was calm and warm and almost perfect. He tried again to calm his crying. Gentle fingers lifted his chin, until he met his father’s gaze.

Then he saw the little crinkle in the corner of A-die’s eyes. The one that meant he understood, but that he was sad. That he wanted to help but didn’t know if he could. 

The first time A-Yuan had seen the look was when A-die still had the big owies, and A-Yuan had asked him to brush his hair. He had seen the crinkle and then the pain as A-die had tried to sit up, and struggled to run the comb through A-Yuan’s hair.

He hated that look. 

A-Yuan bit his lip and it tasted like salt and something he could not name.  Strong arms circled him, lifting him up from the ground. They held him tight. A kiss was pressed into his hair. A-die looked at something over his head, and he wondered what he saw. 

His voice was lighter this time, and when A-Yuan peaked at him the little crinkle was gone. 

“Baba is here A-Yuan. ” 

He felt it then, the rush of something run the length of his back; he could not feel the fingers, nor the pressure of a hand, but he felt the softness and the warmth. He knew this feeling.

He felt it ruffle through his hair. Had seen it dance a butterfly through the air. It had held him close through nightmares. It had protected him from monsters again and again. 

He glanced over his shoulder and was met with shimmering gold. If he squinted hard, he almost saw the outline of black robes, and the shine of silver eyes. 

He reached out towards the light, and for a moment he thought he felt strong fingers envelope his own. 

A-Yuan closed his eyes, and let the warmth sooth him back to sleep.

8-8

There were murmurs in the hall the next morning as Lan Wangji strode through the heavy doors.

He was an impenetrable wall, back as straight as the sword on his side and head held high. Lan Yuan trailed a step behind, a perfect mirror but for the red ribbon weaved through his hair.

An ebony dizi sat upon his hip.

It marred him. It was a dark shadow slicing through a pristine pale picture. It was ink spilled on parchment, ugly and ruining. 

A blemish. A stain.

Whispers followed him through the hall. 

They bowed their heads together and thought they were not heard. 

They asked, Is that the demon flute? And why does Hanguang-Jun have it? 

They answered, War prize and Always hated the Yiling Patriarch.

They called him self-righteous and they named him arrogant. 

Lan Wangji did not care. He ignored them all and stroked a finger down the length of the black lacquer.  

It mattered not what others said. 

They may not have been at the Burial Mounds that night, but he knew, too, that they would not have stopped it. Their opinions did not matter and so he blocked them from his mind. He had what he needed.

He would not break under their words. He would not falter. 

His steps were calm and measured. 

He was ice. 

He was jade. 

He did not need their approval nor did he desire it.

He sat at the table the disciple led him to with an elegant billow of white robes and unrivaled grace. Lan Yuan bounced at his side and then plopped into a proper seat. 

Unseen by all but one, a shadow hovered in the corner of the room, and smiled. 

Chapter Text

“When do you leave?” Jin Guangyao asked, low and pleasant, hands folded serenely in his lap. 

Jin Zixuan watched him. They sat across each other at the low table. Light filtered in through painted glass, casting a colorful array on white tile. The receiving room was stuffy, the air muggy and stifling. There was sweat dripping down Jin Zixuan’s back. His robes were heavy and sticking. 

A-Ling toddled around them. Waddling about the table trying to catch the filtered light that danced along his skin. Pudgy hands flexed in the air, confusion twisting his lips into a pout when the colors simply moved from his palm to his fist. Jin Zixuan marveled at the child before him, his little features scrunched up in displeasure. He wondered at the reality granted him; the life around. The life inside him. 

At the time, he had lost in a pit of darkness, clinging and scraping his way to consciousness. 

He longed for all that he had missed and choked on the regret. He tried to breathe. He tried to calm his pounding heart and focus on the moment. On the here and now. Because he was here. He was alive and that was what mattered. 

He listened to the mumbled words of A-Ling and let air expand his lungs. 

He wished he was in the garden. He wished he was with his wife, tending to the lotus plants they would soon leave behind. He had tried so hard to make a home here. He had hoped to carve out a corner of this tower for himself. For A-Li and their son. 

His fingers tightened around the teacup he had been raising to his lips. He wished he was not sitting at this table, playing a game he hated. Faking smiles and comradery to a man who he felt none to. 

To a stranger who shared a father and a nose but little else. 

His eyes shifted back to the man before him. He forced himself to focus, and wipe away the unease settling like rocks in his stomach. 

“Jiang Wanyin is leaving in two days. We should be leaving by this time next week,” Jin Zixuan said. 

It was perfunctory, this meeting. It was designed for appearances, and was something neither cared for. Nevertheless, they both knew what was expected of them. It was proper and it was necessary. It was in no way wanted. 

“You will not be traveling together?” Jin Guangyao asked, taking a long sip of tea. His face was blank. There was no sweat along his brow. 

Jin Zixuan’s let his gaze wander back to his son, now seated in a beam of light, rattle-drum in hand. “No, there are matters that Jiang Wanyin needs to attend to,” he said and then took a breath, “there has been... unrest along one of Yunmeng’s borders. He plans on seeing to it before meeting us at Lotus Pier.” 

He had laid his plan out to his mother, who had nodded in agreement. She too could feel the walls changing color. He had bowed his head and made a request of Jiang Wanyin, that he knew he could never repay. 

Now they were set to flee the land he had called home and he could not find any regret left to feel.

“I see,” Jin Guangyao said. And Jin Zixuan wondered what he saw. A dimple punctured the other man's cheek as he smiled. 

There were whispers about this man, who so desperately sought their father's approval. 

Who had been banished from one sect, only to betray another. 

Who stabbed their greatest enemy in the back.

Something slithered in Jin Zixuan’s chest, ugly and unwanted. It hung around his lungs and soured. 

“How long will you be gone?” Jin Guangyao’s gaze followed his own to A-Ling across the room, as the child stood on shaky legs, rattle clutched in his hand.

Jin Guangyao’s eyes lingered on the child toddling along the ivory tile, longing coloring his eyes.Jin Zixuan recognized it, and considered the change it made in the other’s face, the softening of features that made Jin Giangyao look more human, and less like a painted doll. A-Ling plopped into Jin Zixuan’s lap--mumbling and rubbing his eyes--dropping his rattle in place of tugging on Jin Zixuan’s sleeve. 

Jin Zixuan sat his untouched tea on the table and wrapped his arms around his son, holding him tight against his chest, and cherished the fact that he could.

“I’m not sure.” He said when the child had settled in his lap, head resting against his shoulders and eyes drooping closed. “Yanli has been longing to see Yunmeng again, and my doctors have told me the weather there will be good for my health.” 

Jin Guangyao hummed in acknowledgment, “I wish you safety on your travels, you will be missed here, I am sure,” he said, head tipped in a bow. 

“Thank you.” 

Silence descended, stale and cloying.

Jin Zixuan lifted his cup off the low table, careful not to jostle the child in his arms, and sipped his tea.  It was cold. 

8-8

Jiang Wanyin cornered her on her way to Jin Zixuan and Jiang Yanli’s room. She took a calming breath and steeled her resolve. Then she let her gaze drift back to the man blocking her path. He stood before her as he always seemed to, an immovable wall, strong and unflinching. He stared at her without blinking, and for once his face was unreadable. Her hands were still wet from the basin she had washed them in. She tried to discreetly dry them on her robes.

It had been months since she had seen him. Despite herself she drank in the sight of him. He looked tired. Worn. The months had not been kind. The youngest sect leader had a tough path to travel and it etched itself upon his face. The deep trenches along his brow and the heavy basins beneath his eyes. Grief reflected within. Groves of sorrow cut around his mouth.

He looked so tired.

He tossed his head to the side, an indication for her to follow. 

Oh. She thought. She knew what this was about. 

So she followed him to a little room hidden off to the side, used to store extra linen and bedding. With a clatter, the door slid shut behind them.

“I will be leaving soon,” He said without preamble. 

She lifted a brow, unimpressed. “I am aware.” 

“They can’t find him,” he continued as if she hadn’t heard.  “Everyone I have sent to look through the palace come back empty handed.” 

Wen Qing felt the color leach from her skin. Before she could react he continued. 

“But it is strange. The guards that saw you both come in are dead. As are the guards who moved him to another cell. Any cultivator or servant who knew of you or your brother's existence within these walls, they are all dead.” 

She had feared this from the moment they had dragged Wen Ning from his cell. She had already lost him once. She had already held his iced body, drenched in the rain, unmoving against her chest. She had screamed and cried and begged a great man to bring him back. To bring her little brother back. And now she had lost them both. She was not sure if she had enough energy to do it again. This time she just felt numb. As though there was no emotion left for her to feel. 

She was stone. 

She did not blink when Jiang Wanyin spoke again. “Madam Jin has her...lady’s maids looking into it. There is something going on. There is no way he can just be...gone.” 

She knew this vaguely. She heard the whispers in the walls just as well as everyone else. It didn’t matter though, none of those whispers had held any news she wished to know. She wanted to scream, she wanted to tear out her heart so she could no longer feel. 

She did neither, but she felt the tear stream down her cheeks. 

Awkwardly, he reached a large hand on her shoulder, but it retracted, curled in on itself. Vaguely, she realized he meant to comfort her. She wondered if she would let him, if he tried. Then she remembered crackling air and angry eyes and the slamming of a cell door and was glad that he didn’t. She almost released a hysterical laugh. Her brother had not been alive for so long now.  He had already died once, speared through the chest and left in a ravine. 

She wanted to sob. Now her poor baby brother may have died again. Was it more painful this time? Was it worse than the last? Could he even feel it? With no breath in his lungs and no blood pumping through his body? 

Instead she did neither. Wen Qing stared blankly at the wall, tear tracks on her cheeks.

They stood together in the little room for long minutes. The air was heavy in the silence. Time dragged and dragged--the sun began to set and the trees outside cast speckled shadows on the walls. 

She watched him for a moment as he opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Frustration bloomed across his cheeks and curled his eyebrows. There was nothing he could say that she had not heard at this point. No words he can throw at her that she did not have armor against.

She was prepared for vitriol. Had braced herself to defend against his rancor and his rage. She was left devoid of strategy when he spoke. 

"Why? Why did he save you?” The question left his lips a blurted mess. As though it had been lodged so long between his teeth he couldn’t withhold its escape any longer. 

Her eyes crashed along his figure. He stood before her without his arrogance and pride, and without those to prop him up he looked broken. 

Good, she thought. In this we are the same.

When she did not immediately respond he continued in a rush, familiar anger clouding each word, but stilted in comparison to his usual rage. “Why did he choose you? Why did he pick you over me?"

It was silent again. She watched the uncertainty wobble along his face. It twisted his nose and scrunched the corners of his eyes. It was so uncharacteristic of the version of him that he showed to the world. It reminded her more of the boy who had gifted her a wooden comb. Beautiful in its simplicity. 

Her voice was calm and flat when she spoke. “Is that really what you think?” 

He absorbed the silence, waiting for her to continue. He vibrated with impatience. But he did not speak.

Each moment she fluctuated between feeling everything and nothing. She wasn’t sure which was better. She was alone now and she didn’t know what road to take. She looked at the man before her, who had not lost nearly as much as he thought he had.

“You think he turned his back on you, don’t you? You think he betrayed you. I will tell you this only once Jiang Wanyin, there is no sacrifice that Wei Wuxian made that is bigger than the sacrifice he made for you.” 

She was tired. Tired of this world that wanted only death. Tired of the fighting and the arguing and the hate that drenched the lives of all those she knows. But most of all she was so tired of these conversations with him that went nowhere. So she leveled him with a long measured glare, before she left him stunned and alone in the little room.

8-8

Wen Qing sat across from the other woman as had become their costum so many months ago. But now they were no longer accompanied by a still form in a bed across the room.  Jin Zixuan had left moments ago, with a nod and a smile and a graceful bow. 

It had been their last appointment, the last check up Jin Zixuan would have before they went to Yunmeng. 

She had hope for her patient. He was still more often tired than not but that was fine; this was progress. He was already doing so much better. The resentful energy had dissipated with her ministrations and his body was healing at a remarkable rate now. He would make it through this. He would live, and would get to see Jiang Yanli’s blinding smile everyday.

They would be okay. 

Wen Qing watched as the other woman silently went through the process of making and serving the tea--her hands folded demure in her lap. She did not let her fingers twist together as she so desperately wanted them to. She wondered where she would go. Would they kill her now? Now that they no longer had a use for her? 

Part of her hoped so. Her debt was repaid, as much as she could. She had nothing left to live for. She had lost her brother. She had lost her family. 

She had not been able to save Wei Wuxian, but at least she could do this. At least she had saved the life of an innocent man. 

At least her brother could rest in peace, no longer weighed down by guilt for a death he did not commit.

At least Wei Wuxian’s sister (one of the few people he still spoke of when the nights got cold, the only way to make a spark burn in dull grey eyes--the woman who gave her brother soup he could not eat--a woman she remembered as being unwavering, kind, even when faced with massacre and destruction--a woman who Wei Wuxian said deserved every happiness) at least she would not have to suffer this loss.

Gentle hands squeezed her own. A warmth to her side closer than it was before. A tear fell cold upon their fingers, and Wen Qing realized she was crying. 

She realized, too, her fingers were twisted around the other woman's, grip strong and harsh on a hand so small. Their hands sat now in a twist upon the table. 

“Lady Wen?” It was a name only spoken to her very rarely--and only when there was not a chance of the walls over hearing and whispering it to the trees outside. 

It was enough of a reminder to pull herself together. She unwove her fingers from the other woman’s and settled her hands once again within her own lap.  She straightened her spine and looked at Jiang Yanli kneeling next to her. She expected to see pity in her gaze, instead she saw only understanding as it flowed like water through gentle eyes. 

“Lady Wen,” she said again. “I know we are not exactly friends, but I would like to think that after all this time we are no longer merely acquaintances…” 

Wen Qing nodded, it was true. She thought that maybe in another life, she and Jiang Yanli may have gotten along quite well. 

Jiang Yanli continued, “And I will forever be indebted to you,” here Wen Qing tried to shake her head, tried to express that No! I am repaying my debt, my family's debt, one so great I could never do so in this lifetime but was halted by a chiding glance, “I know you are trying to find your brother, and I want to help.” 

Wen Qing’s heart twinged at the determination that stole over the other woman’s face. 

“However, we will be leaving soon and there isn’t much we can do here. I was unsure how to broach the subject, and Madam Jin thinks she can help slip you past the guards whether you agree or not. You are more than welcome to say no, but I was wondering, hoping that you would come with us.” 

Wen Qing stared. 

Jiang Yanli took a steadying breath, “Come with us. Back to Yunmeng, back to Lotus Pier." 

The world froze. She clenched her fingers together until her knuckles were white. 

She thought of vengeful storms and angry eyes. 

She remembered a convoluted plan and a shining core.

She thought of a little brother that could be dead, and the man he had almost killed. 

She recalled cold nights long ago, and a strong clear voice, waxing tales about a city made of wood and filled with sunlight. She had watched as her brother hung on every word, an excitement he should not have been able to express apparent in his eyes.

She wanted so badly to live in a world that would have let her family live. That would have left her brother alone. That would not have condemned a man only doing what he believed was right. She realized with startling certainty that for that world to exist, she would have to build it herself. She owed it to them, to the laughing eyes of the man who had given up everything.

She thought of the tiny room they had allotted to her filled with nothing besides a cot and a trunk filled with borrowed clothes, ugly and brown. How little it was to call her own and that was still more than she had had for so long. 

She had remade herself before, she could do so again. 

She met the unwavering gaze before her and nodded, slow and steady. "Alright." 

Small fingers delicate and soft wrapped around her own, she clung to them this time, and did not let go. 

8-8

It was not hard for Jiang Yanli to agree to leave Lanling.

It was very easy to accept when her husband whispered to her his suspicions. Easier still within the safety of the darkness, the comfort of their rooms and in their bed, his arms wrapped around her tight. 

He had told her of his mistrust of his father, and the people he commanded. He spoke of the shadows he saw around the corners and the resentment he could taste in the air. He regretted  the path his sect was being led down, and he felt sorrow for the place he had called home. He had shared with her his misgivings and she had felt nothing but relief.

She would not miss the constant wariness that plagued her steps, or the ever present need to peek behind her, shoulders constantly tensed. Nor would she miss the constant murmurs that filtered down the long halls, or the voices that ceased when she entered the room. 

She would not regret the loss of the glittering gold of a tower filled to the brim with betrayal and lies.

She missed the warm breeze of Lotus Pier. The gentle sway of walkways built on stilts. The warmth of wood beneath her finger tips. She yearned for the easy laughter and comradery she had seen within the disciples of her childhood. The graceful moves of a sea of purple and the teasing jeers within. She wanted nothing more than to dip her feet in the warm water of an endless lake, to walk along a wooden pier, to smell the lotus as they bloom and taste the seed upon her tongue.

She yearned for the chance to listen to her brothers bicker and fight over the last bowl of soup, if only once more. (She knew it was impossible.)

It was so, so terribly easy to agree, when A-Xuan spoke, voice low and quiet in the still night air, of going to YunmengJiang, to plan and regroup and seek out allies. 

She tried not to listen to the parts that sound like war and death and all the things she thought they had left behind. She tried only to hear the parts that sound like family and being together and having her brother and her husband and their son all in one place. All safe. 

She rolled over and listened to the little snores of A-Ling across the room, and felt the strong arm of her husband holding her tight around her waist.

There were things she wanted that she knew she could no longer have. But that did not stop her heart from aching. It did not stop her from clinging to the bits she could with fingers bloody and desperate. 

She longed for her family, for the missing pieces and sharp edges she had left.

They would be leaving tomorrow, the journey would be long with all the things they needed to take with them. She squeezed her eyes tight, and tried to steady her breaths. She tried to sleep.

Jiang Yanli wanted to go home.

Chapter Text

Jiang Yanli’s body tilted with the gentle sway of the carriage as it rambled along the dirt road. She clutched A-Ling in her lap where he wriggled and tried to break free; his eyes wide as he peered out the open window, hands reaching for the light. 

Her gaze drifted to the woman across from her, dressed now in light yellow robes. She looked faded; washed out and worn. No longer garbed in brilliant red that blazed like the sun. Or even the dull brown she had worn for months disguised as nothing more than a village doctor. She was pale and drawn.However, her posture remained forever perfect and her hair was an immaculate twist of intricate designs. She, too, gazed out the window. Her face calm, a landscape of serenity, unblemished by worry. 

Jiang Yanli knew it was a carefully crafted façade, that her fragility was hidden beneath a shroud of refinement. They had spent months just like this sitting across from each other in leaden silence. Jiang Yanli had had little to do over those long dragging days. She had kneeled for hours in a beautifully ornamented room, with only the company of Wen Qing and her fear. And she had grown so tired of being afraid. 

So she had observed; had tried to piece together answers to all the questions she had about the enigma this woman seemed to be. She had tried to categorize the events that lead them here.

The Wens had torn her family apart; they had waged a war. They had burnt her home and slaughtered so many. What had her brother seen in those he had tried to save? 

What had Wen Qing seen when she had risked so much for them in Yiling when their world was crashing around them? 

What had made her agree to save Jin Zixuan? A man she barely knew? 

She could see the tension in Wen Qing’s shoulders and the nervousness in the twisting fingers. She could see the hopelessness in the corner of deep brown eyes. She felt an answering despondency in her heart. Jiang Yanli wondered if she had done the right thing offering to bring Wen Qing with her to Lotus Pier. 

There had been no need to convince Madam Jin to let Wen Qing come with them. Jiang Yanli could still see the calculating gaze of the older woman when A-Xuan had made the request to his mother (on her behalf). No one had thought twice as he had laid a plan bare and written the physician as instrumental. Jiang Yanli had felt the coils in her stomach tighten and twist into knots until the older woman had nodded and said, “Yes, I think that would be for the best, for all of you. I will have it arranged.” 

No one noticed when Wen Qing slipped past the guards, dressed in faded yellow robes lined in golden string. No one questioned it when one of Madam Jin’s personal attendants was a part of the party that accompanied their young master and Lady Jiang back to Yunmeng. No one dared to. 

She wondered, too, how her brother would react, when he saw who she had brought with her. If his eyes would follow the other woman through wooden halls the same as they did across white tile. The same as they did a lifetime ago, in a recess in the clouds. But that was a thought for later. For now the silence now sat between them; stilted and strained. 

Jiang Yanli wrapped her fingers around A-Ling’s little hand, bringing it gently to rest in their laps. He settled against her chest and shoved the fingers of his other hand into his mouth. Drool dribbled down his arm. 

There was so much tension in the other woman's shoulders. It stretched like a bow, taunt and unforgiving. Jiang Yanli pondered the effort it took to keep her back so straight. The strain it took on the body to be constantly vigilant of others' hate. The sheer will it took to walk through life when the world wanted you dead.  

Dark eyes watched A-Ling nuzzle drowsy into her robes, and a smile played along the other woman’s lips--the first since they had been acquainted, had it been longer?-- it softened her features, and ignited a small spark in solemn eyes. 

"I remember when my nephew was that age.” She spoke, “He would have turned five this year.” 

Their gazes met across the carriage divide, and the spark dimmed. It was replaced by unconcealed sorrow. The words held so much pain; Jiang Yanli felt it in her throat. There was resignation, too, laying between the syllables. For that Jiang Yanli felt the sting of tears prickle along her eyes. She wanted to reach out. To comfort and to hold as she had for her brothers. She did not know if it would be welcome--she feared that it wouldn’t--so she clung tighter to A-Ling. She parted her lips to speak--what she planned to say she did not know--when a thousand screams tore through the air. 

They sounded like death. Like terror and sorrow and like the agony of a million souls that would never know peace. 

Jiang Yanli leaned forward to peek through the curtained window. She pulled the light fabric to the side and peered through the tinted glass.

Past the small battalion of cultivators sent with their party stirred a wall of ghouls. 

She had heard the whispers brought back from battle fields, of what her brother had done during the war; had heard all about the armies of corpses that he had risen, that had slaughtered and maimed and killed without conscience. She had never wanted to imagine what it would look like, to be faced with so much death. Now she knew. 

They staggered forward, on feet and hands of bone and decomposing flesh. A miasma hung heavy across the ground; it rolled through the trees like black smoke and reeked of decay. 

Cultivators hid their faces behind their sleeves, a desperate barrier. It did nothing. The weaker ones retched when the poison tore at their throats. Blood trickled down proud faces as it burned their eyes and nostrils. 

She searched for her husband, eyes scanning the horizon for his profile seated tall upon his horse. She caught a glimpse of him. Of white and gold and Suihua flying through the air. 

She wanted to call for him, to leap from the carriage she was trapped in and run to him. She needed to hold him tight and never let go. 

She could not lose him, not again. 

Tremor shook her arm as she reached for the little door handle. Fingers curled around her arm, and pushed her away.Her back hit hard against the padded seat. A-Ling looked up at her as his lower lip began to wobble. She couldn’t meet his wide eyes, instead she stared in shock before her. 

She met Wen Qing’s gaze; stern but gentle. 

“Protect your son,” she said, “to keep him safe you need to stay calm.” 

She had never been on a battlefield, but she knew the wreckage of war; had seen it daily from where she had instead been tucked away, safe as she could have been, tending the wounded in camps filled with harrowed screams. She had felt the unease that ate at your sleep, and felt the dread of never seeing your loved ones again. 

She was not a warrior like her mother, and she was not a fighter like the woman across from her.She could only hold desperately to the child in her lap. 

Panic rose in Jiang Yanli; it skipped along her skin and shook her bones. The woman opposite from her sat still. Jin Ling felt her fear, it seeped through his skin and leached into him. Tears dribbled down his ruddy cheeks and he whimpered.

She closed her eyes. Breathe. She told herself. You need to breathe . 

She could feel the corpses getting closer. She could sense the shift in the ground as they clawed and dragged their way toward the carriage. They shrieked and screeched, sharp wails that sent ice along her spine. She did not have to look out the window to know they were surrounded, or to smell the twinge of the miasma as it began to rise higher into the air. 

There were the shouts of the cultivators outside; they screamed as they died. 

She rocked in a gentle sway trying to sooth the sobbing child. He continued to cry, louder and louder with each howl that shook the air. She wondered if her husband was one of them, if she would be able to pick his voice out from all the rest. She strained to hear.

A gentle hand gripped hers. It drew away one arm clenched tightly around A-Ling. She opened her eyes and saw her fear reflected. She saw a shadow behind unshakable calm; saw a woman who had already lost everything, and knew Jiang Yanli’s pain just as she had known hers. 

They clung to each other as they heard the splintering of wood, and felt their carriage lurch. She could hear the tearing of talons as they ripped through the wheels and braced herself for the short plummet to the ground. 

The carriage shook, it rocked to the side and creaked. The wood rattled.

She took a breath. Softly she held her sleeve over A-Lings mouth to block any miasma from his lungs. She summoned the small amount of spiritual energy she possessed and tried to remember every spell she had learned. 

She was not a warrior, and she was not a fighter, but she was not a coward. 

She let go of Wen Qing’s hand and in return received a stiff nod.  

The door was ripped from the hinges, splintered wood flung through the air. 

Distantly, she thought she could hear her husband scream her name. 

A corpse stood in the doorway. Black hair fell around a gaunt face, lanky and matted in patches. One eye was white, and one was missing, leaving an empty socket in its wake, pus and blood leaked like tears down its cheeks.  Skin hung in mangled shreds from bone-fingers as they crawled through the opening. 

A-Ling screamed, and she held him tight, one hand extended before her. 

There were no words. Nothing to tell of the terror she felt, because it was so much more. 

Red spiritual energy flashed through the air. The ghoul fell away, only to be trampled by more. Wen Qing stood before them, positioning herself between the door and Jiang Yanli. Silver flashed between her fingers. 

Another corpse descended, another flash of energy. Again, and again and again. 

There were screams and death and the constant light of red. 

Everything was red. 

Until Wen Qing began to flag. Until she began to slump against the entryway. 

Jiang Yanli stood, gathered all of the energy she could, and placed her hand around the other woman's wrist. She let the energy flow to her. Wen Qing nodded, there was a tilt to her lips that could have been gratitude, but there was a glint in her eyes that looked like despair. There was an exhaustion bone deep. A sense of surrender in the air. 

This isn’t going to last Jiang Yanli thought. We are going to die here. 

Shijie it will be alright. You and Jiang Cheng will be alright.

The words drifted through her mind and she listened to the memory. For a moment she thought she saw the image of a man with a gentle smile behind her eyes. She saw him kneeling before her in wet grass as their home burned. 

Then she heard a roar, strangled and filled with rage. The trees shook. The wind rose, it swept through the air. The miasma that had settled on the ground began to dissipate. 

Her body jerked. She flung herself to the entryway.

Silhouetted by ZIdian’s glow was Sandu Shengshou, an amethyst storm settling on the horizon. The air around him sizzled and crackled like thunder. He seethed, his wrath etched deep grooves along his brow. Zidian swung, a deleterious snake swinging through the sky. Sandu soared through the air. 

He was powerful, and relentless and brimming with righteous fury. 

He looked like their mother. 

8-8

There had been a plan, a terrible, horrible plan, whispered in the corner of golden walls. 

Conspiracy , Jin Zixuan had whispered deep in the dead of night. I think someone wants me dead . 

Jiang Cheng had not known what to say, had not known what to believe. But he had seen the fear in his sister's face, and he would never deny the chance to bring even this small bit of his family home. So he had listened to the man's concerns. Had heard logic in his words. 

Had felt an unwavering shame at the pieces he had not thought to place together. 

The plan had been simple. Go to Lotus Pier. Regroup. Find allies. 

The plan had been simple. Jiang Cheng would leave first, before the party from Lanling, under the guise of sect business. He would double back and follow at a distance, watching, protecting, unseen. 

The plan had been simple. And then he had smelt the death, had heard the shrill notes of a flute badly played. He had seen a moving mass of death. 

He had watched from a distance as the ghouls and corpses had gouged their way across the ground. He had seen them claw at the trees, at the horses and the people; the remnants of cultivators strewn along the dirt.

He had seen the blood that coated grey dead skin. He had felt dead. It ripped through the jagged remnants of his heart; it pooled in his gut and ran in shaking rivers through his veins. Every movement was too slow.

He had pushed his sword lower faster-- fasterfasterfaster-- as they had soared through the sky. The wind had whipped along his clothes and across his skin. Had bitten into the tender parts of his cheeks. It did not matter. 

They were too far back, he and his disciples. Too far away to save anyone it seemed. 

For a bitter, terrible, moment he had thought that they had been too late. The terror had slithered along his spine. It froze his blood. He had watched still too far, still too high, as the corpses had crawled towards the carriage, as they had climbed up its wooden walls and shredded wheels.

No. Nononono--Not her, not the only family he had left. 

His lungs seized. The air they held sat stale. Then they clenched; they squeezed, they constricted in a painful spasm until they pushed his heart up to his throat. He gagged on it. He choked on the blood, until he believed his broken lungs would never again breathe.

And then he heard a scream. It cut through him like a knife, a familiar ache deep within his abdomen. He felt his core flair, he felt the power surge through him; golden and bright. His blood was fire.

His heart plummeted, it shot down from it's lodgings in his throat to meet his stomach. 

Then he was moving. 

He was the wind; the air. Power soared through him, golden and red and purple and bright. 

He was standing in the blood, stepping over bodies, alive and dead.  He was fighting. Sandu cut and Zidian slashed and there was blood and bits. There was death and destruction left in his wake. 

He moved like a storm.  Deadly and intent. His cultivators swept in a wave across the field. Rage built strong upon his grief and grew through his guilt, and all he could feel was the heat of Lotus Pier. All he could hear was his siblings' laughter. All he could see was their smiles. 

There was a recklessness inside of him. It burned through him. It was a fire sizzling under his skin. 

He stood before the carriage covered in corpses. Zidian’s lightning in the air. Sandu twisting through the air. 

He saw her then. Clad in the pale yellow of a sect not her own. She looked like a ghost, faded and beautiful. Jiang Cheng froze.He was unaware of the ghoul that crept behind him, talons long and covered in flesh and blood and things unknown. 

His sister screamed. His gaze met hers. Eyes blown wide in panic. She pointed one shaking hand behind him. The other clinging to his nephew, tears streaming down reddened cheeks. 

He turned too slow, and was met with dead white eyes, a needle puncturing its brow. 

It fell. 

They fought on. 

Needles and red spiritual energy were slung from the opening. Jiang Cheng, back to her fought the horde before them. 

He could see the others; see the purple as they joined the remaining gold, and together they were able to fight back. They were able to repress the army of corpses they faced. 

He knew the moment he was no longer fighting alone. Saw Suihua as it sliced off the head of a corpse still lunging for the carriage. 

Time passed. It was slow. It was fast. It moved around them, in sights and sounds. He knew nothing but the feel of the blade and the sting of electricity. 

Sandu slipped through the ribs of the corpse before him. And when it fell he saw no others standing. He turned, facing the carriage, gaze landing on the figure in the entryway. She stood regal and beautiful. 

His heart pounded against his ribs. It hurt.

Why is she here? 

He wanted to hold her--to check her for injuries. But it was not his place. His fist clenched, knuckles white around Sandu’s hilt. 

Then his arms were full, his sister's arm firm around his waist, Jin Ling squished between them. 

“A-jie,” he whispered like a prayer. He squeezed her tight for a single breath. He held them both against his chest. 

But when he looked down, when he tried to meet her rapidly flickering eyes, he knew he had to let her go.His arms unfurled and she gifted him a gentle smile before she turned. 

For the second time that day she sought her husband. She whispered his name into the air. He staggered before her leaning heavily upon his sword. She wanted to cry. She wanted to weep. To sob with relief. Her knees hit the ground. Jin Ling still held against her like a lifeline, and then JIn Zixuan was there. Whispering words into her hair, his arms wrapped around her waist and he held her close and he held her tight. She thought that the only way she would forever be able to breathe was if he held her like this for always. 

Jiang Cheng watched them--the little family held together by will alone. He was hollow. He glanced around.  The gold and purple rising from the sea of red around them. 

He felt a presence at his side. When he looked down he was met with solemn brown eyes. 

Chapter Text

Jin Zixuan wrapped shaking arms around his wife. He squeezed her close as she shuddered--A-Ling squirming and whimpering between them. 

He could feel his heart thrumming against his bones. It echoed in his ears. He focused on it and let the steady rhythm drown out the memory of haunting screams. 

He had been naïve, and he had been foolish. He had let the horde of corpses draw him farther and farther away from the carriage. His head had pounded with long forgotten screams: voices in his head whispering impossible promises. They had told him to fight--to kill. 

He had not heard them in so long, and had stupidly believed himself free. He had been wrong, and it had nearly cost him everything. 

He had heard a flute, shrill and malevolent. It rang in his ears and sent ice down his spine. It churned something deep inside of him, until he burned, until there was nothing left but anger and pain and the craving to kill

Then he had heard a scream, childish and pitched with terror. It was enough. 

He had blinked long and slow in the center of a battlefield. Only to turn and gaze behind him and realize his mistake. He had chased the corpses across an open field, only to look back and see his pathway closed--to see them crawling across the ground, leaving a trail of death in their wake. He had watched as they clawed closer and closer to a wooden carriage. 

He had forced himself to move, to mount his sword and soar up into the air. His heart had long ago made residence in his gut. He had flown then, high above the slaughter, it was impossible to land near the carriage. 

There had been too many of them. Too many bodies slithering through the mud. He could not get to them.

He landed, still too far away. 

There were too many corpses, too many cultivators fighting and falling. Jin Zixuan had stabbed and slashed and cut down ghoul after ghoul. He had forced his way through the surge of rotting bodies. But there was always more. Another hand clinging to his robes, another set of dead eyes gleaming too close. 

There was only the sound of blood roaring through his ears.

He had tried so desperately to make it back to the carriage; had watched still half-a-field away as wood walls were shredded. He had seen blast after blast of red spiritual energy and known it would not be enough. Had known that Wen Qing would not be able to last with the amount of energy she was being forced to use. 

Terror had quivered through his arms, he shook with fear and felt it prick at his eyes. Each step taken on legs made of liquid. He had known with a sinking heart that he would not make it in time.

Until lightning struck in an amethyst blaze. Until lavender rained from the sky and turned the tides. 

Jin Zixuan tightened his hold.  A-Ling began to calm, began to mewl with contentment. However, his own heart refused to slow. 

The smog had begun to lift, air no longer stifled by miasma. Now it only held the scent of death.

"We need to leave," Jiang Wanyin's voice broke through his relief.

Jin Zixuan looked over his wife's head and met the stern gaze of his brother-in-law. He nodded in agreement. This was no place for one as gentle as Jiang Yanli. Nor one as young and Jin Ling.

“There is an inn not far from here,” Jiang Wanyin continued, “we can stay there for the night and finish the trip to Lotus Pier on the morrow.” 

Jin Zixuan nodded again, "which way?" 

The sun was setting, a chill moved into the air. A-Li shivered. Jin Zixuan sighed, it was going to be a long cold flight.

Jiang Wanyin pointed, giving clipped directions, "Get them out of here," he waved to his sister and his nephew. "I will catch up with you as soon as I am able. As soon as I finish up here." 

He hesitated for a flicker of a moment, a furrow deepening an already pursed brow. But he displaced it with a firm shake, then turned and strode away, barking orders to the remaining cultivators, ordering them to find the wounded, to sweep the area for anything suspicious.

Jin Zixuan drew his sword, it hovered near his feet, he made to step up, to lift his wife and child into his arms and fly them to safety. His gaze caught on dull yellow. Wen Qing stood to the side, unobtrusive and immobile. 

She knew his hesitation before she spoke. 

"I will be alright," she said, voice without inflection, "I am a doctor, above all else. It is my duty to help those in need. Afterwards, I will travel with the others to Lotus Pier."

She met his gaze, steady and sure. To those around her she was unrumpled, and unaffected by the events that had just occurred. Jin Zixuan looked down and saw the concern etched in a frown upon his wife's lips, as she tucked A-Ling deeper into the crook of her arm. 

He was conflicted. He could not carry two women and a baby on his sword. He also could not leave her behind. This was no way to repay the debt they owed her; to leave her here in the aftermath of a battle, alone with only strangers and the dead. He watched as his wife's eyes flickered to the wreckage around them, then as they followed a purple pillar wading through those still alive.

Her eyes did not drift from her brothers back when she said, "I do not believe that will be a problem." There was a small smile curling her lips.

Jin Zixuan lowered his brow in confusion before looking back at Wen Qing, "Are you certain?" 

Wen Qing dipped into a flawless bow, "Thank you for your kindness, but it is not needed. I will be fine." 

She turned then and walked away, a pale beam of light on the darkening horizon.

Jin Zixuan sighed and met the knowing eyes of his wife. With no further word, he stepped up on his sword, his wife and son still in his arms. 

8-8

She glided through the bodies, steered clear of those no longer human, and tried to watch impassively as they were gathered up and burned in a pile of ash and dirt.

 There was so much red, so much blood, accompanied by the whimpers of those dying, and the murmurs of others trying to sooth and comfort in their last moments. This was familiar, this was something she knew. Wen Qing was so intimately familiar with death, with the flow of blood and the fragility of skin and tissue. There were no questions here, no regrets nor lingering doubt. 

She found medical supplies in the remaining rubble, had used that and tattered robes to stitch and mend gaping wounds and infected lungs. She worked on instinct, with knowledge passed down to her from ancestors of long ago. She fell into a rhythm, a methodical monotonous system she had not realized she had missed. 

She knelt next to a man, with blood on his lips and sinew peeping through flapping skin. Her pale yellow robes dirtied now beyond repair by the mud and fluids sitting in puddles across the decimated field. Exhaustion lingered in her limbs, it buzzed around the edges of her mind and blurred the corners of her vision. But she still worked. She bandaged and medicated and desperately strived to repent for hurts not of her doing. The man beneath her fingers was one she did not know--could not know--for he was clad in robes as light as hers, and looking to her with eyes of gratitude she did not deserve. 

She was so weary, had been for days, for months, for years. She was accustomed to using so much spiritual energy, and had lost track of the hours, no longer away from anything more than the blood that seemed to flow in rivers past her feet. It ran from bodies both alive and dead. She had seen so many bodies she was no longer sure in which ruins she now sat. 

She looked at this stranger and saw another man. She saw a brother, an innocent in a world that did not deserve him. She saw a savior who is also a friend, forsaken by many and understood by only a few. She saw a love she never had, with eyes filled with rage and hate.

She tied off the bandage with a flourish and nodded at the man before he was carried away by one of his comrades. There was concern in his eyes that she chose to ignore. There were tears leaking from her lashes and leaving muddy streaks along her cheeks. She had not cried in so long; had built a wall around her heart, and tried to dam the tidal wave of tears constantly pressing against her eyelids. But she was so tired.

She did not move from her puddle in the dirt. 

She felt a weight on her shoulder strong and firm. She could feel the calluses through the thin silk of her robes. It shook her gently at first and then firmer when she made no motion. There was maybe the whisper of her name--or a shout?--she wasn’t sure and did not care. Then the hand was gone, leaving a patch of frost in its wake. She chose to ignore the yawning emptiness it left in her heart. 

Bones mixed with mud before her eyes, the grass once green now, littered with corpse dust.

There was a hand again, tucked under her arm. Then another on the other side. She was hoisted from the ground and forced to balance on legs that shook and feet she could not feel and she wished so desperately that she was anywhere but here. 

“It is time to go,” she heard from a voice that sounded so far away. 

“Stand up,” it said, but it was wrong. It spoke in tones too soft and too gentle. It was a voice she had only heard in angry growls. It was wrong and she wished it wasn’t. She was listless, slumped limp in strong arms. There were tears wetting her lips and exhaustion in her bones. 

“Wen Qing,” and the voice was rougher now, closer to what it should. She watched the blood seep into the soles of her shoes.  

The arms receded. They let her fall. She spattered when she hit the ground. 

She sat on a battlefield she did not recognize that looked like all the rest. She patched together and mended strangers that wore faces she once loved. Her only familiarity lay in blood and bile and she detested it. 

“Wen Qing,” she heard again, and when she looked up her vision was flooded with purple robes. “It is time to go. You have done enough here.” 

A sword floated above the ground and astride it stood a man tall and proud. He had saved her life and she had saved his, and somewhere deep in her she hoped this would finally be enough for him. He reached down for her and she wavered. Her fingers curled into clenched fists and lay useless in her lap. 

This was a hand outstretched to her by a man she could no longer trust. A man who had damned her and those that she cared for. A man who had feared too much and loved too little and never had faith in those he should. 

She stared at him and did not move. He heaved a sigh and stepped down from his sword again. He knelt before her, purple robes stained maroon. 

“I am not leaving you here. Now you are either going to step up on that sword with me or I am going to drag you behind me, do you understand?” 

His words were harsh but his voice was gentle. He spoke the word she had wanted to hear long ago atop a hill made of bones and in the corners of his eyes she thought she saw a boy she had almost loved. 

She nodded once, then stood. He rose beside her then stepped back up upon his sword. She gathered all her courage, the years of dignity she had cultivated along with her core. 

When he reached down to her again, she took his hand. 

8-8

Jiang Cheng’s arms sat taunt around a slim waist as he held them both on a flying blade. 

He had not expected to see her, standing in the shell of a carriage ripped from the seams. He had not known what to do, when she had stood beside him strong and unrelenting at his side. He had watched as she knelt in muck for men who did not know her, who would detest her if they did. She had stitched them and calmed them and cured them. She had torn them from the brink of death and given them a chance at life. She had been unfailing and unstained by prejudice for those she should despise. 

This is the penance I must pay. She had told him once, but he could see now that it was more than that.

Wen Qing had walked through the aftermath of battle, shoulders straight with the bearing of a commander. She had stepped through bodies and knelt in the blood and had not cared about the stains it left behind. 

My burden to bear. 

He had turned his back, had left her to her own devices and tried to ignore her visage in his peripheral. 

Time had passed and the sun had set on the west.

When the dead had been dealt with and rising corpses burned--when there was nothing left to distract him, no more righteous anger, or bitter guilt--he had stood in the fallout of the destruction he had bought and felt only grief. 

When he had turned again, he had seen her across the field, desolate and alone. She knelt in the filth and didn’t care. But he did. 

She looked at him with haunted eyes and a diminished fire. His heart had ached. He had felt a rupturing inadequacy. It was a feeling he had known all his life, one he had tried so desperately to shove into the cracks and shallow crevices between his ribs.

His arm tightened around her middle but she did not respond. He pushed his sword to fly faster, he pushed in hopes that the seconds would fly past as swiftly as the wind. 

He landed them in front of a lonely inn that had once held his worst memories, and she did not look at him. He whispered her name as she stared blankly before her. He had rented a room as close to his as he could, but she did not look at him. He disposed of her outside her entryway. She did not turn back as she closed the door.

 And later when he knocked on his sister's borrowed door he still did not know how to feel. 

Chapter Text

He felt the rage as it slithered up his spine. It twisted and curved and coated like oil along his bones. It ran through his veins until everything inside of him was slick and dark. Then it heated up until his skin boiled and itched and there was no relief. There was nothing but the pain and the anger and the hate. 

Baxia rattled in the stand where it was kept. Shaking with the need to paint a stone floor red. 

He had always been choleric, had gained a reputation as ill-tempered. It was a character flaw he had accepted long ago and did not see any point in disputing. Why bother when it gained him what he wished. 

But it was different now. His fury had grown--had contorted into something new--something ugly. It mutated into something that begged to be fed by the blood of any who opposed him. There was a fury in him and it tasted like war. It smelled like a battlefield drenched in blood and it pulsated like a saber as it sliced through flesh. He reveled in it and then he reviled himself for the pleasure he got in others' pain. 

He could see the fear in the servants’ eyes, the sadness, too, as they watched him descend into madness. 

Nie Mingjue had known this would happen. He had lived his life in a fog of dread. From the moment he had held his sabre in his hands he had counted down the minutes until his mind would shatter. This was an inevitability of their ways. 

He had hoped, however, in the hidden corners of his mind, he would not meet the fate his ancestors had--that he would grow older than his father. That he would not burden his little brother with a sect filled with battle weary soldiers.

He had hoped that Nie Huaisang could spend his life painting fans and chasing birds and never have to worry about the world of politics and war. 

He had been wrong, but he had hoped. 

So instead, when the madness crept into his skin, when the first hits of bloodlust dampened his tongue, Nie Mingjue had made a decision. He would do all he could with the time he had left, and he would fight the qi deviation till his last breath. 

Nie Mingjue had tried to prepare his brother as best he could-- Had tried to teach him to wield a blade and run a sect. He had pushed and snapped and demanded more than he knew he should, all in the face of a fluttering fan and wide, scared eyes. But his brother was not the only one who stared at him now with apprehension.

There had been a concern in Lan Xichen’s eyes when last they spoke. A worry he had been unable to hide behind gentle words and pacifying smiles. It had not surprised Nie Mingjue when he had offered to help--offered to play a song to temper the horrible hate within. 

It had surprised him when he received a letter stating it would be Lan Wangji who came to play for him. He had not expected a shell of a man to appear in his hall--exhaustion in his shoulders and circles darkening his eyes. Nie Mingjue worried about him. There had been whispers over a year ago about one of the Twin Jades going into seclusion. Nie Mingjue had heard the fret in Lan Xichen’s voice as he told of the worry for his little brother, carefully quiet about what had caused such a state. 

Lan Wangji arrived in Qinghe crestfallen and haggard. He did not look like a Light Bearing Lord. The first day of his arrival had been dampening. Nie Mingjue had wondered why Lan Xichen had believed his brother well enough to leave seclusion. A child had hidden behind the stoic man, with a red ribbon and confusing words and Nie Mingjue had not known what to think. 

Then, the next day, the despondent look was wiped clean from a jade face, and a flute had been tucked neatly into the sash at his waist.

He had met the knowing eyes of his brother and could see that sadness and the pity poorly hidden behind a still fain. Pieces clicked within Nie Mingjue’s mind.It was loss that sent the younger Lan into seclusion, he could see that now. And between the ribbon in the child’s hair and the black dizi staining white robes he began to understand who. He had his suspicions about Lan Wangji’s relationship with Wei Wuxian. He did not know how he felt about this new discovery. 

He also did not know how to feel about the tranquility Lan Wangji now exuded. He could not conceive what would make a man like Lan Wangji mourn a being such as Wei Wuxian. 

Nie Mingjue remembered the devastation on his brother's face when he had learned of Wei Wuxian’s death. 

How could such a man deserve such loyalty?

It was a question he didn’t want to answer. One that brought doubts  to the beliefs he had held onto so strongly.

Baxia rattled as ire filled him. Displeasure at himself was just as dangerous as He tried to focus on the melody Lan Wangji played.

He had remained all his life a mountain unmoved by strife. He could not doubt himself now. 

8-8

Gentle light filtered through dingy windows. It streamed along ground made of stone, and illuminated the hall with grey. 

Disciples stood at attendance at a gilded door. Their eyes carefully averted from the low dias at the head of the room. They listened though, with quiet attention to the soft melody of the guqin. It filtered through the air, calming and soft. It drifted and twisted, leaving only light in its wake. 

Two weeks had passed since Hanguang-Jun’s arrival. Two weeks since their impenetrable fortress was filled with whispers and rumours. A week since the healing sessions had begun. Lan Wangji played and Nie Mingjue sat. And it was dreadfully dull. Wei Wuxian thought it might be one of the best two weeks of his life. 

Two weeks ago, Wei Wuxian had sat across from Lan Wangji and it had been at once familiar and foreign. He had watched in the other's eyes and had seen something he did not wish to name. It had shone through amber and asked a question--a question he had not known how desperately he was wishing to hear. 

Wei Wuxian had felt its answer in dim recesses of his forgotten heart.

Stay with me , Lan Zhan had said. 

And there was nothing left to say besides, Okay.

They had fallen into an easy routine, now borne of trust without the fear. Where Lan Wangji went, Wei Wuxian would follow, a silent spectre shimmering in the fringes. Contentment had filled him, had seeped into all of his deepest pores and spread along his skin. There was a peace that had been found over the past few days that had been missing from the months--no, year--before. There was a tranquillity they resonated in the cold, dark rooms that had not been present in the airy walls of the Jingshi; an understanding between them that had not been there before. 

There were so many things they still needed to talk about. So many things that he did not know. So many things he did not want Lan Zhan to know. But he wondered now if any of it truly mattered.

Are answers worth splitting fresh wounds? 

He twisted his fingers through his hair. It was a question he had spent long hours contemplating. He had many dark hours with no company but his own mind. His own fears. They were easy company, familiar in their consistency. He tried to push them aside, nevertheless. There was no more room in his heart for old acquaintances such as they. 

Wei Wuxian stretched his arms high above his head leaning back from where he lounged along the floor next to Lan Wangji and watched his hands as they floated in elegant forms over the zither. He watched the long, lithe fingers as they pluckpluckplucked at the strings. 

A hapless giggle drew his eyes to space between him and Lan Zhan where A-Yuan had stumbled his way to sit. He watched the boy squirm in his seat, and wondered at the hidden personality peeking out from stiff white robes. The weeks had been kind to little A-Yuan. 

For months, all Wei Wuxian had seen was a perfect child. He spoke with impeccable manners, a mirror of the man he stood beside. He bowed his head when greeting new people and walked with a straight spine. He played quietly while Lan Wangji worked, and did not interrupt. His docility was contradicted by the mischief in his eyes. 

For all that he was a model Lan; he smiled and laughed and made faces at Nie Mingjue from the safety of white robes. He played and giggled and ran through stone walls as if they were his to roam. He reminded Wei Wuxian of the joyful boy he had loved on a hill of death instead of the melancholy child found in the clouds.

Each night he sat in rapt attention and Lan Wangji taught him characters and how to hold a brush. He looked up in awe as the man read to him from a book of poems, one of many books packed in Qiankun pouches. 

Each night Wei Wuxian watched them sit together and tried not to feel as his dead heart ached.

There was a soft thump to Wei Wuxian’s side, accompanied soon by a mournful whine. A-Yuan had dropped his staw toy to the ground then picked it up again. He looked around expectantly, then down at the little butterfly sitting docile in his hand. Wei Wuxian reached over, focusing as much energy as he could into his finger tips, just enough to hover the toy barely an inch above the child’s before dropping back into his palm. 

A-Yuan pouted.

Wei Wuxian laughed. 

Lan Wangji’s eyes darted to them both, never missing a note. 

This was not the life he had expected. This was not in his design. This was more than he deserved. However, he would take it, he would seize this borrowed time and hold it close to his heart. He would not regret the life he led and he would not envy those who had more time. But he would not forsake this chance he was given and vows to cherish each borrowed moment granted to him in this half-life. 

Wei Wuxian leaned back on one arm, the other hovering over A-Yuan’s head as the boy stared at his butterfly in puzzlement. He watched Lan Wangji as he played a song of Clarity. And let the music drift through him.

8-8

There was a disciple bowed in the center of the room. He was a large man, with arms of steel and a scar along his face. He stood tall and proud, he had to--Lan Wangji assumed--to become the head disciple of QingheNie. This was a man who had seen war, who had lived through death and had fought in more battles than Lan Wangji could know. 

There was a disciple bowed in the center of the room and there was fear written on his face, carefully concealed in the creases of old eyes. Lan Wangji could see it still: he had become intimately familiar with that look. It was a fear born from the unknown. An unease derived of mistrust and nasty rumors--whispers in the dark of night, the kinds that made a man a monster. 

The head disciple stood in the center of the hall but he looked like he had seen a ghost. 

Lan Wangji stood from his seat behind his guqin upon the man's arrival and could not find the strength to retake his seat. Unease churned in him, a vibration he could not shake. He had seen that look before on many faces in a war once fought. It was etched on soldiers as they fought alongside skeletons and corpses with both horror and awe. 

“Sect Leader Nie,” the disciple murmured as he rose from his bow. “I have a report from Yueyang.” 

“What could have been so important that it could not have waited?” Nie Mingjue asked, and there was no tolerance in his tone. Annoyance was written clear upon his face. It shadowed his brow and shook his hands. 

Nie Mingjue did not appreciate the sessions of clarity being interrupted, or the weakness that it showed. 

The man before him did not flinch. Instead, he stood straighter, spine threatening to crack in the face of his leaders' displeasure.

“The Chang Sect has been massacred.”

Silence reigned the room. Lan Wangji tensed. His fingers curled to a fist where they were held against his rigid spine. He looked at Lan Yuan, where he was seated silently upon a mat. He hoped he did not understand the words spoken above his head.

Nie Mingjue glowered, the air around him soured. “Continue.” 

“Over half the family has been killed. The only ones left alive are those who were out on a night hunt. They sent an envoy asking for aid, but when we went to investigate we discovered that their protective array had been destroyed.”

“By who?” Nie Mingjue asked. There was no inflection in his words and that made it all the more menacing. 

“We do not know.” 

“Well, what do you know?” Nie Mingjue growled. 

The man took a deep breath, his voice lowered before he continued. “There is something… wrong about the bodies, sir. Something unnatural about how they died.” 

The haunted look heightened on his scarred face. It was a look he desperately tried to hide. 

“The bodies look as though they have been ripped apart, sir. There isn’t much left of them.”

For a moment, the world was silent. Lan Wangji could not breathe, could not think. Air trapped stale in his lungs. As those words rang hollow through his ears. Torn to pieces--Shredded by dead hands--blood--blood staining white robes red--

And then there was a shimmer of gold. Light bright in his peripheral. He turned the slightest bit, until he could see Wei Wuxian at his side. He concentrated until he could feel the phantom energy of a hand on his shoulder.  He focused on the man at his side. On the air that glimmered and moved. On the gaunt face and sad eyes that were proof that he was not gone; that he was still here no matter how altered.

Lan Wangji’s  next breath was short, but enough. He almost thought the hand hovering above his shoulder squeezed. Hesitation was not appealing on a man so large, but it was apparent on the disciples face. 

“There are whispers, as well sir, of resentful  energy settling through the village,” the man continued. 

Lan Wangji glanced to the side, just enough to catch Wei Wuxian’s eye. He could see the matching concern in the wrinkle of his brow. 

The walls shook as Nie Mingjue’s hand slammed against Baxia’s hilt. His eyes were black and rage made the air thick. It crackled and steamed.  He stood at the head of the hall, imposing and deadly. “We will leave at once.”

A-Yuan whimpered from his mat, scooting closer to Lan Wangji’s side. His fingers gripped his robes as he hid behind the man's leg. He settled his hand into the boy’s fine hairs and tried to provide a comfort he himself did not feel.

“Da-ge?” Nie Huaisang stuttered through the cracked door, then shuffled his way across the floor. He stopped for a moment, to grant a hasty nod to the disciple before continuing to his brother's side. 

“Da-ge,” he said again as he met his brother's glare. They stared at each other for a long moment, and held a conversation the rest of the room could not hear. The air cooled and the walls began to still.

Lan Wangji’s fingers curled tighter in Lan Yuan’s hair, felt the child nuzzle deeper into his robes. He watched Wei Wuxian, marked the anxiety that played across the man's face; he read the perturbation is his posture and the fear in his dimming light. There is no smile upon his lips, only a set determination.

Lan Wangji met worried grey eyes, and knew what he had to do.

“I will go.” Lan Wangji said into the yawning room. There was no request in his words. 

“Are you sure?” Nie Huaisang asked. 

“Mn.” 

Nie Huaisang studied him, and again Lan Wangji felt exposed. Then he nodded once and flipped his fan open. “If you are sure, then yes, I think that may be best. Thank you Hanguang-Jun.”

Nie Mingjue clenched his jaw, but said nothing. 

Chapter Text

A-Yuan followed A-die as he stepped from the great hall--a flurry of white robes and worry. 

There were tears on the child’s lashes as he watched the chaos unfold around him. There was violence in the air. It was dark and sticky. It was a feeling he had not known in a long time. He did not like it. 

He followed A-die down the paths, and everything seemed dimmer. The walls looked different, they were no longer home to the games he played with a glittering light. A-Yuan did not know what was going on, but it scared him. He swallowed. It hurt.  

In their rooms A-die began to pack. He placed long strips of paper in his sleeves and wrapped his guqin in its cloth. Baba’s dizi was at his waist. 

There was something ugly bubbling in his tummy, it hurt and made his eyes water. He knew what was happening. He had seen this before. He remembered when Qing-jeje and Ning-gege left. He could still hear the words they said as they hugged him tight.

We love you, They had said. 

You’re so brave, They had told him.

But they had left. 

“A-die,” he whispered and it came out small. 

The man turned, eyes lighting on A-Yuan. They turned tender. 

A-die was quiet, and stiff. He did not laugh loudly and he did not throw A-Yuan high into the sky. He did not bury A-Yuan in the dirt with the promise of siblings, or tickle him until he giggled so much he couldn’t breathe. But he was gentle and he was kind. He held A-Yuan in his arms and made him feel safe. He buried him in bunnies and tied red ribbons in his hair. A-die looked at A-Yuan with sad eyes and although he did not understand it he felt like home. 

A-Yuan didn’t want him to leave, too. 

So A-Yuan plopped himself on the ground at his A-die’s feet, he curled himself around his leg and refused to let go. His stomach hurt and so did his chest as he whimpered, “A-die don’t go.” 

The tears fell, and blurred the world until he could see nothing but the white robes he buried himself in. He cried, wet and aching. He was always being left behind. He cried and cried and the ugly feeling in his tummy got worse. It crawled up his throat and stung his tongue. 

Strong arms hefted him from the ground. They held him firm as he was placed on A-die’s hip. It did not make the horrible feeling go away and so he did not stop his wails. 

“A-Yuan,” A-die said, and his voice was strong and soft. “A-Yuan, we will be back soon. Do not fret.” 

And it sounded so much like, Shh, shhh A-Yuan, shh it will be okay. Gege has you, it will be okay.

But it had not been alright. They had run through a forest and they had listened to the screams. A-Yuan still remembered the smell of smoke. 

Shh A-Yuan, it will be alright. We are going to play a game, okay? We are going to play hide and seek. You can’t come out, though, for anyone but me okay? Promise me?

A-Yuan had nodded. He had agreed and he had promised and it hadn't mattered. Baba still left.

There was a flicker of gold at his side, he could see it through his lashes. He reached for the light, but it could not hold him, he could not touch it. He sobbed harder. He felt warm lips pressed against his forehead and wasn’t sure if it was a memory. 

“A-Yuan, can you do something for me?” A-die said. A-Yuan buried his face further in the fabric at his chest. 

“A-Yuan.” He trembled and shook in A-die’s arms. He soaked the white robes with his tears, but he nodded anyway. 

He was shifted for a moment until a Yuan was held with one arm as the other reached for something. 

“A-Yuan, look up please.” 

When he did his site was filled with red. In A-die’s fingers was a tassel, red and held together with a jade bead. 

A-Yuan knew that tassel. He had once curled his fingers through it. He had once played and tugged and drew it along his cheek. He had chewed and played with a black flute and that tassel had hung from the end. He looked at A-die, eyes wide and pale and confused. 

“Can you hold onto this for me? Until I return?” A-die said and he squeezed him tighter. 

A-Yuan nodded, the tears still ran down his cheeks. The ugly feeling did not go away, but he tried to swallow. He tried to push it down and away. He still did not want to be left behind, but he knew he had no choice. 

He had not understood the goodbyes Qing-jeje and Ning-gege had whispered into his hair, so he had not been able to plead for them to stay. 

Later, he had called for Baba, he had screamed and yelled and cried. He had tried to crawl out of a dead tree only to scrape his hands. Baba had left him anyway. 

A-Yuan’s little fingers ran through the loose strings, then wrapped around the tassel. He took it from A-die, then buried his head back into his chest.

There were fingers in his hair, warm and bright. 

He could be brave. He had to be.

Hours later he clutched that red tassel to his chest. He held tight as he hid behind the green robes. He bit his tongue and straightened his shoulders.

He could be brave, like Qing-jeje and Ning-gege. Like A-die and Baba, too. 

Baba, A-die please come back.

8-8

Wei Wuxian floated across the ground, eyes wide as he trailed after Lan Wangji. His head turned and his steps danced. He had forgotten what it was like to be outside.

There was dirt and rocks and grass and trees. There was wind sounding a remembered whistle past his ears. There was sunlight shining through his fingers and glinting off of Lan Wangji’s hair. 

It had been so long since he had seen the sky. Longer still since he had seen ground fertile with life. 

There was a world outside of pressing walls and lonely nights; but it did not matter. There was a world outside of the prison of his own existence, but he could not enjoy it. 

They were walking now on a dirt path on the outskirts of a nearly forgotten village chasing whispers and rumors. There was a world that Wei Wuxian had not seen in so long and yet wished desperately that he was still tied to wooden walls. He found himself wishing for childish laughter and the familiar slide of ink on parchment. 

They had left a little boy in a foreign land of stone and green. Crying and alone, clutching a tassel the color of blood. Wei Wuxian hated every moment of it, and he knew Lan Wangji had, too. 

He hoped that what they found at the end of this path was worth the sacrifice.

He glided at Lan Wangji’s side, and watched the man. He was regal in his bearing, he stood tall and walked with a hand behind his back and a sword at his side. He looked perfect. He looked like the boy Wei Wuxian remembered, pious and righteous, and so much fun to tease. He had forgotten how beautiful he was, framed by light and life. 

No one questioned why they had walked to Yueyang. No one dared to inquire when he began to make the trek by foot. It was not a long journey and so no one had minded. They had come to accept these eccentricities where the Second Jade of Lan was concerned. 

Wei Wuxian had not left Lan Wangji’s side for the weeks they had stayed at Qinghe. He clung to him so tightly now that he could. Now that he knew Lan Zhan wouldn't mind. 

They had not known if Wei Wuxian could follow by sword, and they had not wanted to try. 

He could not control the time in which he was not present and now he was too afraid of flickering from existence for longer than he knew. He did not want more life to pass without him. He did not want to leave Lan Wangji alone with whatever they found. 

There was a small number of cultivators with them, sent to accompany Lan Wangji. Their boots pounded across the gravel path as they made their way closer to the gates of the Yueyang Chang Sect.Clouds lay heavy in the sky above them now, shadowing only the complex before them. 

Wei Wuxian watched as shudders ran down the spines of the men. They glanced around nervously. It was eerie here. It was dark. The men had listened to the rumours and taken them to heart. They made it to the gates, and he watched as one of the men stepped forward to knock on the wood. There was no answer. The man glanced at Lan Wangji who only nodded. The man pursed his lips, but straightened his shoulders and pushed at the door. It opened with a creak.

No one moved until Lan Wangji walked to the front of the little crowd and stepped over the threshold. The others followed. 

A heavy fog had settled on the compound. It rolled along the ground, sinister and dangerous. The fog was dense, covering the scene that lay before them. They could not see. They shuffled and slid their feet across the dirt in unsure steps. They spread out around the courtyard, flanking Lan Wangji. 

One by one booted feet struck flesh. 

The fog began to move, it shuddered and it rose, revealing the gruesome sight before them. 

It was a slaughter. 

Bodies lay scattered around the compound, dismembered and destroyed. Some were shredded in place, limbs attached only by ligaments. Blood stained the ground and intestines hung from grizzly gashes. The bodies lay in various stages of decomposing, and the smell of rotten permeated the air. 

The reports had been wrong. There were no survivors of the Chang Sect. 

In the background Wei Wuxian heard one of the men begin to retch. He looked at Lan Wangji and met his golden gaze. A monster had been here, a being made of cruelty and viciousness. Something evil had befell this place. This was not the work of a spirit. These people had all been tortured before they died. There was a maliciousness, a calculation to their murders. It was a maliciousness only known to humanity. 

The sky began to darken. A chill swept through air. Chimes rattled and forgotten drapes flapped, but the fog did not dissipate. There was something so distinctly wrong. If he had a stomach, he thought it may drop.

There was a feeling inside of him that he had hoped to forget. It tasted so much like resentment. It was familiar and it was greedy. It peered at Wei Wuxian and wondered who he was.

He focused on Lan Wangji instead, as the man began to step towards him. He could not talk to Wei Wuxian, but he could listen. He knew Wei Wuxian had theories he wished to share. 

The haunting melody of a distant flute was a familiar sound and it played so heavily in Wei Wuxian’s mind. He heard it ringing in his ears.

“Lan Zhan,” he said and he could hear the tremor in the words, “Lan Zhan do you hear that?” 

Lan Wangji tipped his head as if listening to the sound Wei Wuxian suspected only he could hear.It was then Wei Wuxian noticed; the subtle twist on a leg; the twitch of a finger. One arm rotated and a body began to quiver.

He watched in horror as one by one the corpses began to rise; some without arms, some without legs. Blood dribbled on the ground from stubbed appendages. Fingers inched across the ground leaving a trail of nails--sharp and broken. Faces looked at them with bloody cuts and gouged out eyes.  

Bichen flashed from its sheath; it severed the head from the body nearest Lan Wangji.  He turned back to Wei Wuxian, and he knew his emotions were written plainly across his face, because he saw the worry crease along Lan Wangji’s brow. 

He was not in control of the corpse as they moved. How could he be? 

They both knew, however, that if Wei Wuxian did not control them, that meant someone else was. 

They repositioned themselves into a tight circle, backs together and sabers drawn. There was no hesitation in their movements, no trepidation upon their faces. They were Nie disciples, there was no room for fear. 

Their blades arched in a brilliant display and they fought as one unit, their mission only to destroy the creatures they faced. 

The ghouls moved. They struck with force and an indifference found only in the dead. Their steps were jagged as they moved against their will, but the wrath they felt was real.  They were strong too, filled with rage and resentment. It drove them to their cruelty. There was a sliver of recognition glimpsed in the cracks of their eyes, and it was filled only with fury. 

There was a war waging before Wei Wuxian. And there was nothing he could do. He stood to the side now and watched people die. He stood by and felt as the living and the dead passed through him, as if he was mere air. Because he was. He was a forgotten spirit. A man who couldn’t even die properly. 

He had been a warrior--a fighter. He had led an army once. He had fought and he had done anything to survive. 

He tried and he tried. He had triedandtriedandtried but he had failed. He had cut and carved and etched and pierced. He had experimented upon his skin. He had spent so many nights bleeding on the dirt, but still he was nothing . 

He had no power now. No skills or tricks. He was no more than less than a spirit. He was trapped in this horrible in-between. He was a light only seen by one. 

He was the harbinger of death. He only brought destruction and devastation to those he loved. He had ruined everything over and over and destroyed one family and failed to protect another.

He had died for nothing .  

And now he was here, standing by the man he had cursed himself to. The man who was about to die from the very things Wei Wuxian had created and he could do nothing . 

He knew so well the power of the dead. He was well aware of the endlessness of their fight. They would fall and fall and fall. They could be hacked to bits, over and over again, but it would not stop them. The more pieces there were the more parts there were to control.As long as there was a master, they could not be stopped. 

The disciples fought, but it was not enough. Not when faced with so many. Not when there was an opponent that would not die. 

Lan Wangji stood in the center of the chaos. Bichen gleaming in the light, blue spiritual energy glinting from the blade and shining from the man. 

He did not see the corpse that swung from behind. He did not see the sword that swung for his head. 

Wei Wuxian could.

He watched as the sword made its way in a high arch through the air.Panic seized his heart. It gripped its nails in, digging into the flesh found there and clung. He did not know what to do. He was useless. He was nothing. 

He did the only thing he knew how. 

He whistled.

It sounded through the air sharp and shrill and piercing. No one can hear it but one. He turned to Wei Wuxian and gold eyes met his across a battlefield.  

They had done this before, on a different field over a year ago. They had fought, and he had failed. He had given up his power then. He had made a choice. He had tried to die. He had failed in that too. 

The shadows curled around his feet. They twisted and withered and curled towards their master. There was no ground beneath him. Only a yawning abyss where his feet should be. There was power furled at Wei Wuxian’s fingertips and it was so familiar. It was dark and obscene. It coursed through his veins and it felt wonderful. With this he was no longer useless. With this he could help. 

The corpses jolted and then froze. 

Wei Wuxian smiled.

And the voices whispered, Hello.

8-8

High in a tower made of gold and littered with lies, dead eyes open.

Chapter Text

There was a whistle high and shrill. It cut through the dim and the dark of the little cell. It echoed off of walls made of stone. They were rocks drenched still with the screams of those who died before. 

His eyes blinked open and he saw only black.

His world was as large as the walls around him and he knew nothing but darkness. He had no name, but the whistle called. It pierced his skull and rang between his ears. It pulled at his mind and reverberated through his skin. 

It was loud and it was familiar. 

He had no name, no family, no memories of his time before the dark, but he knew this sound. 

It was a relic of a life lost to darkness, lost to time. It was a reflection of a long ago place; a juxtaposition of laughter and death. He had a home there, maybe. He had a place there, he thought. A family in the crumbling village hidden between rotten trees. 

His ears ached from the sound. It tugged on his heart and made it twist. His heart clenched, but did not beat. He did not understand its stillness, but he was not surprised. He was grateful it was there at all.

There had been a man in that village, on that mountain. A man who had been shrouded in darkness and shadows. A man with a sunshine laugh and kind eyes of obsidian and scarlet. He thought he may owe that man his life. He had promised once to protect that man, to serve him in any way that he needed. 

He had promised himself that he would follow that man to the ends of the earth and then to follow him still. He had failed. He knew that with an unwavering certainty that jolted his aching heart. He had broken his promise to the shadow man. 

The whistle rang dull now through his mind, quieter than it was before. It was running from him, farther and farther, until soon it would be out of reach. He could not lose that sound again. It belonged to the shadow man. 

He knew this now--the more he thought about it.

He knew this like he knew of his promise now broken. Like he knew of a mountain built on bones. Like he knew of laughter made from light and eyes made of storms.

He did not know how he knew but he did. He clung to it with hands stiff and cold and dead. 

He was someone, and he had a promise to keep. 

He made to move; to follow. He tried to step forward and chase the fading sound. 

He could not.

His arms were stiff and his legs were lead. He tugged again, but went nowhere. He yanked again and again, but could not move. There was a clanking screech of metal scratching upon itself. It was harsh and jarring. It scraped his ears and blocked the music of the whistle. It made the dwindling memories in his mind begin to falter.

There were chains and they were binding him; they tethered him to the wall behind. He hated them, because he knew this should not be enough to keep him. He was stronger than this and he could not fail the shadow man. 

He wrenched at them, trying to free himself from his shackles. Time passed, but it meant nothing. There was no sun in his forgotten world; no sound but the fading whistle and the shuddering chains. He fought and fought, but they would not let him free. Groves cut in ugly lines through his wrists and ankles. The stench of iron filled the air, shredded metal; it could not be from him, he did not bleed. 

He began to tire. There was no strength left in his limbs. His arms hung at his sides and his feet shuffled uselessly in the dirt. He stopped trying to break free and let the chains settle along the dirt. A yawning silence surrounded him now.

The whistle had vanished into nothing, drowned by the clattering of the chains and the angry crack of the stone. It was lost to the abyss. Impossible to find in the empty blackness of his mind. 

He was no one. He knew nothing, but the blackness that surrounded him. But there was a pain now that had never been there before. An ache that stabbed and splintered. It threatened to shed his skull. There were not tears left to cry, but he wished he could try--a desperation to end the splintering of his skull. 

He knew nothing now, but darkness and pain.

He lifted his hand in search of the sting. To ease it, to stop it. To go back to a world made of nothing but silence. His fingers searched through the hairs at the base of his skull. Through the fine hairs he felt the bite of cold metal. It was foreign, it was wrong. It hurt in ways it should not. He poked it and it stabbed into the tender places of his brain. His vision went white before fading to grey, then back to black.

He twisted it and it burned, tearing along the jagged edges of his skull. 

The raw agony faded, leaving behind a tingling along his skin. It felt like a thousand bits of paper tacked to his flesh, itchy and irritating. It felt like the pin prick of a million needles, painful and comforting. 

It was a feeling long forgotten. 

A light shone in the darkness, golden and beautiful. He watched in stunned astonishment as it cast shadows across the wall. Playful and bright as they danced with the shadows across cold stone and through even the ugliest crevices. It shined through his robes covered in dirt. It was a sun, bright and brilliant trapped in a cell too small. t radiated from a talisman etched into dead skin. 

He reached back and probed at the metal still gorged in his skin. There was no pain this time. Nothing but a tingle spiking through his skull. 

The light flashed bright and he pulled. 

8-8

The corpses froze. Jagged limbs halted midmotion.  Faces slackened, no longer held together by rage. Then as one they turned, broken bodies held still. They stared at him waiting for a command. 

The cultivators stopped fighting. Their stunned shock unfiltered. They gaped as they watched the ghouls. They waited for an attack that did not come, but they held their sabers in front of themselves anyway, wary of an attack. 

To them they saw nothing. There was no reason for the fighting to end. They did understand, because for them he was not there. 

Wei Wuxian wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. There is fear and  there is panic, that he knows. Consternation consumed him and he did not know what to feel. He cannot pick apart the emotions, cannot identify where one ends and another begins. Instead they run on--like rivers or screams. Like the endless nights filled with chilled lead air. So instead he feels it all; he feels the emotions and pretends it is the sensation of cloth against skin, or the burn of hot soup down his throat. 

He pretended it was not as dark as it actually is. 

There was power swirling through the air. It surged through him and it held all the promises he longed for. It whispered to him in voices he wished to never hear again. The resentment wrapped around him, tighter and tighter and he wondered vaguely if it always felt like this, if it always felt like choking. 

There was black at his fingertips and it shaped into talons. The power slithered until it settled on his tongue and it tasted like pitch and like ash and like blood. It tasted like death.

It crawled up his arms and dimmed his light. It syphoned into him from a funnel made of bone. It tasted delicious.

It made him want to gag. 

It shook him to his empty core and sunk terror into his forgotten heart. 

He searched for Lan Wangji, desperate and afraid. He did not know what he would do if he saw the condemnation once so familiar in those amber eyes. He did not think he could live through that again. But he needed--he needed so much that he knew he could never ask for.

He could not do this alone. Not again. 

There were wide eyed cultivators waiting for the next threat. They did not see him, and he did not want them to. 

Instead there were dead faces staring at him, mouths slackened. He did not want them to look at him. Looking to him. 

He did not want any of them. He scanned the abandoned courtyard, desperate to be blinded by white. 

He found the man he sought and was caught in an amber storm. But he did not find the betrayal, the condemnation or disgust that he expected. 

Instead he saw only fear. A concern so great it darkened those beautiful eyes and stretched a stoic mouth taunt. He reached to him, white sleeve fluttering as it stretched to the darkness. 

His lips parted and moved to say, Wei Ying.

Relief filled him, warmed him in places he did not know were cold. Parts of him he did not know could feel cold. 

He moved to speak, to reassure Lan Wangji, and be reassured in turn. He did not know what he could say, with the charcoal air clogging his lungs, but he so desperately wished to try. He wanted to be held by strong arms, to feel the warmth he never got to feel, of a body he did not get close to until after death. He wanted so many things. 

He never got the chance. 

Clapping sounded from his left. Sarcastic in its lethargy.  

A figure stood on the rooftop hidden before by one of the many pillars of architecture. He jumped down elegant and ferial. He spun across the courtyard, side stepping bits of bodies strewn along the ground. He stopped next to one of the ghouls. He peered at it, hands folded behind his back. He leaned in. When it did not react he stepped away. He spun back, sword appearing in hand and sliced off its head. His hair fluttered around his shoulders, before laying dutifully along his shoulders. The head hit the ground with a dull thump. The body stayed standing. The fingers twitched. The man laughed and it sounded like shattered glass. 

The sword disappeared as fast as it appeared. The figure turned from the body and Wei Wuxian could see his eyes shining with twisted mirth. He scanned the crowd of cultivators, silent and assessing. Until his gaze landed on Lan Wangji and his eyes sharpened to daggers. Wei Wuxian moved closer, unseen still. The darkness twisting around his feet moved him a blink. It still was not close enough. 

Eyes gleaming and lips twisted, he bounced the rest of the way through the bodies. Eyes focused on Lan Wangji, ignorant and uncaring of the others around him. 

“That was so impressive!” The man said, hands now twisted behind his back. 

Wei Wuxian drifted between the two men, back facing Lan Wangji. He wanted to be a barrier. To stop this man from moving forward, to prevent him and his eerie smile from getting anywhere near Lan Wangji. There was something wrong with this man. Something dangerous. Wei Wuxian clenched his hands into fists. The black talons stabbing through the light of his palm. 

The man drifted closer and closer, pale yellow robes fluttering with each step. 

Wei Wuxian knew those robes, and had seen them and had hated them for so many years. For so many reasons. They were Lanling Jin. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to gag. He imagined bile on his teeth and the remembered churn of his stomach. He felt dread pooling in him and seeping through his bones. It made the black air shudder. There was a monster before him dressed in the soft pale robes and all he could think about was his sister. 

“How did you do that? How did you stop my corpses? But I guess I shouldn’t expect less, afterall you are the magnificent Hanguang-Jun!” He spoke as he moved closer.

His boots crunched along the ground, and he did not stop to spare a glance at the others around him. 

The shadows at his feet begged him, the others snaking up his arms pleaded. They were fueled by his fear, by his desperate need to do something. 

Let us help, they whispered. We can get rid of him for you. 

We belong to you. Wei Wuxian shook his head, trying to dislodge them from his ears. 

He gripped his hands tight and did not let them go. He could not, because he did not know if he could pull them back. 

The voices began to scream.

He watched the man as he stepped right before him, the barrier he tried so desperately to see. He saw him then, clearer than he had before. The figure before him like a Willow, limps gangly and long. There was still baby fat clinging to hollowed cheeks. His grin was cruel, twisted and wrong, but curled so strongly on lips too young to wrinkle. 

This was not a man that stood before him, but a boy. 

Wei Wuxian felt something inside him snap, and wondered vaguely who could twist someone so young into something so wrong. 

The boy stepped through Wei Wuxian like mist, like air. Like nothing. He did not even shiver. Wei Wuxian could do nothing but watch. All thoughts went as the boy stepped closer and closer to Lan Wangji, who’s eyes never seemed to leave Wei Wuxian. 

The shadows shuddered and he held them back. 

The boy lifted his arm.

The voices screamed. 

Wei Wuxian pursed his lips in anticipation. He need not have worried, before he could blink, Bichen was pointed at the boy's throat. 

Wei Wuxian had not seen him draw his sword, but there was no mistaking that familiar azure glow. Their eyes met over the boy's shoulder. There was glint to the boy's eyes, an interest that was not there before. 

"Aren't they magnificent?" The twist of his lips was a parody of a smile. “They tore each other to shreds you know? When I made them kill each other.” 

8-8

His feet shuffled through the gravel, well aware of the swords and sabers pointed all around him. Xue Yang wanted to laugh. They thought they had him, they thought he was trapped. Here he was before the Hanguang-Jun, and they thought they were safe. 

But they were wrong. 

They were his to kill. His to destroy, just like all of the others before them. He twisted the amulet in his hand, hidden beneath his sleeve. 

There were voices in his head, they whispered and they screamed. 

They whispered to him about power, like nothing he knew. 

They told him that the world was made of puppets, bodies, his to control. 

They commanded him to kill for it, and so he did. 

He was surrounded by cultivators clad in grey and green. He stood with a glowing sword at his throat. But he knew he held the power here. His smirk only grew. He heard the others whisper as he stared at the pillar of light. 

“Demon Cultivation,” one hissed. 

“Like the Yiling Patriarch?” another whispered. 

Xue Yang almost snarled. Yiling Patriarch they said, like he could even compare. He was stronger. He was smarter. Xue Yang would not let the creatures he created destroy him like their feared Yiling Patriarch. 

He was better than that and he would show them all. 

He shrugged a little, tipping his head to the side. His expression never changed, but his twisted grin deepened. 

“You don’t like my puppets?” He asked, when the man before him showed no sign of answering his previous question. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw the revulsion on the other's faces and it brought him nothing but pleasure. He wanted to see the same disgust on the Lan before him too. He wanted to see jade crack .

"I have been experimenting, you know. It took so many tries. You would not believe how hard it is to get some dead guys to follow a few orders--but it is!” He shifted from one foot to the other, his hands still poised behind his back.  There was no inflection. He did not seem to even be listening. Xue Yang wanted to stab him. He continued talking instead. 

“They aren't as strong as the Ghost General, of course. He really is a remarkable being, too much pesky freewill for my liking though.” Satisfaction filled him as he saw the surrounding men’s eyes widen. 

Good, let them know he found their nightmare lacking. 

“So, I had to try to make my own and these are my best ones yet! Once they woke up they just went rip, rip, rip! It was so fascinating to watch. It took me forever to get them to stop.”  He leered. 

But Lan Wangji’s visage did not flicker. The man's eyes stared blankly over Xue Yang's shoulder. His grip on his sword never changed. Xue Yang pressed his neck deeper into the blade; blood trickled from the nick the sword left behind. 

"Oh Master Lan, why is it that you don't seem impressed? I heard you hated the Yiling Patriarch. I heard that you vowed to lock him away for his wicked ways. Should I try harder? Should I kill more? Is this not enough for you?”

“You killed all these people?” A voice filled with rage rang from behind Xue Yang. He craned his head to the side to stare at the man who spoke. The sword dug deeper into his flesh, Xue Yang savored pain. A Nie disciple stood tall and shoulders tight with anger, saber pointed and arm steady. 

Xue Yang licked his lips. “Yes I did, weren’t you listening? Besides, why do you care?” 

“They were under our protection!” The man shouted. 

He shrugged again. “You didn’t do a very good job. Besides, why should they get to live?” He asked. “What makes a cultivator so admirable? A sect leader so revered? What makes them so great that they should live while others die? What made them special?” 

The Nie man sputtered with rage, “What could they have done that would deserve a slaughter?” 

Xue Yang laughed harsh and brittle all at once. "You are all the same! You think you are all above us. But you are not. You are just as ruthless. Just as cruel. One cruel act deserves another don't you think?"

He lifted his hand then. Black glove covered and pulverized pinky hidden. He curled his fingers and let the single phalange stand. The men around him looked at him with disgust. 

Xue Yang continued, uncaring of their censor. “He called me naive once. Sect Leader Chang. He told me I was stupid to trust anyone. Called me dirt beneath his feet. He was right, of course, but it still hurt. He ran my hand over. Repayment for my troubles I believe." 

“He died years ago,” a man to the left said.

A smile twisted showing sharp teeth, Xue Yang's eyes glinted. “So?”

“Even if he had done as you say, there is no point to getting revenge now when he is already dead!” 

“You say that like it matters.” 

The disciples began to clamor and shout over each other. 

Xue Yang feigned a yawn. “I’m bored,” he said and waved his hand in a flippant gesture. “You can die now.” 

He tugged on the power held within the twisted metal of his hand. The dark shivered through him, it pulled on his muscles and bit upon his spine. It burned. 

He drew Jiangzai from the air, and brought it down in a heavy strike. Would Hanguang-Jun’s expression change when there was blood dribbling from his neck? 

There was a flash of light and the whorl of a blade. Metal clashed as a glowing sword halted Jiangzai’s path. Xue Yang froze, arms held high and still vibrating from the hit his sword had taken. 

The shadows had not moved when he had asked them to. This man before him had countered too quickly to be seen. What was happening?

He tried to conceal his shock. He snarled as the others shifted, sabers closing in tighter. The corpses had barely twitched. 

Lan Wangji had twisted with his counter. His robes had shifted just enough to reveal a sliver of black bamboo at his waist. 

His eyes caught on the dark mark staining peerless robes. 

Xue Yang gasped. “Is that the flute? Is that the Yiling Patriarch’s flute?”

No one spoke. He gripped the handle of his sword tighter. Hanguang-Jun did not shift. He still did not look at him when he spoke, eyes still gazing over Xue Yang’s shoulder. 

He wanted to scream. He wanted to gorge out those eyes and slit his throat. He wanted to cut off his arm and curl his fingers around black lacquer. There was power within that flute. More than he had ever known, more than the twisted scrap of metal could grant him. 

 “Is that how you stopped my corpse?” The Second Jade did not speak. His sword did not waver. The air around him crackled with energy. 

There were whispers and there were screams. They were pounding in his blood. They all told him, take it.

“How did you get it?” His eyes hardened. Greed and want clung to his bones. 

Xue Yang flicked his wrist, vanishing his sword. Lan Wangji’s lowered his, pointing it at Xue Yang’s chest. There was a distance held by a blade no longer at his neck but just as deadly. It did not stop him. 

He took a step forward. 

The voices grew louder. 

“Give it to me,” Xue Yang said, hand already grabbing for the dizi . “I want it.” 

Xue Yang did not see as a jade face hardened, crystalizing into anger. He was too busy listening to the voices in his head.

The voices screamed, they multiplied. There were so many he did not know where they stopped and his own thoughts began. 

Take it. Take it. Take it. Make it yours. Kill them all. 

He focused on them and saw nothing but bamboo stained black. 

He wanted it. They wanted it. 

Use us to get it. A voice said. 

So he did. 

He called on the shadows, on the rage and the pain. The humiliation of defeat. The resentment he had cultivated his entire life. 

Xue Yang let the power consume him. Eyes never leaving the dizi. 

He dropped the twisted metal from the sleeve of his robes, and clenched his fist around it until it bled. 

He called for the corpses once again. 

This time they listened.

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian had held so tightly to the darkness. He had curled it through his fingers and looped it around his wrists and clasped on with a firm grip. He had held it though the boy's speech. He had felt it pull and wriggle as the boy grew angrier. 

The boy had talked. He had spouted nonsense and justified death. He spoke and laughed with a manic grin; Unconcerned with the blood trickling down his neck.

The entire time he had watched Lan Wangji. He had met the other man's eyes and had held onto that too. Wei Wuxian was too scared to look away, too scared that when he did the concern lighting those golden be replaced with the hatred he feared. 

The boy stood between them. An unwanted barrier. Wei Wuxian could feel the restlessness in the shadows, he could feel them squirm as the boy snarled his disdain. 

Wei Wuxian saw the moment the boy--no Xue Yang, he had said between his sneers-- draw his sword, and felt it when the shadows jerked; when they tried so desperately to pull away. He would not let them. He whistled low and long and they stilled. 

But then Xue Yang stretched his arms forward. One hand reached for the black dizi at Lan Wangji’s waist. Within the other fist a warped bit of metal sat twisted in his fingers; black and smoking with evil, unseen by the cultivators around him, unseen too by the glowing specter gripping the shadows.

But that did not stop it as it sang a song of death. The shadows danced to it.

Wei Wuxian saw the darkness move. He watched in horror as it fluctuated and strained under someone else's control. He felt it slither from skin; he did not have control as it swirled through the air as it moved like daggers cloaked in darkness. 

It moved towards Lan Zhan. 

Fear crawled with icy trendles up Wei Wuxian's spine. He twisted his fingers into the snippets of energy that remained with him. He whistled a tune familiar and eerie. The shadows shuddered, they shriveled and curled but they did not stop.

The world slowed. 

The corpses began to move. Torn and twisted feet shuffled through blood soaked dirt. 

The Nie cultivators raised their sabers in anticipation.

The power he clung to--the power that had meant so much to him in life--slip slowly through his fingers.

He had marked his skin with sigils and talismans. He had bound his soul to protect those he loved.

He had failed. 

He had died. 

He watched as Bichen sliced down, severing Xue Yang’s hand from his wrist.

Xue Yang screamed with rage and pain. The darkness shivered and shuddered and reveled in the despair. It tugged harder and harder against the remains of his grip. 

He saw it then, when Xue Yang gripped his severed wrist with his other hand. The twisted hunk of metal he had hidden in his robes. He felt how the darkness crawled to it and he knew it for what it was. He wanted to run from it, to hide. 

He wanted to throw it from a mountain top into a river of lava to watch it burn. 

He met Lan Wangji’s gaze over the crumpled form between them. The Stygian Tiger Seal rattled on the ground between them. Before it began to rise. It hovered in the air for a moment before it was surrounded by resentful energy. 

Wei Wuxian reached for it. 

Then it began to scream; woeful and enraged. It was the voices of thousands. It was the sounds of their deaths, of their pain and their anger. It was the regret they had felt as the last of their breath was stolen from their lungs.

It was a feeling that Wei Wuxian knew too well. He had heard it and he had felt it and he had hated it. 

They rang loud in his ears and through his mind. They were deafening.

Until a whisper broke between them, soft and gentle, “Wei Ying,” it said.

Wei Wuxian stopped hand hanging mid air, golden and bright, an unseen beacon in the dark. 

But he hesitated a moment too long. Xue Yang stood and there was vengeance in his eyes,  touched by madness at the edges. His arm dangled at his side, dripping red. The blood pooled at his feet. 

He released the grip he had on his forearm and reached for the Seal.

The darkness met him halfway.

It consumed him, the darkness and the death. It slurped along his skin like tar until there was nothing left. 

It snaked up his arms and seeped through his soul. It slithered like worms through his nostrils and into his ears. Blood dribbled in slow rivers down his cheeks. 

Still he laughed from the dark, manic and filled with glee. 

The courtyard was frozen. The cultivators watched the madman as the corpses waited for their command. 

Then as one the  sabers began to shake and the corpses roared as one. 

And then they charged, fueled by the resentment, and made stronger by its host. 

A disciple fell, then another and another. There was fear in their eyes, visceral and different from before. Their enemy would not die, and they did not know how to combat that. 

Wei Wuxian watched and hated himself. He watched and knew what he needed to do. It was sickening, the resolve that settled into bones he did not have. 

“Wei Ying,” He heard again. 

He turned from the slaughter and was met by anguish. 

“Lan Zhan,” He said, and then he was no longer feet away but inches. He no longer had to yell but whispered, “ Lan Zhan I have too.” 

A golden hand of shattered light cupped the edges of a jade jaw. Wei Ying smiled bright and empty. Then he was gone again across a battlefield, arms outstretched and glowing brighter than the sun. 

He focused. Energy spilling out of him. Burning through the air as he stretched closer and closer to the being made of so much darkness. He whistled and reached for the resentful mass, he called to them. 

The shadows shivered and withdrew. They did not cling to him as it once had. 

Instead they curled away from so much light. With each step closer they withered farther away. He was not as strong as he once was. Was he no longer the Yiling Patriarch? Was he no longer someone to be feared? 

The shadows did not listen to him, not when they had what they wanted. Not when they now held a vessel whose smile glinted from the abyss, malicious and cruel. The resentment gorged on him, on his anger and his hate; on the jealousy that adorned him like a cloak. The resentful energy would not leave someone who fed it so well. 

There was no heart to flutter in his chest, no stomach to drop as panic laced his blood. Wei Wuxian stood with his hand outstretched, empty whistle on his teeth. 

What did he do, if the darkness would not listen? How did he stop this, if not with the only weapon he still had left? 

He clenched his fist, the light of it refracting. Useless. He was useless. 

There were talismans on his body and they meant nothing. There were talismans on his body and they--There were talismans on his body. Talismans he had invented, to stop the resentful energy from overcoming him.

An idea flits through his mind. He smiled but it was sad.  He unfurled two fingers.

I’m sorry Lan Zhan, he thought, and then began to write. 

8-8

Lan Wangji stood in the center of a battlefield. He did not move as corpses roared and cultivators fell. He could do nothing but watch a battle only he could see. 

He could do nothing as he watched Wei Wuxian approach the mass of resentment. 

He could do nothing as Wei Wuxian drew a talisman-bight and gold, the color of his skin, the color of his life --in the air concentrating on infusing it with as much energy as possible. There was a flash of light; blinding and brilliant and pure. 

Lan Wangji refused to look away, his eyes burned and watered. It felt so much like the last time. It was like another battlefield when there had been nothing Lan Wangji could do.

Black twisted and shriveled in the air, but it did not move past the golden glow. It withered and the screaming grew louder.  Then it shot high in the sky, a cyclone of pitch. 

Wei Wuxian’s image flickered but he didn’t seem to notice.

Lan Wangji’s heart hammered against his chest.

Wei Wuxian drew another talisman, but this time it was red. It was dark and it was blood and it glinted in the air like destruction. 

He watched as Wei Wuxian began to rise. He watched as the resentment spiralled towards him. It circled him.  The darkness rose higher and so did Wei Wuxian.  Together they hovered high in the air. Below they left a bleeding body and a chunk of metal crumpled on the ground. 

Both were encased in a golden gleam. 

The resentment moved faster and faster, it closed in a tight circle around Wei Wuxian. It moved to him, encasing him as it had Xue Yang. 

Lan Wangji could do nothing but watch as golden light dimmed and black slithered again up his arms and cross gleaming robes. There was no light to be seen beneath the endless obsidian. 

Wei Wuxian smiled but it was fractured and wrong. It looked like it was borrowed from the darkness, it did not glitter. There was a madness in his eyes that glowed red. It burned like hot iron, searing into anything his gaze it touched. It was a look Lan Wangji had not seen in years. It was a look he had hoped to never see again. 

Wei Wuxian  gazed at Lan Wangji. Their eyes met and for a moment they were silver. For a moment he flickered again. When he appeared again he came back brighter, a crack of light beneath the dark. 

Then it was gone. There was blood in his eyes and blood on his teeth. 

He was beautiful in his destruction, he always had been. 

It was terrifying in all the wrong ways.

A tear slid down La Wangji’s cheek as he groped Bichen tighter. 

8-8

Wei Wuxian felt his control waver. He could not see his hands. His legs were lost to the streaming trendles that quivered around him. 

His plan had worked. He had trapped the amulet and Xue Yang within a barrier.

It had been the last talisman he had etched upon himself. It was supposed to trap the resentment inside of him. Now it had trapped the amulet away from the resentment. 

A barrier against evil. He wanted to laugh at the irony, but his lips were already stretched wide across bloody teeth. 

The darkness had curled along his fingers again, sharp and spitting. He knew his light was fading, but he did not know what that meant. He did not have time to care. 

There was power at his fingertips and a mistake he needed to fix. He had tried to destroy The Stygian Tiger Amulet once. He had failed and it had cost him his life. This time it would be different, there was no life for him to lose. 

Wei Wuxian focused on the amulet and let the control he had on the barrier falter, just long enough for Xue Yang to be expelled from within the trap. His body hit the ground. His robes stained with blood and black, but his arm was no longer bleeding, body held together by the resentful energy coursing through it. It was the only thing keeping him from blood loss, possibly the only thing keeping him from death. Wei Wuxian could not find it in himself to care. He reached for the resentful energy around him and pulled. He drug it from the grips of the corpses, seeped it from their being until they collapsed, still as the death they should have long embraced.

He felt for the energy that lingered inside of Xue Yang, curled upon the cold ground and still bleeding. He dug his talons in and twisted. Xue Yang’s body withered in agony as the resentful energy seeped from his skin. He screamed and Wei Wuxian did not care. He pulled and pulled until there was no more energy within the crumpled form. 

Wei Wuxian did not have enough time to kill him, but he wanted to. He could taste the desire, and the voices clamored for death. 

Wei Wuxian snarled and turned from the body. He ignored the voices pressing against his skull. He was better than that, and he would not be ruled. 

Instead he focused on the hunk of metal, the scraps of his amulet still encased in his golden barrier. 

His plan was difficult. It was impossible.

Attempt the impossible. 

This time he did laugh brittle and hollow. 

He whistled and the amulet shook. He let a sliver crack through the barrier and let resentful energy pour into it. More and more and more. It slid from his skin, from his bones and his being. It followed his command and pooled into the bit of metal.

He began to focus more energy into the barrier. Making it stronger and tighter. 

The barrier pushed against the resentment. It suffocated it as it grew. 

He had failed last time he had tried to destroy the amulet. He had learned his lesson, and would not fail again.

There was screaming. Was it the Nie cultivators? The corpses? The voices in his head? He did not know. He thought it might have been him.  

There was light but he did not think it came from him. He blinked his eyes open and did not know when he had closed them. He looked to where he had his fingers pinched together and saw nothing. And wasn’t that odd? To think about moving an appendage that he could not see? He was flickering and dull. He was losing even more of himself as he syphoned all his light into the barrier. 

He sucked the resentment from the air until there was nothing left. Nothing but the amulet trapped within his barrier. 

Then he squeezed the barrier tighter and tighter until it pressed against the amulet. 

The amulet exploded and the barrier shattered. 

Fractures bits of metal and light splintered and shimmered through the air. The smoke sizzled into nothing. A backlash stuck, strong and unseen. It hit the cultivators, knocking some of them off their feet. 

Lan Wangji did not move. The last thing Wei Wuxian saw was golden eyes etched with fear. 

Then, Wei Wuxian knew nothing but pain. He did not know if he was trapped in resentment or lost in the in-between. For the first time he wondered if they were the same. He wondered if he would die this time. If this was actually death. Was it supposed to hurt so much? 

That’s when he heard it. The remnants of a song, a gentle whisper. 

“Wei Ying, please.” 

It cut through the shadows. It sliced them to ribbons until there was nothing. A song flitted through his ears and across his skin. His forearm tingled. He grasped it though he felt no pain. Light spread, through his fingers, then up his arm. It tore through the black until there was nothing left. 

Wei Ying opened his eyes.

Lan Zhan sat kneeled in the dirt, guqin laid before him. 

Their eyes met and there was more there then Wei Ying thought he could decipher; more there then he thought he understood. There was the adrenaline of battle, and everything that came with it. There was relief and left over fear. But there was also something so much, emotions that shined bright from golden eyes. Emotions that he knew were reflected in his own. more. 

Wei Ying grinned, small and forced and exhausted, but no less real, “Hey, Lan Zhan.”

Chapter Text

A-Yuan had sat secure in a pair of too broad arms as he watched A-die walk away. 

There was a red tassel hanging from his wrist. He wanted to cry and scream and beg for him to come back, to not leave, but A-Yuan had promised to be brave. He had promised he would wait. 

He had sucked in a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks. Then he had turned to Big-gege and asked, “We go town today?”

The big man had smiled, white teeth under the fuzzy mustache on his lip. He had laughed and said, “I have a few things to do today, but I think we could manage that.” 

And the first day it was easy. 

A-Yuan played in the big hall and painted with Fan-gege as Big-gege talked to a bunch of other people. Big-gege made angry faces at the other men a lot. A-Yuan had copied them, he had scrunched his eyebrows together and tried to frown just as big. If he got it just right Fan-gege would flutter his pretty fan. A-Yuan thought he was trying not to laugh. 

When Big-gege looked really mad he tugged on his pant leg and smiled up at him, just like he used to do to baba. Then he would pat his head and sigh. 

He drew pictures of bunnies and butterflies and of A-die and Baba. He giggled and laughed when he accidentally spilled ink all over the table and Fan-gege screamed as it dribbled up his sleeve. He tried to clean it up as best he could. 

Then when Fan-gege looked like he was going to cry, Big-gege had swept him up into his arms and they finally went into town. Big-gege bought him buns filled with meat and sweets on sticks. There were so many colors and so many people! But then he turned and thought he saw black robes. It reminded him of another street and grass and butterflies. His tummy hurt with the next bite of sugar. 

When they made it back to the big rock house, he sat between Big-gege and Fan-gege for dinner. He ate as much meat as he wanted, and no one said anything when he spilled rice on the table. 

It had been a good day until it wasn’t. It was not until the meal was over that he realized what it truly meant. Big-gege patted him on the head and told him goodnight. Fan-gege had nodded. 

Then a lady he didn’t know took him by the hand and led him to the room he had shared with A-die. She smiled at him soft and gentle.

The nice lady helped him change his clothes and wash his face. But when she tried to untie the ribbon from his hair he felt himself shake. His stomach hurt again and he started to cry. He pulled the ribbon from his hair and held it with his tassel that still dangled from his wrist. 

No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t stop the tremor in his lip or the tears falling from his eyes. Finally the lady gave up on his hair and led him to the bed. She tried to tuck him in but he just cried harder. 

She blew out the lights, even the candle A-die always left lit upon the table. A-Yuan couldn’t find his voice long enough to tell her not to. 

He missed his A-die and he missed his Baba, and he did not like this place with its scary, dark walls. He wanted to go home, where the walls were made of wood and A-Yuan could see the glittering light in the room and the answering sparkle in A-die’s eyes. He missed seeing his toys dance and his wooden sword fighting on its own. He missed the feeling of a hand brushing through his hair. He missed the strong warm arms of A-die, and his gentle reminders to sit up straight, to eat all of his vegetables, and clean up his messes. 

Big-gege was too big, and Fan-gege was too pretty and A-Yuan wanted to go home.

He cried himself to sleep. 

The next morning when he woke up he was grumpy and he was sad. 

He had sat in the big hall just as he had the day before. But it wasn’t fun today. He didn't want to paint and Big-gege was too loud. He wanted to go back to where it was quiet, and he could hear the birds. He wanted to see the trees outside. He wanted to go home.

Then a man came rushing into the hall, and Big-gege went rushing out and A-Yuan was left alone with Fan-gege. 

And then Big-gege didn’t come back and Fan-gege wasn’t looking at him and wouldn’t let him touch his paints, and he didn’t know why. Baba had always let him play with his flute and A-die would let him fiddle with the pages of his book. 

A-Yuan just wanted to go home. He looked at Fan-gege with big eyes and tried not to cry.

8-8

Nie Huaisang stared bewildered at the child before him, his face hidden behind his fan. 

The boy was small, curled up on himself, pitiful looking in his sadness. He was barely older than a baby . Who thought it was a good idea to leave Nie Huaisang with a baby? 

He wanted to curse the disciple who had called his brother to the training field. He wanted to curse Hanguang-Jun for bringing the child here in the first place! He pouted at the memory of his brother's sly grin when he had looked at him and said, “Huaisang, will you watch him for a minute? I’ll be back after I deal with this.” 

(He ignored the whisper in his brain that reminded him how much his brother had smiled since the child arrived, how he hadn’t seemed quite so angry, quite so close to madness. How he had laughed and there had been a teasing glimmer in his eye.)

But that had been over an hour ago, and his brother had still not returned, and Nie Huaisang was not happy.

He had already tucked all of his expensive paints away from the child in an attempt to avoid another incident like the day before, but that meant that now there wasn’t anything for the boy to do. 

The child stared blankly back at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

He wanted to scream. He was not the one who should be watching the child! That was his brother's strength, not his. He did not encourage his brother to befriend the child, just to be left alone with him. He was no good at watching children! Never had been! He especially did not know what to do with this child, who wore the clothes of a Lan but grinned like a memory. 

Who even is this kid? 

But there was more than one answer to every question, this was something Nie Huaisang knew well. 

He saw like the others the answer they were all meant to see; wrapped tight in white robes and carefully structured things. The child was small and quiet. He walked with perfect posture and bowed at just the right angle. He held the name of Lan and came with Hanguang-Jun. The goodness of the Lans always helping those in need. Even Hanguang-Jun, adopting an orphan of war. How selfless!

But there was more than that, there always was. There were whispers and rumours that surrounded the child. There were always rumours about those who were different, and those were always the ones closest to the truth. 

There was a red ribbon in his hair, and a mischievous tilt to his smile. He spilled ink and ran through the halls. And he laughed, soft and sweet, when he tugged on Hanguang-Jun’s robes, and when he did there was a flicker of something in the perfect edges of Hanguang-Jun flawless facade. There was something more .

Nie Huaisang fluttered his fan and tried to dip his head farther behind the silk. The child had evidently gotten tired of simply staring at him and had begun to sniffle. Now, he clung tighter to the red tassel held in his pudgy fist.

It had not escaped Nie Huaisang’s notice that the child had refused to let it go, refused to part with it since the moment of Hanguang-Jun’s departure. It had hung from his little wrist throughout the day and wound between his fingers each time his little lip began to wobble.

He thought he knew what that might mean. But Nie Huaisang knew better than to breathe a word of his suspicions. 

The child looked at him still, with too big eyes that were beginning to water.

A phantom of a once familiar laugh tickled through the air. Nie Huaisang repressed a whimper.

He was not fit to babysit, but the child looked so pathetic he had to do something, so he snapped his fan shut and inched himself closer until he sat down next to the boy. 

He awkwardly patted the child on the back, “there, there, da-ge will be back soon.” 

The boy’s lip just wobbled. A long moment of silence passed before the boy gave a big sniff then mumbled, “Is Fan-gege mad at A-Yuan for spilling the ink?”

And those big eyes stared up at him wide and sad, and Nie Huaisang felt his stomach drop.“Uhh, no it’s alright I know it was an accident," he said.

“It is a really pretty fan, Fan-gege," the boy said, like it was an apology. 

Nie Huaisang, blinked surprised, “Oh, well thank you.” 

The child looked mollified for a moment and Nie Huaisang flipped his fan back open. He glared at a point across the hall, as he tried to think of a way to get himself out of this situation. There had to be someone who could take the boy until his brother got back.

He saw it out of the corner of his eye, a pudgy little fist moving in slow motion. The boy reached for his fan. Clumsy fingers drew closer to painted silk. 

He panicked, snapped the fan closed again and shouted, "Don’t touch it!”'

The child burst into tears. 

Oh, Hanguang-Jun was going to kill him. 

The child now grabbed the tassel with both hands and sobbed in earnest.

What did he do? 

Nie Huaisang shifted to kneel by the child, his hands fluttering over his shoulders and head. “Oh hush! Don’t cry like that I didn’t mean it."

The boy just kept crying louder and louder. “Fan-gege is mean!” He wailed. 

“I am not mean!” Nie Huaisang shouted back aghast for a moment before he realized he was arguing with a child.

“Yes you are!” 

Nie Huaisang rubbed his forehead with the hand not still holding his fan. “Please just stop crying!” but his pleas went ignored. There was snot dripping from the little red nose and Nie Huaisang tried not to recoil in disgust.

“I am not trying to be mean. It just isn’t for people to touch, okay? It’s. uhh, it’s special.”

“Special?” The child quieted for a moment, his wails softening to loud gloopy sniffles. Nie Huaisang saw his chance to defuse this mess and snached it.

“Yeah, special! Like your tassel. You don’t want anyone to touch it, right?” 

The child shook his head quickly, “No! It is baba’s! No one can touch it!” He clutched the red strings closer to his chest.

Nie Huaisang nodded enthusiastically, “Exactly! My fan is like your tassel, okay? It is special. And no one can touch it.” 

“Oh,” the boy said. He continued to twist the tassel between his hands, with a pensive look scrunching up his little face. He nodded to himself. Then he cast an assessing glance at Nie Huaisang, he felt distinctly judged. It was an unfamiliar feeling and he did not think he liked it.

They stared at each other for another long moment. Nie Huaisang refused to be the first to move too, worried that any sudden motion would set the child off again.

Just when he decided it might be safe enough to slide back around the table, a determined look over took the child's face. The little boy nodded again, then set his jaw and then--still sniffling--the child crawled into his lap.

Nie Huaisang stiffened, but made no move to stop him. He didn't know how and was too afraid the crying would start again if he did.

“I am sorry I called Fan-gege mean.” The boy rubbed his nose on Nie Huaisang’s robes, smearing snot and tears along the silk. His new robes. He tried not to groan. This was the second set of robes the child had ruined and it had only been two days! Instead he awkwardly patted the child on his back.

...at least it was better than the crying.

He hoped his brother appreciated this.

 He also hoped that no one told Hanguang-Jun.

Chapter Text

Lan Wangji stared at the glowing figure of a man before him and his heart ached. 

There was relief spread along Wei Wuxian’s cheekbones, but that wasn’t what made the blood speed through his veins; it wasn't what drove the pins into his arteries drawing blood from his still bleeding heart. No, it was the sliver of disbelief caught in the corner of Wei Wuxian’s lashes that made him want to weep. 

With every blink Lan Zhan could see the resentful energy swirling around Wei Ying. With every breath he could feel the backlash of the explosion burning along his skin. 

Lan Zhan was so very good at watching Wei Ying--had watched him for years. He had categorized every twitch, every bouncing knee and finger tap, every nose itch and feigned smile. Looking at him now, he did not like what he saw. (It did not stop him from being so desperately grateful that he saw anything at all.) His heart fluttered as he met the gaze of grey eyes staring back at him. Wei Wuxian spread his arms out wide, as if to show off, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Maybe for him it wasn’t. 

“Well, that was unexpected!” Wei Wuxian grinned and a chuckle fell past translucent lips.

Wei Wuxian seemed unaware of the tattered edges of his smile, or the slump of his shoulders. Lan Wangji’s stomach twisted and he clenched his hand on Bichen tighter. The other he held in a fist behind his back. He refused to let anyone see the tremor racking through him. It was fake, so fake. He was lying . 

And for what? Who is this show for, Wei Ying?

Wei Ying was dim. There were hollows under his eyes where no light shined, leaving the space transparent. He looked exhausted and void. Lan Zhan hated it. He hated the sacrifices Wei Ying was willing to take. Hated that there was not even a second of hesitation before he stepped into the resentment. He hated that he hadn’t done anything to stop it from happening, hated that he had stood there and watched frozen in memory. Frozen and useless.

But what he hated more was the carefully curated mask that slid over Wei Ying’s face the longer Lan Wangji did not reply. He watched as the grin tightened to a grimace, and a prickle of sadness inching up his nose. He watched and did nothing just like before, and he hated it. But Lan Wangji could not find the words he wanted to speak. He could not form the syllables to articulate all he felt. He wasn't sure if there ever would be the right words. He was so angry, so scared, so hurt, but there was so much more and so much less and it threatened to explode, to burst from his chest, from his lungs and throat until he bled. Until there was blood on his teeth too and they matched. 

He couldn't do that though. He could not vocalize feelings he did not even know. Even if he could, if he could dig through every test and copy down poems, paragraphs and passages--even if he had the skill to craft the sentences on his own with paper and ink--this was not the place, this was not the time.

Not here, on the aftermath of a battlefield. Not now when his nerves were so raw they seared with every rattling breath. But he knew that that was Wei Ying. He was good and righteous and self-sacrificing. There was nothing he would not give up for others. Nothing that was too much, and that scared Lan Wangji. 

He felt so much when he stared at those silver eyes and he saw things in them he never wanted to see again. Lan Wangji looked at Wei Wuxian and saw corpses tearing him apart. He looked at him and saw blood. He looked at him and saw resentful energy swallowing everything he wanted to keep safe. Lan Wangji saw his light fading into nothing. He could not look at him without the fear and sorrow creeping back up his throat and to his bones. He did not know what to say--how to tell the other man the words he felt--the horror he had been forced to endure not once, but twice now. 

He had always felt so much when he looked at Wei Wuxian, but he could not bear to feel it all now. Not when those eyes were slowly filling with regret and dread.

He was not faltering, he told himself. Weeks ago, he had stretched open the skin of his chest; he had clawed through the bones, until he was vulnerable. He had bared his soul and Wei Ying had not turned away. He had left his heart bloody upon the ground and Wei Ying had picked it up and cradled it in gentle hands. He would not betray that trust and he would not turn his back on him again. 

He would not repeat old mistakes.

Lan Zhan had almost lost him so many times. How could he forgive himself, if he pushed Wei Ying away? 

The man before him was nervous and hunched, and that was a look he never wanted to see. So Lan Wangji took a deep breath and tried to soften the stringent line of his shoulders. He let his fingers unfurl from Bichen, his hand still clenched behind his back, but at least that Wei Ying could not see. With effort, he unpinched his brow and hoped to convey all that he felt without words.

He must have succeeded to some extent, because Wei Wuxian scrunched his eyebrows together and studied him for a long moment before heaving a loud sigh. Then he slouched, his posture transmuting to something less brittle. There was still a tension that vibrated around his edges, jagged bits of golden flecks, but the air of panic was no longer clamped along his spine. He no longer looked condemned. Instead Wei Wuxian ran a finger along his nose and looked  sheepish.

Good, Lan Zhan thought. He wanted Wei Ying to trust him. He needed him to know that he would not leave him. Not again. This was the first step. They would discuss this, when there were not other eyes to see him crumble.

Lan Wangji looked around him, at the aftermath of the chaos. 

The disciples pushed themselves off the ground, propping up the injured and looking wide eyed  at each other and at the corpses now stroon upon the dirt. They were young. Younger than he would have thought permissible by the Nie, but Lan Wangji knew too well what was taken by war. The Nie had lost so many, those that were left--those that could be spared for a fool’s errand--were young. Their inexperience was showing. They turned to him with wide, uncertain eyes. They had no knowledge of what had just occurred. No idea of the man who had just saved them. They looked at him and waited for direction, for orders. 

This was something he knew how to do. 

He commanded them easily and soon the wounded were tended. He played Rest for the lost souls as the disciples built a pyre to burn the corpses. The Chang clan was gone, there was no one left to commit the funeral rites, and so the bodies would burn. It was the only insurance they had that they would not reanimate. So. slowly, cautiously, the bits of bodies were thrown into the flame.

Through the work he could not ignore the specter beside him and he did not want to. Lan Wangji knew without looking that Wei Wuxian was following him, but that did not stop him from glancing periodically to his side, and Wei Wuxian was always there. Sullen and quiet but there. For now that was enough.

As they walked back and forth across the courtyard, the disciples shied away from the body of Xue Yang, still laying in a heap on the ground. They scurried away, always maintaining a distance, eyes averted. Their shoulders would tense and their hands would land on their sabers. They did not acknowledge the body of the demonic cultivator, not until there was nothing left to do. When all of the injured were tended and the Chang clan burned, the disciples turned to the heap of yellow fabric. 

The cultivators eyed each other, none wanting to be the one to step forward, none wanting to be the one to check the body. Lan Wangji watched them and waited, to see if there was somebody willing to take the initiative, someone determined to prove themselves. He did not want to take this opportunity from them.  Finally one brave soul clenched his jaw and straightened his spine. With sure steps he marched over to the body and with his boot pushed the body onto its back. Then he stared at the body for a long moment, before turning back to the group. 

“Hanguang-Jun? I think he is still alive,” the cultivator stuttered. Lan Wangji, strode over and crouched next to the body. He watched the chest, yellow fabric stained with mud and blood. And waited. It was unmistakable, the tell tale flitter of breath, the barely there rise of the breast bone. 

The man before them was not dead. The blood leaked sluggishly from where his hand should be, but already the skin was trying to heal, a combination of yin and yang energy culminating along the bloodied skin. It was a harrowing sight, like black maggots on rot. What do we do now? 

He cast a glance to the side, to Wei Wuxian. His lips were pinched and his brows were furrowed. There was anger in his eyes. Lan Wangji knew to an extent the frustration he must feel, to see his cultivation being used and twisted in such a way. To know, too, that Wei Wuxian could have killed him, almost killed him, and yet the man--the monster-- was still alive. 

And what could they do now? To slit his throat when he was not conscious was not honorable. To deprive the Nie sect of their revenge, was not right. To know this man wore Jin gold and not demand justice would not show justice. 

Lan Wangji gritted his teeth and shoved down the unease he felt jittering his bones. “We will take him with us,” he declared. “Bind him and bring him back to Sect Leader Nie for trial.” 

With grim faces, other disciples stepped forward. With cautious movements they bound and treated the unconscious form of Xue Yang, wrapping the end of his arm with a single bit of worn fabric to stem the last of the bleeding. They turned to Lan Wangji again, awaiting their next command. 

He paused for a long  moment, taking stock of the disciples before him. They were young, too young to have truly fought in the Sun Shot campaign. They looked at him with fierce eyes shadowed by fear. They were beaten and bruised. Those less injured held up their comrades. They were wearing and exhausted, robes smeared with dirt and blood and worse. 

He had to get them home. He needed to get their dead home, too. He met the grim eyes of Wei Wuxian for a fleeting moment and saw in him, too, the desperation to leave this place.

“Who is not injured?” he asked the group. Two disciples stepped forward, faces streaked with blood, but their stances were steady and their grip on their sabers was strong. He nodded to them, “Fly to Qinghe. Alert them of what has happened and request aid.” 

Then he turned to the rest of the group, “The rest of us will travel at a slower pace, and meet you on the road.” 

A disciple was dispatched to procure a few horses and wagons to carry Xue Yang and the dead. And then the two scouts set off. The dead were loaded into the wagon, and the bindings on Xue Yang were checked before loading him into a separate smaller wagon.

Then with one final look around, at the decimated walls and still smoking embers of the funeral pyre, they left the compound.

8-8

Wei Wuxian dipped his head as he followed behind Lan Wangji and didn’t speak. He hovered at his side as he directed the disciples in the clean up of the battle and the cremation of the bodies. He trailed behind him as they walked away from Yueyang and the disasters it had held. 

He had known that the Stygian Amulet was his responsibility; seeing it again had been a shock. He almost choked on the knowledge of his own failure. He had died. He had stood in the midst of destruction on a mountain made of bones, and had chosen death. He had let the corpses consume him; had felt his skin ripped from his bones. He had died with the knowledge that he had done the right thing. He had died knowing that he was ridding the world of the evil he had created. He had been wrong. 

Why was he always wrong about the things that mattered most? 

So he had known when the amulet had slipped out of Xue Yang’s sleeve what he needed to do. He had known it with the same surety that had stood before a monster of legend and looked his brother in the eyes and smiled. The same surety that guided him in decimating a prison camp, in saving innocent people when no one else would. 

He was not prepared for the anguish that had clouded golden eyes, for the rigid stance that had stood opposite him. It had been years since he had seen the other man resemble so much stone, and in an instant Wei Wuxian realized just how deep Lan Wangji had let him in. He did not recognize it until it was gone. He did not know what to do when faced with so much truth. 

Lan Wangji was everything that Hanguang-Jun should be. He was calm and collected and led the disciples with certainty. Pride welled inside of Wei Wuxian, as it always did when faced with the wonders of Lan Wangji, there was nothing the man could not do. 

(He shoved away the pinch in his mind that reminded him how inferior he was. The whispers that told him still of all the things he had done wrong, all the times that he had failed.)

He followed him through it all, nothing more than a spectator and wished desperately that he could do something more.

The journey back to Qinghe was solemn and quiet. It was stained by death and loss. It was an air that Wei Wuxian knew too well. One he had carried like a cloak when he had been alive.  The cultivators carried their wounded, arms slung over shoulders and around waists. They pushed hard and walked through the day. No one wanted to stop. There was too much fear, too much adrenaline pushing them forward. No one would feel safe until they saw the stone walls that they called home. But they were young and they were tiring. They had faced down fierce corpses and a demonic cultivator, no matter how young and inexperienced they were. They were exhausted and bleeding and stumbling over pebbles and each other. They would not make it to Qinghe tonight. 

“Lan Zhan,” he said, voice soft, even though no one else could hear. They were the first words he had spoken to the other man in hours, and the silence had felt foreign. It was inevitable, he knew, for hours they hadn't had the privacy to speak, and even Wei Wuxian knew that the wreckage of a battle was not the place for the discussion he feared they would have. But there were things he needed to say, problems he had not made, but still wanted to fix. And so he pursed his lips and motioned, sucking air through his teeth and hoped that Lan Wangji would look at him. 

And for a brief moment he did. Lan Wangji glanced at him from the corner of his eye, and it was not filled with censor or hate (Wei Wuxian tried to hold on to that thought too tightly) then followed his gaze to the disciples behind them. 

“Mn,” he said--and Wei Wuxian knew that the other had seen what he had--before lifting a hand signaling for a halt. “We will stop in the next town for the night.” His proclamation was met with no protests. They were too exhausted to speak up or argue. He nodded once then continued walking, Wei Wuxian trailing behind.

Chapter Text

Wei Ying curled up on himself, knees pulled up to his chest and head pillowed on top. He stared forlorn across the room at the broad back of Lan Zhan as he prepared for bed.

They had reached a small town not long before, where a single inn had stood in the center. It was shabby, the wood weathered and the stone chipped. The floors were unswept and a fine film of dust could be seen on the tables. It was not a place Lan Wangji should be. It was too dirty and too ruined, but there were no other options. The disciples needed to rest. Lan Wangji needed to rest too, though Wei Wuxian knew he would not admit it. So they had stumbled to the inn, rented rooms and purchased nearly inedible meals. They had found a place to store the wagons, and a rotating guard was organized to watch Xue Yang, though he still appeared to be unconscious. 

Wei Wuxian had tried to wait patiently throughout the proceedings. He had hovered a bit behind Lan Wangji as the man had organized the remaining disciples, and to his left as he ate his dinner. He had held his tongue between his teeth, he had not chattered as he wanted to. He had made no idle comments or teasing jabs. He became like the ghost he impersonated. Silent and haunting.

He had not wanted to make things worse. He had not wanted to give Lan Wangji anymore reason to be angry with him so he stayed quiet. But he could not stop the constant tremor that ran through him, nor the anxiety that just simmered below the surface of his skin. It itched and it burned and it felt like fire and it felt like ice. It was a constant uncomfortability, always present and never relenting.

He had tapped his fingers on his thigh, bounced his foot and ground his teeth and waited and waited and waited . He had thought that when Lan Wangji had stood, when he had excused himself from the group and headed up the stairs, that they would finally talk. That maybe the tension that buzzed around them would dissipate. That Lan Wangi would finally tell him what was wrong. 

He drifted behind Lan Wangji as he walked up the creaking stairs, down the narrow hall and through the door to his room. If he had a heart he was sure it would be beating rapidly. He wondered if it would match the remembered feeling of nausea boiling inside of him. But then the door had shut and Lan Wangji had turned to him. Wei Wuxian stood silent and hunched his eyes averted to the ground as he tried to count the grains of dirt stuck in the cracks of the floor boards. He waited for the words of admonishment, but nothing came.

Long moments of silence stretched between them. It became a canyon, a crater, and the longer it lasted, the wider it became. This was not something that would mend with time. Wei Wuxian scourged up his courage and peaked at Lan Wangji, only to wince when he realized there was nothing to read on Lan Wangji’s face. Wei Wuxian’s stomach dropped to the floorboards. He had gotten so good at reading that face in the last year. He had gotten so good at reading the line between his brows and each delicate twist of his mouth. He knew the meaning held in tense shoulders and firmly held fists. But now there was nothing, but an unblemished slate of jade.

Wei Wuxian twisted his fingers into his robes, trying to hide his own agitation. Gnawing on his lower lip. The air was heavy with unsaid things, and too many feelings. It held the knowledge of things near shattered. Wei Wuxian floundered, unsure of what was expected of him, uncertain of what would help and what would just make things worse. Lan Wangji had turned from him as they entered the room without a word. He had left Wei Wuxian standing, a dimming spot in the doorway.

An incense stick had burned since then, and now Wei Wuxian sat, a ball upon the floor. Lan Wangji still ignored him. It hurt. It hurt in ways he had not felt in a long while, to be ignored by choice instead of situation. It made the unease crawl inside of him, up his stomach and over his lungs until it pressed in heavy thumps along his chest.

He hated this. Hated not talking. Hated the silence and the uncertainty. He pulled his legs in closer to his chest. The windows were drafty, rustling the curtain and the fine silk strands falling over white clad shoulders. 

He didn’t know what to do. He had lived his life sure of every choice that he made. He had rushed into every conversation, every debate, every argument with wit, arrogance, and a voice that carried over any opinion that did not match his own. Those skills would not help him now. He could not shout or sneak his way to a resolution. He had learned many years ago that raised voices and veiled words did nothing to gain Lan Wangji’s attention.

It was action that Lan Zhan remembered, and it was through action that he made his feelings known. It was a straight back held with pride as he walked with a broken leg. It was a visit to the Burial Mounds and a simple meal. It was a candle left lit for a man who was no more than a ghost. It was a flute carried for miles to a place that was not home. 

Wei Wuxian stared sullenly at Chenqing. It sat on the table, innocent and unknowing of the discourse it caused. Wei Wuxian let its presence soothe him. Lan Wangji had not thrown it away, he had not left the flute with the wagon--with the bodies--or tucked again within a Qiankun bag. It was there and so was he. Lan Wangji had not pushed him away. He let that thought soak through him, through his skin and to his blood. It pounded to his heart where he held it close.

He thought of long nights spent in the company of that long candle, listening to the slow timber of sleepy breaths. He thought of dancing butterflies and indulgent looks--the ones only Wei Ying could identify--he thought of a little boy, lost and scared and waiting for their return. 

Wei Ying sucked his bottom lip harder--he couldn’t feel the bite of his teeth, and there was no flesh to tear. Nevertheless the motion was familiar and comforting--eyes never leaving the other man as he ran a comb through his hair, fighting against the persistent breeze. His back was still facing Wei Wuxian.

It was action that Lan Wangji understood, and it was the language that he spoke. He was silent and still, sparse with his words, but filled with subtle moments.

It had taken Wei Wuxian so long to learn what to look for, to understand the significance. It was a rabbit cradled in a white sleeve, and a straw butterfly bought for a child he barely knew. 

However that was not the language that Wei Wuxian spoke. Wei Wuxian was always so good at words. He had learned at an early age to twist them into melodies and jokes. To mask even the worst hurts with blithe jokes, and an improper demeanor. He had always struggled with sincerity. 

With a sinking sense of resignation, he realized that might be exactly what he needed. They were stuck in a silent battle and he knew it was one that neither of them would win. So, he shoved his misgivings down, pushed them into a box and locked them up. He prided himself once on his bravery. On his determination and resolution. 

He motioned sucking in a breath, large and heaving and silent and meaningless. Then he dropped his legs to sprawl along the floor and shifted into a slouch before plastering on a pout. 

He had promised once to live a life without regrets. He had not been strong enough to hold together all he had wished to. He had failed at so many things, let them rot until there was nothing but regret. He would not let that happen now. 

He forced his limbs to sprawl inches above the air, a mockery of a once common posture.

He had no experience in mending unknown hurts, but for Lan Zhan--for them--he would try. 

“Lan Zhan,” he whined. “Stop being mad at me! Won't you talk to me? Please?" 

He realized instantly that that was the wrong thing to say. He could not hide his wince as he watched broad shoulders tense. The comb paused mid stroke before resuming its descent.

Stupid, so stupid. He is doing this wrong. Words spoken without thought, with a tease and a stiff grin would only make things worse. He should know that. He did know that. 

The anxiety coiled beneath his breast bone. He was ruining this. He was making it worse. He was going to destroy everything they had built and he didn’t know how to stop the destruction. 

He wanted to curl back up, to hide his vulnerable underbelly. It was an instinct he never outgrew. His façade was nothing, however, so he gave up on the pretense, and sat up into a proper lotus pose. He braced himself as if in meditation, he wondered if the tumult inside him was obvious to Lan Wangji. 

He was so afraid of what Lan Wangji might say. The judgment he might pass. He had never approved of Wei Wuxian’s cultivation, and had abhorred it more than any others. 

He looked down at his fingers, the tips still black in ways they should not have been. He twisted them up tight, trying to hide the tips in his palms.

“Lan Zhan,” he started again, letting the words quiver and wobble as they pushed their way through the heavy air. He didn’t know how to finish. He didn’t know what he had done. What specifically. The list of his faults and failures was so long, he did not know how to categorize them all.  

Gentle fingers tightened around a jade spine, before settling the comb beside the wash basin. Lan Wangji did not turn, but he stilled. His motions softened by the hesitancy huddled around the syllables of his name. He did not shift though, and he did not say anything in response. His shoulders were a bow string, held taut by too many emotions.

What made Lan Zhan so mad? Was it the demon cultivation? It must be his continuation of such heinous acts that had upset him so? There had been nothing else it could be. 

What was Wei Wuxian supposed to do, stand by and do nothing? What had Lan Zhan expected of him?

Why can't Lan Zhan understand?

There were things that Lan Zhan did not know. Promises kept and sacrifices made. He had not seen a pier on fire, or a brother's tears. He had not watched as everything he loved was ripped away from his still bleeding bones. He had never been left in a bleeding cave, unable to move, unable to follow. He had never been cursed to darkness with no light to guide him. 

Blunt nails dug into golden skin, but he did not feel it and no marks were left behind. 

It did not matter. He had made his choice years ago and these were not the things that he let himself regret. Not now. Not now that he was less than dead. Now there were things he needed to say. Apologies he needed to make. He parted his lips for the fear shoved the words down his throat and locked them behind the bars of his teeth. 

"Lan Zhan,” he stuttered as he tried to push the words out, past clenched teeth and a tight throat. “I'm sorry." 

The string snapped, and Lan Zhan’s shoulders slumped. In an instant he looked defeated, a weariness ran along his spine. He had been through war and worse and it was Wei Ying who shattered him. It was so wrong. 

Wei Ying resisted the urge to rub his eyes, in hopes of displacing the image from his retinas. He didn't need to, however, because in a blink the slump was gone and his spine was unbending once again.

Lan Zhan turned, waist twisting slowly, until he was facing Wei Ying. He tried to read the emotion playing around the other man's eyes. He wanted to be glad there was more to see than stone, more than flat amber, emotionless and cold, but he could not. This was worse, to be able to see so well the emotions slithering in swirls along golden irises. To see instead the pain and guilt and fear that was so misplaced.

"What are you apologizing for?" Lan Zhan asked barely above a whisper, as if he did not want to hear the answer. There was an edge to Lan Zhan’s words he had not expected. Hidden and sharp. A bitter broken point that cut into the tender flesh Wei Ying had tried to keep hidden. It pierced the skin, fast and sharp. It drew blood in tiny dribbles that painted lines of remorse through his tumbling emotions.

“I don’t...I don’t know,” Wei Ying stumbled and tripped over the words as they left his tongue. 

What was he apologizing for?

Nothing.

Everything.

He did not have a plan for this, he did not know what to say. He had  just wanted to fix this. To cross the chasm between them, to find where there were hours ago before this. Before everything fell apart, before he ruined everything again. 

It had been less than a day ago that they hand wandered down a gravel road, encased in sunlight. It had been easier than to pretend. To pretend that they were more than they were. To pretend that he was not half a man. 

There was more, though. There was something that chafed, in the way the question scratched along his skin. It grated, until all of his nerves were raw; pin pricks that ached with every twitch. He was trying, couldn’t Lan Zhan see that? He was trying . He had spent hours in a silent presence. To give Lan Zhan his space, to not scream and yell and demand an end to the rising tension. To not poke and tease until Lan Zhan had something else to be mad at. In the end it had not mattered, they were still here. 

The anxiety still buzzing along his skin, it was lightning and fire and it mingled with the rancour gurgling up from his chest. And when he spoke again the words were more biting then he meant. 

“I should apologize for the cultivation right? That's what you want me to do. You have always hated my cultivation, always.. But Lan Zhan, you don't understand! You never understood! And this time I swear I didn’t even know I could still cultivate!” Hysteria made the words two pitches too high. Silver eyes turned to steel and gold turned to amber; hard and immobile. There was a room between them and it was the gaping chasm filling swiftly with useless words. “But what did you want me to do Lan Zhan? He was twisting it and it was going to kill you. It was going to kill everyone! And I couldn’t just let it! What did you want me to do?”

There was no air for him to breathe. There were no gasping breaths to fill the air, he wished desperately there was. He wished there was some proof of his existence, something more than the lines of tension etched along Lan Zhan’s brow and the horrible desperation lining his lips.

“I do not want you to apologize for something you do not regret,” Lan Zhan said.

Wei Ying wanted to scream, he wanted to cry. He could do neither. He could do nothing, but meet the unrelenting gaze of Lan Zhan across the room. 

“What do you want then?” He asked. He was angry and it was loud in his words. He was scared too, and that was louder.

Lan Wangji did not respond for a long moment. His mouth tightened into a thin pressed line, and his fingers dug into where they rested upon his knee. It was a small tick, recognizable and horrible in its familiarity, but even then Wei Wixian didn't know what it ment. The quiet dragged and clogged the air. There was so much space between them. It was too far. It was inches and it was miles. It was years of lost trust and secrets kept. 

Wei Wuxian was frozen--a statue made of fear. He was not brave enough to try to bridge this distance. He had already tried once tonight and that had led them here. He could not bear to make this even worse. Wei Wuxian's eyes were wide and he could not move, could not twitch. Could do nothing but stare and wait for a spoken execution. 

I want you to be better, he could say. Or, I want you gone. They were things he knew Lan Zhan would never say, but he could not banish them completely, he could not stop the possibilities from circling over and over in his mind.

Then, Lan Wangji shifted. His fingers uncurled from his robes, settling instead on the floor to push himself to a stand. He towered over everything, over Wei Wuxian across the room. Before slowly treading his way through the distance. White robes danced along dusty floor boards. The silk shimmering in the moonlight. It danced along the strong lines of his cheekbones and hid from the hollows beneath. It was Wei Ying who did not touch the ground, but Lan Zhan who moved untouched by the world.

He was everything, and he was beautiful. Wei Ying wanted so badly not to lose him. 

Lan Zhan stepped around the table, stopping by the mat mere inches away, before kneeling gracefully in a flutter of robes. He sat facing Wei Ying. There was a storm in his eyes. Wild and strong. It could break Wei Ying. He had the power to tear him to pieces and leave nothing left, if only he knew. Wei Ying was the sea. Massive and unending and filled with things unknown. He could not categorize anymore all that he was feeling; he was tired of trying to name the spikes of bitterhurtfeargriefguilt that crashed in waves along his skin. It sunk into him, contorting until it clogged his throat and he drew in rapid useless breaths. He wanted to throw up. They sat in silence, as Wei Wuxian waited for an answer. 

Time passed. The wind whistled through the trees, a violent scream he himself could not voice. The candle burned. This close it burned out the moonlight casting him now in its red yellow orange light, sending flicks along old stone walls--along Lan Zhan's face, highlights the arch of his nose and the high-rise of his cheekbones.

"Wei Ying," he let the words hang limp in the air. His face contorted into a barely crinkled nose, and the imperceivable pinch at the corners of his eyes. "I do not hate your cultivation. I...It is part of you. I know this, and I know you have used it for so much good. . But I... Wei Ying, I am...worried.” 

Wei Ying bit his tongue and felt nothing. He bit his tongue and waited for Lan Zhan to continue. 

Lan Zhan paused, hesitating over the words. As if he was tasting them on his tongue, rolling them over the fleshy softness of his cheeks testing their weight. It was an unwonted expression, but it shuttered away when he began to speak, each word more sure.  

“You must not lose control this time." You must not leave me was left unsaid and unheard.

"Oh Lan Zhan there is no body for me to lose control of." and he could not keep the deprecation from ringing his tone dark. A broken smile cracked his lips. 

Lan Zhan flinched, a shuddered pop of too tight shoulders. His voice was shallow and small, so unlike him, when he finally responded, "Isn't that worse?"

“What is that supposed to mean?” and Wei Ying could not keep the bitter edge from turning the words into razors.

Lan Zhan did not react to the words or the veiled weapon they became. He only blinked long and slow and when he opened his eyes again, they were filled with anguish. 

"Demonic cultivation corrupts the spirit," he quoted. "Wei Ying, what if that is all you have left? What happens then?"

The anger left him, and Wei Ying was left, a husk, brittle and friable. In that moment, Wei Ying wished he had a heart. He wished it could beat. Wished he could know if it would be hammering rabbit-quick against his bones, dashing in and out of his ribs. 

There was heartbreak in golden eyes, and words spoken that did not sound like condemnation. That was not the voice of hate, or censor or disappointment. 

Before him sat a man, whose heart Wei Ying held, a man just as scared as he was. It was so obvious, so easy to see. It sliced in harsh slits and hid within the shadows. Wei Ying was amazed he had not seen it before, even if he had not known where to look.

There was so much uncertainty between them. So much unknown about his very existence, or lack thereof. It was too much to consider, the maybe’s and the what-if’s when he did not even know the how . It had taken nothing to slip back into the shadows, but he had not thought about the ramifications of such a choice. 

Lan Zhan spoke in actions. His words were used sparingly, adding depth and meaning to those he voiced. But he had said nothing of the things that Wei Ying had feared he would. A bubble formed buoyant and light. It was an unknown feeling. He thought it might be hope. 

“Lan Zhan,” he said, and even he could hear the desperation tinging the words, “I don’t understand what you want from me.” 

The world was twisting in a blur of sound and light. The candle’s glow illuminated the little table and the gruby walls, but Wei Ying could see none of it. Nothing but the conviction clouding Lan Zhan’s eyes. It spread outwards and stole along his skin, as bright and strong as he was. Dark tipped fingers twisted his robes around each knuckle. He stretched the fabric tight, it would not break, but he wished it would. 

He could feel Lan Zhan’s eyes, sweeping every inch of his. Unyielding and fierce. Determined and terrified. There was a fire in his eyes and it burned, "you promised you would stay."

Wei Ying looked up at Lan Zhan through his lashes. He was kneeling next to him, a figure in white, determination etched into every angle of his face. He was beautiful. He was everything Wei Ying ever wanted and everything he could never be. There was no air for him to breathe, nor any in his lungs, but he tried to take a sharp gasp anyway. 

He had hadn't he? Lan Zhan had asked him to stay. He had sat upon a different floor and asked, and Wei Ying had agreed. 

But he had not known what that meant. Not truly, not in entirety. He had not believed that there could be anything more hidden between the longing and the trepidation. But he was beginning to understand; staying meant more than existing in the same space. It was more than Wei Ying no longer slipping into the in-between. It meant more than Wei Ying not leaving. It was more than silent shadowed steps, or words seized behind gritted teeth, in a foolish effort to appease. 

He thought maybe he finally understood the words. Finally understood what Lan Zhan was asking of him. Lan Wangji’s gaze never wavered, as he watched the emotions play along the glittering ridge of Wei Ying’s cheekbones.

Wei Ying, will you stay? 

He had asked. And he wondered now if Come with me to Gusu, had meant the same thing; if Lan Zhan had never meant to trap him. If, maybe, he had only wanted him to stay by his side.

There was no heart to pound in his chest, nothing to seize or clench, but looking at the man before him he remembered the feeling and the pain. He thought removing his core hurt less than letting Lan Zhan down. 

Maybe it was good he no longer had a heart. If he did it would have bled into his chest, and coated his lungs with sticky, clogging red. Instead, all he could do was feel; each emotion was sharp and tender and painful, but he gathered them all together into a bouquet, desperate to make them something beautiful. 

He shifted until he mirrored the other man, then leaned forward until they were facing each other fully, one lit by the moon and one illuminated by something other. 

Wei Ying reached for Lan Zhan's hand. He wanted to lace their fingers together--to feel something, to touch, to hold, to comfort them both--only for his fingers to pass straight through. They both shuddered, before Wei Ying tried again. This time leaving his hand hovering over Lan Zhan’s.

“Lan Zhan,” he said, “what would you have done if I had said yes? If I had come back with you to Gusu?”

He saw Lan Zhan shudder. Saw his pulse ticking in his temple, and the alarm light his eyes, but it was an old feeling, washed down with age until it was a dull scrap of what it used to be. Their eyes met and neither looked away. 

"I would have tried my best to keep you safe,” he said, voice quiet and strong. “I would have loved you." 

“Does that mean you do not love me now?" He sat across from him, a dead man, and asked only that he loved him. And still he knew he asked too much.

“I have never stopped loving you.”  We Ying thought he didn't need to hear the words. He knew, had always known somewhere deep inside that Lan Zhan loved him.

But the warmth from those words filled inside of him. Wei Ying thought he should feel bad, he should feel guilty for the tremor shaking along the syllables, but he could not. He smiled, real and bright. The exasperated curl adorning Lan Zhan’s lips was so familiar, so reassuring.

There was a darkness in his soul that he knew would never flee. He knew this with a deep clinging certaining. The horrors from his past would never let him go. He could never atone for the death and pain and suffering he had caused. He was not meant to touch things of the light. He would stain them, like spilled ink upon the floor. Impossible to remove, but ruining all the same.

He was not meant for good things.

But he w anted . He wanted so badly he burned with it. It consumed him and filled him. It twisted and absorbed and grew inside of him until he knew nothing else. 

There was nothing else. No one else. There never was. 

But there was a vulnerability lining Lan Zhan, hiding in his lashes and Wei Ying knew he had sat quiet for too long. His hand shook as he reached his hand up--not moving the one drifting so slightly above Lan Zhan’s. Actions and words do not have to mean different things, he thought, as his hand hovered inches away from an alabaster cheek. 

Wei Ying stroked his thumb along the ridge of Lan Zhan’s cheekbone, never touching, but close enough for Lan Zhan to feel the heat upon his skin. 

“I shouldn’t want to keep you as badly as I do. I shouldn’t tie you to me, when there is nothing I can offer you in return. But Lan Zhan, I don’t think I can let you go.” Tears pricked his eyes, but there was no water to fall. He wanted to cry, but there was no release for all that he felt. 

He was full. He was burning. He thought he might explode. 

“I’m sorry Lan Zhan, I have been horribly selfish haven’t I?”

“No, Wei Ying. Never.” 

“Lan Zhan. Yes I have. I--There are a lot of--”

"Wei Ying,” He interrupted, but tonight seemed to be filled with rarities, “there is no need for ‘sorry’ or 'thank you’ between us.” He said in a voice as sure and strong as he was. He lifted his fingers to Wei Ying’s cheek, grazing the tips along shimmering light. Wei Ying tipped his head, just slightly, wishing he could feel those fingers against his skin. 

Wei Ying could not believe them to be the truth, but he clung to them anyway. There was so much that he owed the man before him. So much he wished he could do; so many things he longed to say. 

But Lan Zhan deserved better than a being who is less than a ghost. He deserved more than Wei Ying had ever had to give. But Wei Ying was selfish, and he could not turn away.

So he dipped his head in a nod, “Alright Lan Zhan, alright.” 

Then he smiled, slow and soft. “Besides, didn’t I promise you I would stay? Gosh, Lan Zhan it was only a few weeks ago! I thought I was the one with the bad memory! You can’t tell me you forgot about my heartfelt oath already! Lan Zhan! How could you?” 

When he lifted his head again, Lan Zhan levelled him with a baleful stare and Wei Ying couldn’t stop the joy that sprawled along his heart, it bubbled out of him in giggles and snorts until he could not contain it. He tipped his head back and laughed.

Chapter Text

An heir sat silent on his lotus throne, a seat too big for him to fill. It arched wide with its broad petals that curved into wide grins. They laughed at him, mocked him, stared down at him as if to say, you do not belong here. This was never meant to be yours, who are you to think you are enough? You who have never lived up to your name. Eyeless grins stung him with words and laughter they did not speak. 

All he wanted to do was sleep. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and live in days better than these. Days filled with lotus seeds and blinding sun and smiles and laughter that did not sting him like these wooden grins.

Their party had arrived in shambles at the steps of the ever beautiful pier. They hand hung together limp and bleeding in ways they never should have been. The disciples had swarmed worried and anxious. There was fear that clung to even the bravest of the Jiang disciples, an unease that hung like smoke and stained like charcoal. Jiang Cheng understood it. He felt it, too, and so he never stopped them from their fretting, but he was so weary.

It took so much to pretend to be strong. 

It took longer than it should have to get everything settled. The injured were sent to the medical pavilion--there wasn’t as many as there should have been and Jiang Cheng’s gaze steadily avoided the reason why.

Jin Zixuan looked after his remaining disciples as Jiang Cheng personally led his sister to the rooms in which she and her husband would be staying.

No longer to the rooms of her childhood, for now they were far too small to house three people. Instead he walked her to the master suite--a shell of what it should have been, empty and bare; never used in its entirety, even in its first life. He tried not to shudder and tried harder not to think. 

A disciple led Wen Qing to a separate room. It was still positioned close to the family, far more closer than a servant should have been. No one questioned it. They didn’t ask about the stranger with a familiar face. The Jiang disciples were loyal to a fault, and he appreciated it now more than he ever had before. 

He appreciated less the sympathetic looks shot his way each time he tried to approach her, only to be turned away. 

He had tried to speak to her; had tried to draw her attention. To do what--to say what--he did not know. It had not mattered though. Wen Qing would not look at him for longer than a glance. She met all of his attempts with silence. She had been a steady, silent, shadow for the entire trip to Yunmeng, always steps behind Jiang Yanli but never speaking. 

It had infuriated him. It had churned his stomach in a way he had not felt in years. There was something so wrong about her steadfast silence, something disconcerting about the subtle hunch of her shoulders. 

He hated it. 

He did not know what to do about it. 

So he ignored it. Ignored her until they made it back to Lotus Pier and he could stay as far away from her as possible. 

Now Jiang Cheng sat tall and rigid, on a throne of grins and felt like an imposter. He no longer knew if he was trying to fool the world or himself. 

What strengths did he have? What qualified him for this position? He had lived his life in another's shadow. He never knew he would miss it quite so much. 

A rustle stirred beside him, and he turned to glance at the man leaning against one of the many pillars. He looked so different from the boy he had once hated. This brother of his he had not wanted. This brother who looked at him with understanding and recognized the words Jiang Cheng could not speak. Who knew the pressures of inheritance. He wondered sometimes, too, if Jin Zixuan felt the same guilt that wallered inside of him, the little voice that told him, you could have done more.

He should not be here, standing like a comrade amongst the soft wooden walls. A sparkle of gold so misplaced against the flower light purples. He should be asleep, laying in a room, that in another life was set aside for the master of Lotus Pier. He should be with Jiang Yanli, with his son. 

They were not friends, not really. Jiang Cheng was unsure if he had ever made a friend that did not also belong to Wei Wuxian. He did not know if he would recognize one if he had. 

Jin Zixuan would never fill the hole left behind by Wei Wuxian’s death, no one could. However, that did not stop a new shape from forming; pompous and feathered and vaguely shaped like a peacock.

He had watched this man as he nearly died, and he had a hand in bringing him back. They had spent weeks and months in whispered conversations, both equally lost within the greater game of sect politics. They had hatched a plan by candle light, and now he wondered if they were unprepared for the outcome. 

He glanced at the man garbed in shabby, golden robes, rumpled and somber. He should not be here, but Jiang Cheng could not find it in himself to send him away. 

“Your plan worked,” Jiang Cheng said and he could not keep the bite from his words. He had hated the plan when he had heard it. He had despised the danger it put his loved ones in, but he had known it was a risk they needed to take. He had known, too, how close he had come to failing. 

“I know,”  the exhaustion apparent in Jin Zixuan's eyes could be heard in his voice. 

“What’s the plan now?” 

“I don’t know. “

“He’s dead, you know.” 

“I know.” 

“He wouldn’t have done it, even if he was alive.” 

“I know.” 

“He wouldn’t have put A-Jie in danger like that.” 

Jiang Cheng thought of two figures standing close together atop a mountain of graves. Fiery words spewed at him like venom. He thought of the devastation he saw on a beautiful, pale face, when confronted with news of his death.  

“He wouldn’t have put either of them in danger.” 

“I know.” 

“Then who did?” 

The question hung pregnant in the air. It silenced even the noisiest cicada; no sound entered the hall. Voices were lost in planks of wood that had already seen too much. Two men stood, weighed down by forces they could not control, but it was not as pressing as the guild that weighed so much more. 

Their eyes met. Jiang Cheng clenched his fist upon polished wood, unspoken questions ringing in his ears. He was too afraid of their answers to voice them. 

The lotus throne continued to grin.

8-8

The corpse made no sound as it scaled the walls of a tower. It did not shuffle leaves as it walked through an empty forest. No one heard it as it moved through the night. Because a corpse, though fierce, is nothing more than death. 

And death could be loud. It could be fighting and battlefields. It could be the tearing of flesh as a body was pierced by a sword or a saber, an arrow or a spear. It could be pools and puddles of burgundy blood congealing against cold skin. It could be screams of agony and pain and sorrow. 

But death could also be silent. It could be a dagger slid between ribs. It could be the slow, agonizing, tightening of a wire cutting through the neck. It could be a needle, piercing just the right artery. It could be a gasp in the dark, unheard and forgotten. 

Death could be kind, too. It could be the gentle slip of old age, surrounded by loved ones. But no one spoke of that kind of death. No one had seen it for so long, many had forgotten it existed, lost as they were in the world of fire and slaughter and war. 

Wen Ning had seen so much death. He had watched soldiers fall. Had seen innocents tortured and murdered for a name. Had felt its icy fingers grip his own. Then he had taken lives, with red stained hands. 

He had been a weapon. His death had been loud, and he had killed just the same. He had felt resentful energy coursing through his veins where qi once roamed. He had been held together by talismans and beads. He had killed with roars and rage. He would do so again if he must, to keep the promise he had made. He held no regret for the things he had done. He had used the anger to protect those he loved.

But now those he loved were dead, and that angry, loud, death was no longer needed. 

He had pulled the nails from his skull and had seen a world of color. He had pulled a nail from his skull and had felt everything : the pain, the guilt, the love. He had pulled the nails from his head and remembered who he was. 

He almost wished he hadn’t, because it hurt so, so much.

He had stood in a barren cell, the nails still held tight between his fingers and wondered if a dead heart could still bleed. He had thought about leaving them there, to rot in the cell like he had been left, but he had pulled those cursed nails through blood and brains and blinding light and he could not let them go. 

He remembered the promise he had made a lifetime ago. And he knew that he had failed to keep it; but there was a talisman tattooed on his chest that glowed in a way it never had before. There was a talisman tattooed on his chest that gave him the strength to pull the needles from his skull, and he knew that had to mean something . There was a feeling bubbling inside of him, and it felt an awful lot like hope. He gripped it tight and refused to let it go. It was the only thing he had left.

He had known deep within his soul that his sister was not there. She was not in the tower and she was not in this land. He had known from the moment the last nail had slurped from his skull that he was there alone. He had felt it the same way he knew he had to leave, knew he had to follow the line tugging so instantly on his diaphragm.

So he had hardened his resolve and set his jaw. He tucked one nail within his sleeve and flipped the other through his fingers. Then he had set about picking the lock on the cell door (so sure they were that he would not be able to think, so sure that their flimsy lock would keep him in, they were so confident that they didn't even try) and it had been so easy. He had melded into the shadows as he walked through forgotten halls. He had scaled the side of the tower, and wandered through haunted forests. He followed the feeling unsure of where it would lead.

The only thing he had was the faint glowing of the talisman on his chest. He hoped it was enough. He hoped it would lead him to his family. 

8-8

There had been a day over a year ago when Luo Qingyang had sat alone at a small table, in a shabby inn, eating a measly meal of rice and root vegetables, that was completely average until it wasn’t. It was the day she had heard the news. 

She had been listening idly to the gossip around the room. She had learned early that it was the best way to gather information as a rogue cultivator. Wagging tongues provided more information than even the most pointed questions. 

She had not been prepared for the words she had heard. 

Jin Zixuan was dead, they said.

The Yiling Patriarch had killed him, they said.

Luo Qingyang had sat frozen, chopsticks held mid air. She had swallowed hard, nearly choking on her rice. She had sat and waited for the gossip across the room to continue. She wasn’t sure she breathed. They had continued, of course, voices loud and carrying; the speakers unworried who could hear them as they drank their wine and ate their feast. 

“It was at Qiongqi Path wasn’t it?” 

“Yeah, Jin set an ambush to capture the Patriarch. They told him that he was invited to the First Month celebration, and he actually believed them!” 

“But how did the young master die? Don't tell me the Yiling Patriarch got the best of him!”

“I heard it was the Ghost General that killed him!” 

“No that isn’t right! I heard it was a sword to the gut, the Ghost General doesn’t use a sword does he?”

Luo Qingyang had peaked a glance over her shoulder to get a glimpse of the rumour spreaders. It was a small group of men from one of the lower cultivator sects. She vaguely recognized the robes, but could not place them. They had never been high ranking or important enough for her to know.

“No, that was how Jin Zixun died you idiot!” Another shouted.

 Luo Qingyang looked back at her food, lowering her chopsticks back into her dish. She had stopped pretending not to eavesdrop and sat staring blankly at the dishes before her. 

 “ I heard that it was the Patriarch himself! And that he cursed Jin Zixun first. Young Master Jin was just trying to defend his cousin's honor.” 

“Ha! Honor? Jin Zixun had no honor! No he deserved what he got! It’s just too bad he didn’t take out Wei Wuxian with him!” 

“Well it doesn’t matter now does it? Wei Wuxian is dead too! I heard he lost his mind, then those fierce corpses of his tore him to bits!” 

The gossip continued, but she stopped listening. It didn’t matter what version was true and which was false--they all spoke the same thing. 

Her friends were dead. 

She had stood up from the table on shaking legs, had paid for the meal and stumbled up the stairs. 

She had stumbled up the stairs to her borrowed room. Then collapsed upon the bed and let herself grieve.

That day her heart broke. It cracked in two. Like water in her lungs, she choked on her regret. Pressure had sat heavy on her chest and her eyes had filled with tears. She had swallowed them back where they clogged her throat and threatened to choke her. 

What had happened? What was true?

She did not regret standing up for Wei Wuxian, she would never take back the words she had spoken in his defense. She had said once that he would not kill without reason, and she believed that even now. 

But, that did not take away the anguish she felt at the news of her friend's death. That did not stop her from thinking, what if? 

What if I had been there for him? For either of them? 

She had known one man since she was a child; she had grown up with him. Had learned to see past all the pompous words to the awkward boy beneath. He had been her brother in all, but blood and name. And she had left him. 

The other man had saved her life. She had stood up for him, had turned her back on the cultivating world for him. But in the end hadn’t she left him, too? 

She had laid in that inn for a long time. She had let herself mourn before she had been forced to move on. 

She had not seen those cultivators again. She had chased the whispers when she could, but they never said anything different. 

Jin Zixuan was dead. The Patriarch killed him. The Patriarch was dead, killed by the monsters that he made. 

She lived with the guilt those words left behind. It haunted her for many months. It never fully dissipated. Remorse and sorrow churned within her stomach and her mind. She spent many long nights staring at ever changing ceilings. 

She had chosen this life. And she would not regret it. She would not lament the choices that she made. She had fought in war and had seen the worst of humanity. Then she had sat in a room made of white and gold and seen the worst of the cultivating world. She had spoken for the man who had saved her life, for the man who had saved them all. She was proud of herself, for standing up when no one else would, but she would never forgive herself for not being there, for not being able to help when her friends needed her. She lived with that knowledge and let it make her stronger. 

For over a year she did what she could to honor their memory. She lived her life with bravery and honor. She stood up against injustice and protected those who could not protect themselves. 

For over a year she lived alone, and tried to honor the memory of two men who should never have died. 

It was in another inn, at another small table with an even worse meal, that she was given a very different piece of news. 

“Young Mistress,” The man before her said as he straightened from his bow, “your presence is requested by my Young Master Jin at Lotus Pier.” 

“Excuse me?” Luo Qingyang blinked at the man before her. 

“My Young Master Jin--Jin Zixuan--requests your presence at Lotus Pier? If you are amenable that is!” He blurted, eyes wide. He stood beside her table, awkward and unsure. She stared at him for a long moment, uncomprehendingly, as he shuffled from one foot to the other, hands now hidden behind his back. 

As she stared, she took in the man before her--the slope of his nose and the small scar on his cheek--and she realized that she knew this man. She had known him in another life. She was sure she had trained with him once, and had fought beside him. He was around her age, maybe a year older, but his skill had always been mediocre. But she remembered, too, that he was one of the few who had followed Jin Zixuan into the Sun Shot Campaign. He had helped to keep guard of the war camps and the injured. He was loyal and good. He was brave. 

She wondered, vaguely and with a taste of amusement, why he stood so uncomfortably now.

But the words he spoke caught up with her, and infested her shocked mind. They were peculiar, and they did not match with the things that she knew. But they rang with such an air of truth, and she could not think of a reason he would lie. 

He shuffled a bit, looking even more unsure at her continued silence. 

“Jin Zixuan’s alive?” She choked out and it sounded like a gasp and breath and prayer. 

The man before her--and she felt horrible that she could not remember his name--nodded enthusiastically, looking relieved that she had finally answered. 

She twisted the sleeves of her pale blue robes. She had stood strong against an ocean of gold with only her resolve and she would never regret her choice. But she did not know what to do, or who to trust. She wanted to believe his words, but she had learned the hard way that not all was what it seemed, and she could not imagine the circumstance that would lead to this; she never imagined she would have been summoned by an emissary of gold to the land of purple. 

Her indecision must have been apparent, because the man looked even more destressed before he jolted suddenly, pulling a piece of paper out of his sleeve, “Oh! I forgot! I was supposed to give you this, too!” 

Luo Qingyang, unfolded the paper gingerly, and nearly sobbed at the familiar handwriting scrawled along the page. 

Mianmian, 

No matter how pretty, there is more to the peony than riches.

Your friend. 

 She thought of a time years ago, in a golden tower they had both called home.

She thought of a boy awkward and unsure, trying to comfort her, as the cruel words of little boys stung her skin, and the humiliation and hurt had pricked her eyes.

“Who even calls themselves Mianmian? It is a stupid name for a stupid looking girl! And have you seen how she follows Jin Zixuan around? Like she even has a chance! She is just a wilting little flower, dumb and dull!”  they had said. 

“Words can take so many meanings. The Lanling Jin sect is symbolized by the peony. Wealth, power and class; it is a legacy we must uphold as members of this sect. But I have learned that different people value different things. It is all about the view point. Like the fùguìhuā , we can be symbols of riches and honor.” Jin Zixuan had said as she had tried and failed not to cry, patting her shoulder clumsily. It had been the most he had ever said to her, and the most confidence she had ever seen within him. 

“Also, people can be assholes, ” he had mumbled when her sniffling did not subside. She had snorted through her tears.

Years later, at a little table in a shabby inn,  there are fresh tears dripping down Luo Qingyang’s cheeks; but she still smiled down at the slip of paper, fingers gently tracing the words.

The man before her vibrated in his nervousness. 

“Does that mean you will come to Lotus Pier?” and there was so much relief found upon his face. 

She had so many questions. There were so many things she did not understand. How was he alive? Why was he at Lotus Pier? Why was the man before her, (a man she clearly knew) wearing dingy brown and not gold? She realized there were so many things she had missed in her time away from the world of cultivation. But at the moment none of that mattered. 

She nodded, the smile playing larger at her lips, “yes, take me to Lotus Pier.” 

Chapter Text

Light filtered through a spectral hand as it traced along the edges of an ivory jaw. Silver irises softened to grey as they took in an exquisite face. Wei Wuxian settled himself against the headboard of the bed, untouched by the dust and grime of the dingy room. 

Hours ago, Lan Wangji had settled into sleep, the internal clock of the Lan’s unavoidable, but he had been uneasy. Wei Wuxian had felt Lan Wangi’s eyes on him as he had lounged still at the low table. It was not until Wei Wuxian had drifted near that he began to settle. It was not until Wei Wuxian had sat tentatively at the side of the bed that the imperceivable rigidity had slackened. 

Something forgotten had quivered in his chest at the sight, and with a long forgotten determination Wei Wuxian had hoisted himself more fully on the bed. Not touching, never that, not even close enough that they would if they could. But so much closer than they ever had been before. Lan Wangji’s eyes watched him, never leaving--but no words left his lips, and the tension lessened with every shift he could see but not feel, until finally his eyelids drooped closed and his breathing evened. 

Wei Wuxian had not left. A candle flickered alone on the table across the room. It had been lit before Lan Wangji had laid down. It had burned down as time had passed, dripping wax onto the table, casting shadows along Lan Wangi’s sleeping face. 

There were facts of the world that Wei Wuxian believed in whole heartedly. They were things that he knew and could not be denied. 

The gentle breeze that drifted along the lakes of Yunmeng, rustling the first blooming lotus blossoms was always the sweetest. 

There was no pain strong enough--no cut deep enough--that laughter could not hide. 

Lan Wangji was beautiful. 

However, here was a softness to him in his sleep. A gentleness that was not there in the waking hours, when his face would harden into impressionless stone. He looked young, delicate, lighter and unburdened. There was no strain taunting his brow and no clenching in his jaw. In sleep he lacked the tension that seemed to so often hold him together.

Wei Wuxian danced his fingers up to Lan Wangji’s cheekbones and wished so desperately he could feel those sharp plains on his skin.  

It was a novelty now, to see him look so unencumbered, expression clear of turmoil and pain.  There had been months where Lan Wangji had been unable to sleep on his back. Long and endless nights, filled with whimpers and bloody wrapping, of ugly gashes that would not heal and a ghostly hand that could offer no comfort. It had been months before Lan Wangji had been able to sleep in any position besides on stomach. Months for the wounds to heal enough to withstand even a bit of pressure, despite Wei Wuxian pouring what little energy he had into them. 

It was a torment that had not eased, not with time and not with healing. It would linger in the scars for years, a punishment never meant to be forgotten. It would forever live in the tightening of Lan Wangji’s shoulders when the wind blew in frigid gusts, and the stiffness that infiltrated his gate when he walked for long hours. Wei Wuxian hated it with a passion. He hated it with a rancor he hated little else. But there was nothing he could do about it, and so he tried to push it down. 

He never mentioned it, either. Never tried to ease the hurt or offer aid, at least not in the hours Lan Wangji was awake. It did not stop him from pulsing energy into them, when the nights were cold and the crinkle in Lan Wangji’s sleep-soft brow did not ease. 

It was a silent agreement between them, that they did not speak of the scars, as if broaching the subject would reopen wounds older and rawer than the ones on Lan Wangji’s back. It stung in a way, to know there were things about Lan Wangji that he did not know, but he had no ground to stand on, not when his own path was riddled with depletion and deceit. He could not yet bring himself to show those ugly bits to a man so clean and wondered if maybe there were secrets better left silent, and burdens easier to bear alone. 

He remembered a boy in white, with a broken leg, who dragged him from bloody water. A boy who smashed healing salve into a fresh burn. Memories lingered like wine stains, faded but never forgotten. He remembered a boy who would not admit to pain, nor accept the help he offered.  

What was the point of hurting others more, by sharing things that could not be changed? 

He could not keep himself from wondering, from piecing it together, bits of words and brittle looks. A little boy with a Lan ribbon and a brother's worried gaze.

The ideas churned in the back of his mind and never dissipated. They whispered to him on long nights, because there was a part of him--tender and raw--that thought he might know. 

Wei Wuxian was never able to squash the bit of guilt that wriggled near his heart. He was never able to silence the tiny voice--the voice that sounded like Madam Yu, like Lan Qiren, like Jiang Cheng---that told him he might be the cause. 

It was an added burden, an added guilt and it melded so well with all the rest.

He had given everything up. He had left bits and pieces of himself across battlefield fields and meeting halls until there was nothing of him left.

He did not regret any of it. He refused to dwell on those mistakes and he would not change the things that he had done on the path that he had walked. But it did not stop the relief he felt for it all to be over, nor could he help the selfish part of him that wanted to cling to this small bit of life that had been granted to him. 

He wondered what it said about him, that he was happiest after death.

He had a dream once, silly and childish and impossible to obtain. It was a figment of a hope. A glimmer of a life that could not be his. 

He had pictured himself as his mother had once been, astride a donkey with a child in his arms, the reins being held by another.

He chuckled now as he thought of it. At the hope it had held. The life lost in fire and blood and wrong decisions. He wondered, too, what Lan Wangji would say if he ever told him; if he would have been willing to go with him, to travel the world together with nothing between them, the air ringing with childish laughter.

Wei Wuxian shifted, a parody of settling. He was nothing more than a flicker of light against the walls, he was hidden in the cracks of the ugly room. He let his hand rest above silken hair and settled in for the night. 

8-8

There was someone pounding on his door, hard enough to have the wood shaking in the frame.

Nie Mingjue's hand reached for Baxia before his eyes opened--before rational thought could catch up to him--his hands were curling around her hilt. 

War habits die hard and Nie Mingjue had gotten very good at war. He was across the room in a blink. Adrenaline pumped through him, and it mixed with the rage that was ever present. His arms shook and the killing intent ate at him. He was poised for a threat. He threw the door open to reveal Nie Zonghui framed by the candle light that lit the stone hall. 

Nie Zonghui did not flinch at the saber pointed at him. Instead he leveled Nie Mingjue with a long assessing look.

Nie Mingjue tried to stifle the sigh that threatened to slip past his lips. Instead, he rolled his shoulders in an attempt to release the tension that had coiled between the blades. Nie Zonghiu nodded, acknowledging the effort he was making. The moment dragged as Nie Mingjue tried to get himself under control, until finally he lowered his blade. He did not loosen his grip upon the hilt, still unable to let down his defenses so fully. 

“What is it?” he barked and hated how harsh his words sounded. 

Nie Zonghui bowed shallowly, “I am sorry for waking you so late Sect Leader, but you need to see this.” 

There was a mediocre flicker of remorse in his eyes when he lifted his head; Nie Mingjue knew it was for interrupting his sleep. A rarity it was, for him to sleep the full night through. It had been so difficult for Nie Mingjue to lay in bed, to hear the screams and moans of war, and so, instead, he would roam the halls and ramparts like a ghost, saber in hand and restlessness coating his skin. He knew his disciples had been worried. He hated the fear he had seen grow within them over the past few years. The fear for him. The fear of him. He could see the apprehension in their eyes and feel it in the air. He was supposed to be the Sect Leader, he was supposed to lead them, to protect them. Instead, they tiptoed around him in an attempt to avoid his temper. He knew they were trying to help, but he hated it all the same. 

He had seen the worry ease in the past few weeks. It had filtered out of the air like steam. Smiles slowly spread along the faces of the younger cultivators. The furrowed brows easing on those who had been with him through battle. Its reappearance in Nie Zonghui was a thorn in his side; a sliver below his nail. It was irritating and unwanted. It was worse, still, to acknowledge the reason it had returned. To know that the music he had been subjected to had actually helped. To be so dependent on another, the knowledge grated and he did not know which he hated more. 

He took a long, deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth, like Huasiang always whined at him to do. When he spoke again, his voice was a touch softer, but still filled with metal. 

“Alright, lead the way.” 

With another nod, Nie Zonghui turned and Nie Mingjue followed his second through the halls, past the guards and to the main meeting hall’s massive doors. The doors were older than he knew, and had seen more life then he had lived. They had witnessed war and death and qi deviation. They had been covered with blood, by friend and foe. He had ran through them as a child and stormed through them as a sect leader. They were impenetrable. They were unabated.

He envied them for being unwavering. He wondered what they would open to reveal.

Nie Zonghui paused, as though he knew the thoughts of his leader before pushing one door open. 

Two of his younger cultivators stood in the great hall, leaning heavily against each other. They were too old to be juniors; no longer needing chaperones on night hunts, but still so desperately young. Too young to know the true horrors of war and battle, too young to understand loss. He hated that he saw the beginning of that understanding etched around their eyes. 

Nie Mingjue studied them for a long moment. They were exhausted, robes rumpled and covered in dirt and blood and things undefined. These were two of the young men he had sent with Lan Wangji. His heart stuttered and he clenched his fist around Baxia. They were only two when he had sent many more. 

“What happened?” he asked, low and serious. 

The boys shuddered, but did not flinch. They looked him in the eyes tall and proud, as they began their tale. They weaved a story of darkness, of skeletons rising and falling and never resting. They spoke of a man who controlled the shadows and how those shadows turned on him. They spun a story he had heard before, but still so different. 

Baxia shivered as the resentment coursed through her. His spine stiffened as he felt the same energy race through him. It was an old anger. One that he had known since he was young. 

He did not remember much of the hours that followed. Of gathering some of his senior disciples together or sending out scouts to find Lan Wangji and the party that was still out there. He did not think of much until he was standing on Baxia flying through clouds.

Then he thought of his brother, his worried eyes shining across the hall as Nie Mingjue had directed his disciples; worried for his shidi, worried for his friend, worried for what this may mean for Nie Mingjue himself. He did not know how to ease his brother's distress and so he did not try.

He thought of a little boy tucked into bed, unaware of what lived in the shadows. Who had cried himself to sleep, awaiting his father’s return.

He sighed again, and pushed his saber faster. 

8-8

They had not expected Ne Mingjue to find them as quickly as he did, but maybe they should have. 

Their small party had barely left the inn--had just begun taking their first steps--when a flurry of cultivators garbed in green and grey descended upon the little village.

There was enmity on his face, and determination in his stride. He commanded the cultivators he had brought with him, like he had never left the battlefield. The tired juniors followed behind. 

The proceedings after were quick. The healers looked over the injured mending wounds still untreated and rewrapping those that were. Xue Yang’s still unconscious body was shackled with iron instead of rope. 

Nie Mingjue did not miss the color of his robes. Baxia rattled on his back and his jaw was clenched tight. Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian exchanged looks, a silent conversation as they watched him. But he did no more than growl and instruct the senior disciples to watch him closely. They hauled him away soon after. Holding him between two of the stronger cultivators, they flew him back to Qinghe ahead of the rest, hoping to have him imprisoned before he awoke. 

They began the trek back to Qinghe, a pathetic parody of their trip to Yueyang. The disciples were silent, bruised and bloodied. It was a dismal trip, silent and ugly. There were bodies to be buried and scars that would remain. 

Not even Wei Wuxian was willing to try to fill the silence, even if no one could hear him. He commented on the weather, on the birds that flew passed, but they were quiet. 

Soft amber eyes tracked his movements, he felt them like a shiver. He was no better; he followed Lan Wangji, never more than an arm's reach away. Neither of them seemed willing to widen the distance, neither willing to part.

They moved like that--a broken stuttered party--along the dirty roads, Nie Mingjue watching like a hawk, guard up and simmering. He did not relax until they reached the impenetrable stone wall. 

Nie Mingjue barked more orders, sending the injured to the medical wing, and the others to go rest. Their little party dispersed one by one. However, before they left, the young cultivators sent with Lan Wangji turned to him as one and bowed. Wei Wuxian could not keep the smile off his face or the teasing light from his eyes. He knew Lan Wangji could tell; he could tell by the pucker at the corner of Lan Wangi’s lips. He laughed. 

Nie Mingjue watched this with a careful look in his eye, before nodding his approval. When all the disciples had disassembled, he turned to Lan Wangji. 

“Come,” he said, and gone was the voice of a commander. “I know someone that has missed you.” Then turned to make his way deeper into the walls.

Lan Wangji responded with a nod and a hum, but Wei Wuxian could see the excitement, the anticipation that buzzed barely below the surface. Wei Wuxian drifted along behind Lan Wangji as he made his way through the compound. His steps light once again. Lan Wangi’s strides were long, his hurry barely perceivable, as they followed Mingjue. 

The guards at the entrance to the receiving hall nodded once upon their arrival, before pushing open the doors.

“This is the second time Da-ge! You can’t just keep leaving him with me! I don’t know what to do!” Nie Hauisang shrieked when the large doors swung open, uncaring of who walked through.

Wei Wuxian wanted to laugh at the familiarity of that whine. He had heard it so many times, fond memories of stolen moments found within freezing creeks and long nights of wine and laughs. They were memories of happier times. Nie Hauisang had draped himself along his brother's shoulders, complaining of paint and fans and other things Wei Wuxian could not catch. A smile small and sad slipped along his mouth. He glanced at Lan Wangji, could see the amusement playing along his brow.

Nie Hauisang’s tirade was interrupted by a wailing streak of white tumbling across the floor. “A-die! A-die your back!” 

There were tears in his eyes, but ecstaticism in his words. Lan Wangji knelt as soon as he heard the thundering feet, and so was prepared when A-Yuan threw himself forward. He caught him easily and in a fluid motion, stood again, with the child in his arms. The child sobbed and prattled, his words smooshed until they were nothing but mumbled sounds. Lan Wangji stroked his hair with one hand, humming comforting sounds. A-Yuan’s mumbling waned, before finally asking, small and quiet, voice nearly a whisper, “Baba?” 

Wei Wuxian settled his hand over Lan Wangji’s, over A-Yuan’s hair. He focused, pushing as much energy as he could into the contact point, until he saw the tension in A-Yuan ease.

Lan Wangji’s heart shuttered, before lifting his head to meet a silver gaze. “Yes, A-Yuan, Baba is here.”  

Neither noticed calculating eyes watching from across the hall. 

Chapter Text

Luo Qingyang stared up at the gates of Lotus Pier, wood-stained light, a lotus etched into the doors. It was a symphony of greens and blues and disciples in purple. She gasped on a deep breath and felt the flutter in her chest. She did not know what these wooden walls held. She did not know what she would be met with inside, but she could not tamp down the expectation, the hopeless flutter. Her friend was inside. Jin Zixuan was inside these walls. 

Jin Zixuan was alive. 

She did not have to stand there long. The gates opened and a disciple bowed and greeted her, while another ran off deeper into the docks. It was not a surprise when her vision was filled with deep violet. 

Jiang Wanyin stood before her, his face dark as thunder, the scowl still permanently etched on his face. “Mistress Lou,” he said in greeting with a dip of his head. “Welcome to Lotus Pier.” 

“Sect Leader Jiang,” she replied as she bowed. 

He was the same as he had been, all scowls and anger. But there was something more to him now. Something cracked and broken beneath the surface. A brittleness that even she could see. She wondered what could have broken him. She wondered if she already knew.

They had never conversed, just the two of them. And she realized as they stood now--taking stock of each other-- that they would not be starting now. 

He nodded to her once more before he turned on his heel, “please follow me.”

The air in Yunmeng sat differently. The streets she had walked through had been filled with laughter--with smiles and joy. It was warm with comfort. It was heavy with age and old with wisdom. It settled on her shoulders like a fathers hand, and tension she did not know eased. There was an honesty to Yunmeng, to Lotus Pier. The city wore its scars like marks of honor-- with pride and with passion.

Like a man she once knew. 

The disciples she passed were full of smiles and gentle cheer. She wondered if it was always this way, or if once that joy had been louder, fuller. Did they all feel the ache of those scars that they bared with so much pride?  Were their faces as brittle as their leaders? Held together by smiles instead of scowls? She shook her head. She would never know the answer, and it was not a problem of her concern. 

She followed Jiang Wanyin through the labyrinth that was Lotus Pier. He led her past the main hall, to smaller rooms in the back. They stopped before another wooden door. Simple and plain, it was not paved in gold, there were no engravings. There was none of the lavish extravigancies she would expect. 

“He’s in here,” Jiang Wanyin said, before giving a swift nod and disappearing into the pier. 

She pushed the door open, tentative and slow, until she saw him seated at a low table, tea tray before him. He looked as he always did, bathed in gold, the sun shining off of pale robes and highlighting gentle features. But his hair was plain--free of ornaments and accessories. His face was softer, no longer pinched by expectations he could not meet. 

Marriage looks good on him , she thought.

This was her friend, here and alive. Here, before her and safe. 

Here . 

She wanted to weep, but she was so tired of crying, so she swallowed it down until the tears lodged in her throat. She sniffled a little. He noticed her then. His head lifted, and their gaze met. 

He rose quickly, almost stumbling to his feet. A smile played about his features. “MianMian,” he all but shouted, the name coming out in a rush. 

“Young Master Jin,” she said, then bowed low and deep befitting of her station.

Hands fell gently at her elbows lifting her up. She could not remember when she had walked farther into the room, or when he had stepped to meet her. 

“MianMian. We have known each other too long and too well for that,” his voice was gentle and it prickled along her heart. 

She could not speak, too afraid of what would escape when her lips parted. His hands still rested on her elbows, but his smile weakened at her silence. He looked nervous, sad. She wanted to ease the pain she saw so clearly on his face. She wanted to comfort him, but the words twisted in her throat, they drowned in her tears, in the sobs that threatened to tear her apart. 

“I owe you an apology, Luo Qingyang. Thank you for the years you have followed and served as one of my disciples. I should not have let you leave that day. I should have listened to you… I have made a lot of mistakes, and I put my faith in the wrong people. I’m sorry for that. But Luo Qingyang, MianMian, I want you to remember, no matter what clan you may or may not be a part of, you have always been my friend.” 

He bowed, farther than she had--farther than a man so great ever should-- farther then she deserved. 

The dam broke. 

“I thought you were dead!” her words cracked down the center, her voice catching on the sobs she had tried to hide. She shook. She wrapped her arms around her torso. Water leaked down her cheeks and she did not know where it began and where she ended. There was nothing but the guilt and the grief and it tore through her spleen, through her heart, through her lungs.

Strong arms wrapped around her, hesitant and gentle, drawing her to rest against soft yellow silk. He held her together as the months and the years caught up with her in a moment. The jeers of cultivators she could not name as she stood up for what she believed was right. The days spent on empty roads, alone and scared. The nights spent curled up in foreign beds, missing the companionship found within shared dorms. 

She wept into the fabric, soaking it through. 

“I thought you were dead and it was all my fault! I should never have left, I should have stayed with you. It was my job to protect you, and I failed and you died and I--I should have been there! I didn’t know what happened to you! They said you died. They said Wei Wuxian killed you!”

He held her as she cried, and it was the most secure she felt in years. It was long moments before she extracted herself from his hold. 

“Well I didn’t,” he stuttered, filled with his old awkwardness, his arms tensing around her. She looked up at him through her lashes, pushing away from him slightly. 

“Didn’t what?” She croaked, voice raw. 

She felt the sigh ruffle her hair, “Die.” 

Luo Qingyang gurgled out a laugh, “I can see that.” 

She pushed herself away from his chest, putting a bit of space between them. Then she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and tried to regain her composure. A handkerchief was slipped into her hand. She smiled slightly at the peony embroidered in the corner. 

“I'm sorry,” she mumbled.

“There is nothing to apologize for."

He stood before her strong and sure. There was no misplaced arrogance in him. None of the childish pride. This was a man strong and proud. Weathered by time and circumstance. 

She sniffled and nodded. She did not agree, there was much she could say. She could lay out every fault she had, every error she had made. But it was not worth it. There was no point to dredge up useless pain. Or to argue about things they could not fix. 

She blotted at her eyes, mopping up the tears. She pulled herself together and stood up tall. She was no longer a disciple of the Jin, but that did not make her nothing. She was strong, she was capable, and she would follow the man before her, her friend, anywhere. She would not fail to protect him again. 

She sniffed one more time, before meeting Jin Zixuan’s eyes, “Well,” she said, “What have I missed?” 

8-8

The breeze was cool as it swept along the waters. A shiver ran along Wen Qing's skin, but it was a balm to the hot, sticky, days that were so present in Yunmeng. It rustled through the trees, disturbing the birds until they squawked in displeasure. Their calls melded with the frogs croaking and the distant laughter of the villagers. The setting sun illuminated pinks of the lotus blossoms where they danced along the surface. She stood at the end of the pier and watched it all.

It was beautiful, it was everything she had heard about; described in wistful words by a skeletal man knee deep in murky corpse water.

But it was wrong.

There was a coldness left in bright wood, and a sadness lost between its planks. The water did not glitter so bright in the sun and the flowers always looked near wilt. There was laughter, but it was distant, and if she strained her ears enough she could hear the distant call of a crow. The villagers did not sell turnips, or potatoes, only lotus seeds, and she found she did not have the taste for them. 

There was an indigo shadow that stalked her steps, but never spoke. He walked behind and on piers adjacent. He watched her, and she watched him. Waiting. He glared at her from his seat on his grinning throne and she could not find it in herself to care. Instead, she walked. 

Her days stretched long. Idle hours ticked past, as she wandered lonely paths, remade and beautiful, but she suspected, not as strong as they had once been. There was nothing for her, here. Nothing hidden between wooden planks waiting to be found. 

She was brittle. She was made of jagged edges, broken and sharp, smashed together in a facsimile of what she used to be and held together by a fraying string. With one small tug, it would unravel and she would fall to pieces. She would be nothing more than shattered glass upon the ground. As useless as a broken sword cracked in two. But she could not. She could not let herself falter. She could not let herself break. She knew that if she did, she was not strong enough to put herself back together again. 

She had decided that she did not want to die. That she could not. Death would be an insult to both her brothers. To the one she failed to save and the one she could not find. So she lived. She lived and glided over wooden planks that were cold and dead. Ignoring the shadow that followed her and longing for a place burned by the sun. 

Soon, she would pull herself together. Soon, maybe she would try to find a place for herself in this world. But not yet. Not when the string was so frayed and her emotions were so raw. Not when a single gust of wind could so easily shatter her. At the moment all she could do was haunt a pier already filled with ghosts.

8-8

She glided closer to him, steps light upon the wooden pier. She moved with grace, with grandeur hidden beneath her frail bones. She was not a being made to be a servant, not a girl made for hiding in the shadows. She was a woman made of elegance, or righteousness and strength. 

He froze as she neared. He could not move from the path. Could not run or hide or pretend like he had not been following. His legs were made of lead and his heart hammered like a drum against his ribs. He folded his hands behind his back, and clenched them tight. He waited. 

She stopped before him. A goddess. beautiful and ethereal. 

He looked at her, at her face stunning in the night moon's glow; she looked delicate and lost. But he knew underneath, her spine was made of steel. 

Silence stretched long and weighty. When he did not speak she dipped her head,  “Sandu Shengshou,” she said, but she would not meet his eyes. 

There were words he wished to say. They sat like a sore on the tip of his tongue, but he ground his teeth and refused to let them pass. He let the silence stretch. He let it grow and twist and create a monster all its own. One that fed on his ineptitude, and flourished in his failure.  

She said nothing else as she walked away. Down the lonely pier. It was a path she walked every night. Long and twisted and lonely. He had never been brave enough to join her. He never gathered the courage to do much more than follow on adjacent paths. 

His nails bit crescents into the palms of his hands. 

Sandu Shengshou .

It echoed in his mind, tapping in time with her fading steps. He hated when she called him that, because he knew it was not a compliment. Each time she spoke his title, it was with an air of sarcasm, and a tone of condescension. 

And he could not fault her for it, for her anger or her hate. He deserved it. He had let her down again and again. He had made promises and he had broken them with no remorse. 

He had played at helping her, but what had he done really? Sent a few people to search a dungeon? He had not tried to do much more. He had not wanted to. 

He had watched her sink to her knees in mud. Had witnessed her helping men who would hate her for her name.  And he had realized then the mistake he had made. He could add them to his growing list. 

He could still see her face, smudged with dirt and grime and way too thin. She had asked him once if he would have helped her. He couldn't answer her then.

He had seen her bring a man from the brink of death, and had asked him for nothing in return but to help her brother. 

And he had failed her in even that. 

He wished then he could see anything but red. 

Red robes and fire. Screams and smoke. 

A shadow slipped from behind him, and for a moment he thought she was back. He thought that maybe this time when he parted his lips, something more than nothing would slip past. But the steps were too faint. Too soft and gentle; too filled with a surety made from walking these piers since birth. 

He turned to meet a pair of matching eyes. His sister stood behind him, expression soothing.

“A-Cheng.” 

“A-Jie, what are you doing here? Where is A-Ling, or your husband?” He asked. He hoped she had not bore witness to the scene that just occured. 

“They are fine, A- Cheng. A-Xuan took A-Ling to meet Luo Qingyang.” 

“Oh,” he said, and then continued, desperate to fill the air, “you didn’t want to be there?” 

She smiled softly as she looked out over the lakes that surrounded their home. “No, this time is for them. We can all get together to speak more fully later.” 

He hummed something in agreement, trying to think of something else to distract her. He was not fast enough, however, and his hopes were dashed when she pointedly looked in the direction that Wen Qing had left in.

“What are you doing A-Cheng?” she asked, and her voice was gentle, filled with nothing but curiosity. He wanted to shrink from it, from the question and the understanding he saw in the corners of her eyes. 

“Nothing.” 

“A-Cheng,” and her voice was firmer, not harsh, never abrasive, but just enough that he knew he could not lie. 

“A-Jie,” he said and he hated how much it sounded like a whine. He hated how young he always sounded around his sister, as if he was still a little boy in need of comfort.

 Maybe he was. 

“Why don’t you just tell her A-Cheng?” She reached for him, until he felt her hand settle on his arm. Only then did he realize he had been twisting the fabric of his robes in his fists. 

“There is nothing to say.” 

He could not look in her eyes. He could not bear to see the sadness sure to be there. Nor could he handle it if he saw pity. 

"Ah, A-Cheng you let your anger and hate shroud your judgment. Haven't we lost enough?"

The words shaped into fire, into whips and a hand that burned along his chest--that burned through him, inside of him, taking everything. Rain and tears and mud and blood. Months searching for a lost soul. A war they were too young to fight. 

Then they morphed again. A hill of bones and two strong souls, shoulder to shoulder, refusing to budge. Red in sunlight and black in shadow. Promises made and broken. New ones made with no intention to keep. 

“No, A-Jie, you don’t understand,” and his voice was raw, his throat clogged with too many memories. He wanted to rip his arm away from her. He did not deserve to be comforted in this moment. He did not deserve to. But he could not bring himself to pull away, too weak to face the hurt on his sister's face if he did so. 

The look his sister gave him was shrewd. It was so at odds to the faint squeeze she gave his arm.

“You may not believe me yet, but I want you to remember this. A-Cheng, after everything you have been through, you deserve to be happy. Do not let yourself sabotage what does not need to be destroyed.” 

He did not move. She smiled at him again. It was the same smile she had given him long ago, with Wei Wuxian on her back, as she carried him back home. It was a smile of indulgence, of understanding. Of care and hope.

It was love.

He wanted to believe her. He wanted to fall into his sister's comfort like he had all those years ago. But in this he could not. In this he knew that he did not deserve her words or her trust. He knew that he had failed one too many times. 

She patted his arm when she saw he had no more words to say. “Think about it okay?” 

Then she turned back from where she came, robes softly rustling in the breeze. Leaving Jiang Cheng standing on a lonely pier with nothing but his thoughts.

8-8

He walked through the night and he walked through the day. He did not stop, because a corpse had no need. He kept to the shadows and away from the roads. He did not want to shock anyone, to bring them fear for what he was. That was not his purpose. That was not his goal.

He only had one mission, to follow the light. He walked and walked and did not stop. He could not, for the desperate pull did not abade.

He moved as death, silent and inevitable. He pushed forward, until he hit a wall. A fortress. A realm unclean. And then he waited.

Chapter Text

A letter crinkled beneath calloused fingers. Creases formed along its surface. Its golden edges began to chip. It was a letter written in a beautiful script, on priceless paper--thin and fine, held together by a seal and a ribbon of yellow and gold. It was a magnificent shell, an ostentation exterior that covered its malicious intent.

The Jin’s were coming, the letter read.

It was an announcement.

It was a warning. 

They touted familiar concern, and boast of good relations. They said they wished to see the progress that Lotus Pier had made since the end of the war.  

They invited the other Sects to promote unity.

It was an insult. It was a command. It was a chance to put Yunmeng on the spot, to ridicule them if they were not perfect--if they were not what they once were. It was a slight that Jiang Cheng could not ignore. 

It was given with an ulterior motive, too. Flimsy in its concealment.  It was a chance for the Jin’s to spy, to look to the place where their son and heir had fled--to determine their worth--and to sniff out a conspiracy. 

They were unprepared. They had not had time to plan. They had barely picked themselves back up from the attack, had wrapped and bandaged wounds, but had not had enough time to heal. 

They had not had time to come up with a solution. There was no way to address the growing whispers that were sweeping through the villages, or the rumors of darkness growing across the land. They had barely settled, barely patched themselves together. Now they would not get the chance to breath before being confronted with another battle; this one more silent than the last. 

It was a chance for the Jin’s to flaunt their power. To remind them all who was the strongest, the biggest, the richest; the most unaffected by the war. It was a reminder where the Chief Cultivator lived. 

The letter ripped between Jiang Cheng’s fingers. 

It was an imposition, it was an insult. Everyone knew how bady the Jiang sect had been decimated by the war. It was common knowledge how the pier had burned and the disciples slaughtered. They had rebuilt, they had grown their numbers slowly, but they had not regained enough. 

But there was nothing they could do, there was no denying this summons. And so Jiang Cheng grit his teeth and penned his reply. 

8-8

Nie Hausiang had heard the whispers brimming with blood and fear and darkness.  The disciples who had traveled with Hanguang-Jun had spoken of it all, with voices filled with fear and awe. They had spoken, too, of how it had ended. How the Amulet had drawn in the resentful energy, how golden light had trapped it and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until there was nothing left but a body lying on the ground.

Some said that it was the Amulet rejecting a false master; they said even after death the Yiling Patriarch was too strong. No one else was so corrupt. No one else could harness resentful energy as he had. And so his own invention had destroyed itself, finishing the job its master could not. 

Others said that it had to have been Hanguang-Jun. The man who had stood alone amidst the darkness. Who else could it have been but the pillar of light. The man who hated demon cultivation, who had been adversaries with the Yiling Patriarch. He wore the demon flute as a battle prize and destroyed the man's greatest weapon. 

Nie Hausiang could not believe that was true, not anymore:. Not when there was a child with a red ribbon in his hair and a smile that could rival the suns. He wondered if those that said that had eyes, or if they were blind to the way Lan Wangji’s hand would sometimes drop to the flute fingers running along the ridges as though in comfort. If they missed the way Lan Wangji’s jaw would clench when they spoke of the monster who had once been Wei Wuxian. 

There was a letter on the floor, wrapped in gold and painted yellow, inviting them all to Yunmeng. Nie Huasiang could not stop from wondering how that tied in to it all, because to him there was no question that it did, that everything was connected. 

It did not matter though, what the young thought or what the elders muttered in ghost stories. It did not matter who had destroyed the Amulet, because in the end, the result was the same. 

In the end, there was a man inside their dungeon, who had murdered and killed. A man who had wielded resentful energy, had held the The Stygian Tiger Amulet in his hands, had felt the resentment roll through him and had smiled. There was a man inside their dungeon and he was wearing Jin yellow. 

In the end the disciples who had come back were hardened. They had seen blood and dead walking. They had seen things unnatural and their brothers die. They had been young when they left and old when they returned. 

In the end, he had had to watch as Da-ge had paced and raged. His brother had wanted to storm Koi Tower. He had wanted to demand justice, to confront the Jins, to stab at them with all his accusations. It had taken the combined whining of Nie Hausiang and the strong-armed force of Nie Zonghui to keep him inside the stone walls. It had taken hours. A night filled with tears and rage filled yells. The Nie’s had been in disorder, and Hanguang-Jun had witnessed it all, a stone statue seated in the corner of the hall, a child dozing lightly in his lap as he sipped his tea. 

If there was room still for embarrassment, then Nie Huasiang would have felt it, but he could not, heart and lungs too filled with fear at the regression he was seeing. Da-ge had been doing so much better since Hanguang-Jun had begun to play, and there was a bone deep fear that harrowed Nie Huasiang that all that progress would be lost. That the weeks of calm nights, with no steps walking the battalion, nor midnight rages. 

His brother snarled again. Ranting still about the immoral acts, about justice and lies and snakes with yellow scales and lying smiles. Nie Huasiang hung on his brother's arm like a fluttering sleeve and felt just as useless. 

It was not until Hanguang-Jun stood from where he had been seated--the child curled in his arms clinging to him so tightly that their white robes had blended together--that the room had quieted. 

"Arguing solves nothing,” He spoke with an air of exhaustion, a look so foreign it was jarring. The others froze, as they had forgotten that he was in the room. This was a dance they had learned long ago, and repeated for so many years, they were accustomed to having an audience. 

If Lan Wangji noticed their hesitation he did not acknowledge it. 

“We are not arguing,” Nie Mingjue barked. His frustration sharpened his words until they were as pointed as Baxia, the saber rattling in Nie Zonghui’s hand--it had been confiscated early on when the shouting had first begun. Nie Hausiang tightened his grip where he had his arms wrapped around his brother's bicep. He saw Nie Zonghui tense from where he stood on his brother's other side. 

“Da-ge,” he whispered. He did not know the word was meant to be, a warning or a plea. His eyes darted to the other man unsure of what to do. 

Hanguang-Jun continued as if the others had not spoken. He stepped closer, unencumbered by the child clinging to him, and looking no less regal. 

“Your anger is justified, but you are not asking the right questions,” he said, voice ever rising and eyes observing the trio before him. 

They all straightened. Nie Zonghui’s grip tensed on Baxia held behind his back, his brow lifted in as he watched. Nie Minjue grit his teeth and hissed, “What question should we be asking then?” But there was a new tension in him, more poised than he was before, seeing a possible outlet for the fury building inside of him. 

Hanguang-Jun stopped before them, poised in the middle of the room, a single beam of light that could not be touched by grim or darkness.  He faced Nie Mingjue and when he spoke there was more to his voice than ice,  "Wei Ying died trying to destroy the Stygian Tiger Amulet. We should be questioning, instead, how it still existed until now." 

No one commented on the intimacy of that name. Nie Huaisang wondered if anyone else heard how the decibels softened at the syllables. He watched Lan Wangji from where he was at his brother's side, and searched, as he had that first day, for any chinks within his perfect mask. There had been something off about the man since he first stepped foot though their doors. He had arrived as a shell, desolate and alone, and Nie Huaisang had wondered what could break a man so great as Hanguang-Jun. He wondered, too, if Lan Xichen had made a mistake--if this walking wrath could help his brother at all.

He had been proven wrong the next day when Hanguang-Jun returned, black stripe painting his hip. In a night he resembled the man they had all known, a bearer of light, a pillar of strength. Nie Huaisang had felt a moment of relief, a feeling that only grew as Hanguang-Jun played and his brother improved. But he could not help the feeling of unease, of wrongness he still felt when he watched Lan Wangji. There was something different about him, a defiance in his rigidity that had not existed in the war, that had not existed before his year of seclusion. 

He could not help but wonder how much of that contumacy was tied to the small boy at his side, who smiled so sweetly, like a memory. 

It took a moment too long for the words to sink into Nie Huasiang’s muddled brain--too lost in memories and fear-- but as soon as it did, his mind began to whirl. He had been to worried about his brother--about the anger he had seen creep along his brow, the return of the rage that had triggered his fears that asked over and over whatifwhatifwhatif ?--he had seen the world spiraling, he saw it end in bloody rage and had felt useless, had felt terror. He had felt his meager control sift through his fingers. He had forgotten how to think. Rumors' ran like water, down the valley and across rice fields; they pooled in lakes. They grew and ebbed and grew again. 

They spread and spread, even through the stone walls of Qinghe. 

There had been whispers of corpsed walking and resentful energy shadowing across golden land. 

“Hanguang-Jun is right, Da-ge,” he said, tugging harder on his brother's arm. His mind twisting and tripping over words--trying to slot them together; trying to paint them together, taking care with each stroke until he created an image that he wanted. 

“Well, what is it that you suggest we do then?” Nie Mingjue asked, the words losing their edge as he looked toward his brother. 

“Da-ge you said so yourself, the Jin’s can’t be trusted. But Da-ge, you are right, too. They have too much power, confronting them--” Nie Mingjue's eyes darkened, and Nie Huaisang realized he had misspoke. They all knew that a confrontation with the Jin’s would end in blood and more Nie bodies, but to utter it would only push his brother into trying to prove them all wrong. That was not an outcome Nie Huaisang could ignore.

Nie Huaisang’s heart hammered as he tried to find another avenue. His gaze darted to the letter forgotten on the floor. 

“Da-ge,” His words were hesitant as a plan formulated on his tongue, “The Jin’s have issued an invitation to Lotus Pier. This is a grave insult, we all know this. I know Sect Leader Jiang, I am sure he knows this for the slight that it is. I am sure he is angry, but the Jiang’s are still rebuilding. What if--what if we attended?"

His brother tipped his head to the side, closer to him to show that he was listening. “What would be the point of that? Giving in to the Jin's demands?” 

"But that's just it! We won't, not really! Yes, I guess we will be accepting their invitation, but if we go, we can--we can read the political landscape, if you will? We need allies and this could be the best way to find them.”

I need to learn more, he thought but did not say. Things are happening outside of these walls that we do not understand. 

He could see his brother’s resolve wavering. Nie Mingjue was not dumb, he had won a war with determination and strategy. He could see the faults in his plan, the weakness a good strategist could not ignore. 

Nie Huaisang could taste how close he was to victory, to sparing his brother's life for just a moment more. His gaze flickered to Lan Wangji--who had not spoken and had not moved--before looking back at his brother, eyes wide and watering. 

“Please, Da-ge," and if for a moment he let some of his fear slip into his words, he knew no one would blame him; he knew no one in this room would hold him to that moment of weakness. "Let's just wait. Let's plan this out a little bit more. Please." 

He saw the idea settle along his brother's shoulders, saw the calculations fluctuate in his eyes. Nie Huaisang knew the moment he had won; victory shivered up his spine the moment his brother nodded, a single sharp moment more to himself then the others. 

“Alright, we will go to Yunmeng,” he said. Nie Huaisang eased his grip on his brother's arm. His immediate anxiety eased. He resisted the urge to sigh. For now his brother was calm. For now  he had time--time to think and to plan. 

For now they were going to Yunmeng. 

Once, long ago there had been promises made, through drunken giggles, of visits and friendship and brotherhood. Nie Huaisang had made such a promise with two friends he had made years ago in a foreign land; a place too stuffy and too strange for any of them. Those days had been filled with long nights of laughter, of shared secrets and smiles. It had been his happiest time once. Before the world broke. Before he lost his two friends; one to death and one to the rigors of leadership.

For now he had saved his brother, but--his eyes flickered to a black flute and a red ribbon-- not everyone was so lucky. 

He could not help but notice Lan Wangji had not shifted from where he stood still in the center of the room, but his shoulder held a new tension. His arms tightened around the small body snuggled into his chest and his brows crinkled just the slightest bit as he stared at an empty corner of the room. 

8-8

The invitation had arrived along with a missive from Lan Xichen. It had fluttered to the floor when Nie Huaisang had picked the invitation back up, trying to read the finer details.  

It had been written on the same parchment, sealed with golden wax. Lan Wangji picked at it until it crusted under his nails.  

The words were honeyed; sticky sweet. The worry from his brother was pliable, but cloaked in layers of niceties. It was a remembered taste and made bile rise in his throat.  His brother held no insincerities, this he knew and it made it worse; the concern mixed with the pity and tinged with fear. It was a wariness that reeked of a lack of trust.  

Because his brother didn't trust him, not like he used too, not like he did before Lan Wangji had drew his sword in front of a dead man's cave. Not before Lan Wangji had stood before the cultivation world and questioned everything they stood for.  

And then his back had been shredded and his brother stood to the side; it was a punishment they both knew he had earned, an inevitability in their lives.  

Days later, when the fever had eased and his skin did not burn at the same temperature as the slashes across his shoulders his brother visited, a child tucked in his arms and confusion painted along his brow. Lan Wangji had ignored it and so Lan Xichen had followed his lead.  

The visits continued. They never mentioned why it was necessary. They never discussed the child that Lan Wangji had thrusted at him moments before he made his decision. It had taken longer than it should for Lan Wangji to look his brother in his eyes and say, “He is my son.”  

The boy was asleep at his side, red ribbon tied on a clumsy knot, barely holding onto his soft hair.  

He had witnessed the worry leach the color from his brother's cheeks, the confusion and concern that warred behind his eyes; eyes so soft and naïve.  

“But Brother-” he had stated only to be cut off when Lan Wangji repeated himself.  

“He is my son.” He had said, and then would say no more. 

Each attempt his brother had made had only been met with defiance. Lan Xichen had not understood, had not wanted to give in, but Lan Wangji had said nothing else, again, and again, until his brother had broken, desperate to give into his only request. Lan Wangji  had seen the resignation in his brother's eyes when he finally said, “I know.”  

He did not, not really. He did not know who the boy was, where he came from. It was a figment of the trust that they had once shared. It was not as unencumbered, but it was a peace offering of support and so Lan Wangji had taken it. His brother would never understand the decision he had made, but maybe that was alright. He hoped his brother would never have to see the ugliness that Lan Wangji had--the hypocrisy of the world.  

They had made a deal then, seclusion for the child. It was a mercy give--a time for others to forget all that Lan Wangji had done, that this child was not originally his.  

The worry had eased from his brother's facade, as time had passed and the scars had healed and Lan Yuan had laughed. The trust would never be regained, but it was not lost completely.  

But soon, he had seen that same worry a year later, as his brother had followed his gaze to a seemingly empty corner of the room, where only he could see the light shimmer.  

He knew his brother had been concerned, had read it in every line of his posture, but he found the words knotted in his throat. He wanted to trust his brother, but could not bring himself to that vulnerability. He could not expose his heart in the chance it could be ripped away. 

He discovered that day that maybe it was him who could no longer trust.

He had spent a year prepared to live half a life. He had laid bleeding for standing up for what he knew was right, but the world had deemed wrong. And he could not bring himself to do it again. Not so soon; not after his heart had returned and stood like a ray of golden sun in the corner of a once desolate room. He would not lose him again, even if that meant it was him and Wei Ying against the world.  

That same desperation filled him now, as he stared at an elegant script, asking him of his well being and if he would be attending the gathering--not a conference, not an ostentatious show of power--at Yunmeng Jiang. You have not written, he did not say. I am worried, he did not say.

Lan Wangji wanted to say no. He wanted to tell his brother he could not attend, that he would stay here within the stone walls in which he had built a family, where they were safe and loved, and it may not be home, but it was close. There was no gentle light that drifted lazily through the window to spill along wooden floors, no mist to greet him in the morning, or rabbits to feed in secret, but there was laughter and smiles and for Lan Wangji that was enough. 

But he did not. He could not, not when there was a man of gold who followed behind him and questions that plague them both and answers they must seek. 

They had left the hall not long after the decision to travel to Yunmeng had been made. He had tried not to think too heavily about how Wei Ying’s gaze had lingered on Baxia, or how his eyes had flashed crimson. He tried not to think of how the shadows seemed to darken.  He held the child in his arms tighter as he strode out of the hall, his glittering shadow trailing behind.  

They sat now across from each other, as had become their custom long ago in a different room, candle flickering on the table between them.  

Lan Wangji continued to dig at the gold wax with his thumbnail, watching the man across from him, waiting for him to speak. He had been silent as they put Lan Yuan to bed--who had not stirred through the process--and silent still as they settled across from each other. 

“We have to go Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian finally said. 

Lan Wangji hummed his response, but it was not an agreement and he knew Wei Ying could see his reluctance. 

“You will love Lotus Pier, Lan Zhan. It really is beautiful.” 

“Mn,” he said again, but he saw the sadness as it settled around his shoulders like a veil. It dimmed his light, his edges black. 

“I can’t wait until you see the lakes! Lan Zhan, they are nothing like the lakes in Gusu. They go on and on. So far that when you're in the middle, it is like the world is made of nothing but water. And the Lotuses! I can’t wait for you to try some Lotus seeds! I will show you how to peel them! And-”

His words cut off, a knife or realization slicing them short. 

“I guess we probably won't have time for that, huh? Besides, it's not like we would have a lot of access to the Jiang boats.” Wei Ying said as the darkness around him grew. Not even the candle’s flicker could brighten his side of the table. 

“I can’t believe I am going back,” and he whispered the words like a confession, like a secret not even Lan Zhan was supposed to hear. But he did and he could not keep himself from saying. 

“Wei Ying, it is your home.”  It is the only thing he knew to offer, the only words he could think to say. Because he could not imagine what Wei Ying is facing, he could not presume what it might be like to walk the paths he grew up and not be seen. To be a ghost among the living. 

“Not anymore, it has not been for a long time,” and his sorrow was different now, it was old and it was aching. And Lan Wangji did not know that it was filled with fire and screams and fingers around his throat in an empty field and two sick siblings in a small inn. He did not know how long it had been since Lotus Pier had felt like home. 

"Wei Ying," Lan Zhan said, but there were no words that he could utter to ease this pain. There was no salve for a wound as old as the one Wei Ying so obviously bore. A wound that Lan Zhan did not fully understand in the first place. 

“The words that others say have never bothered me.”  

But it was a lie and Lan Wangji could see it in his eyes and hears it where it slithers between the syllables. He ignored the nonlinearity of the statement, if it was something that Wei Ying felt he needed to say, who was Lan Zhan to stop him? He knew where it stemmed from, because even if no one knew he was there, Wei Ying could still hear the whispers and irate accusations, all of which still bore his name. Soon there would be no escape from them, not when they stepped into a room filled with people who had killed him. A place that had been his home, filled with memories and light. 

"It doesn't really matter," he said and shrugged. The pull of his lips was self deprecating. Lan Wangji knew he believed the words he spoke. He wondered if he was the only one that could see them for the lie they were. 

“It matters to you,” Lan Wangji replied, but he could see the doubt lingering in the lines of Wei Wuxian’s shoulders. No one thought that someone may mourn the Yiling Patriarch; not even the man himself. No one thought that there was a man still left behind the monster that they made. 

But it did not stop the rancour from curdling his stomach as he stared at the slumped figure before him, it did not stop him from hating. He hated the world that made a man so great hide all that he felt. He hated everyone who told a heart so pure that he was nothing. He hated the things he saw in the other, that remind him so much of himself. Hiding his emotions got Lan Wangji nothing and Wei Wuxian hiding his emotions got him death.    

“You were right with what you said earlier,” Lan Zhan could see the path of avoidance, the shifty look in dull grey eyes. With resignation he let Wei Ying lead them down a different path. “I thought I had destroyed it that night. Guess I missed a bit, huh? Funny isn’t it?” his smile was stiff, a grimace on its back.     

“We have to go Lan Zhan. We have to figure out what is going on. I have to fix things,” he said this to the table, not meeting Lan Zhan’s eyes. 

Lan Zhani did not know what to say, what to do, how to make this hurt go away, or bring back the bubbling joy he missed so dearly. He paused, stumbling over the next words as they clung to his tongue, barbed edges ripping along his flesh as he spoke them.  He wanted to ease this pain before him, even if it would shred him in two and so he said, "You do not… have to go."  

Wei Ying’s body jerked, his head lifting until their gazes met and Lan Zhan hated the look that split along Wei Ying’s face, and himself for having caused it.  "Do you not want me to?"   

"I do not want you to be in pain."  He could afford this honestly, if only for Wei Ying, and he was not disappointed. Not when he saw understanding flicker along the others face, it softened silver eyes and loosened the frown turning at a perfect mouth. 

“I--Lan Zhan, I would rather not...I do not want to do that again. Not if you do not want me to leave.” Wei Ying’s eyes flickered from Lan Zhan’s to the child across the room and then back again. And Lan Wangji understood that, too. They did not know where Wei Ying went when he was not with them, and he knew now that Wei Ying did not know either. He saw his own fear reflected in Wei Yings eyes, the desperation not to be torn apart again. The dread of not being there, of not being present in case something happened. 

“Alright,” he conceded and he could not say he was disappointed. He did not want Wei Ying out of his sight to be disquieted by the growing shadows that surrounded him. 

A smile stretched along Wei Ying’s lips, though it was slopping in its execution, for it did not reach his eyes, "Besides I promised, didn't I? Don't worry, Lan Zhan, I will be fine." 

This was a lie, too, but Lan Wangji was too selfish to call him on it.  

His thumbnail was tinged with dull gold by the time he went to sleep. The candle flickering through the night. 

Chapter Text

They left for Yunmeng late in the morning, the sun slanted, casting brilliant light over the dew-covered grass. The shadows that ran along the ground provided little relief from the uncharacteristic heat. The landscape of Qinghe was beautiful--full of sharp rocks and tall trees. It was a sight that Lan Wangji had grown used to. It was a land that was not home, but held a moment of safety, a moment of reprieve from the rest of the world.  

However, the beauty of the scenery could not distract from the air of foreboding that followed their steps as they marched down the pebbled roads. The faces of the Nie entourage reflected the displeasure of their leader. They grumbled to each other and to nothing at all. The discontent was only broken by childish laughter, as a little boy dressed in white ran about their heels. 

There was no question as to whether Lan Yuan would be traveling. The moment he had seen Lan Wangji, he had not let go. When he had seen Lan Wangji packing his pouches once again, his lip had wobbled and he had asked, "do I have to stay behind again?" 

Lan Wangji had gathered the child in his arms, as Wei Wuxian’s had whispered unheard reassurances in his hair. 

Nie Huaisang would not be left behind either. He had ignored every suggestion to stay within the walls of Qinghe. He had whined and cajoled, and when his brother had refused to let him accompany them, he had fluttered his fan and packed his bags and met his brother at the gate the day they departed. 

However, despite the additions to their party, the Nies were not made for comfort. They had spent too many years at war, too many years enclosed within their fortress battered by harsh winds and icy frosts. They did not trust others easily. 

They preferred to cook their food themselves with trusted hands. They preferred to organize their tents in a closed circle, safe from intruders. They were not accustomed to expensive inns or gourmet meals.

So when the motley party had left the safety of battalion walls, they did not stop at any of the small towns. They were not distracted by the merchants and their wares, or the smell of roasted buns. They traveled along the roads and made camp on the side. They did not stay in any inns, no matter how much Nie Huaisang whined or weedled. No one could ignore the glint in Nie Mingjue’s eyes each time he denied his brother; it was his punishment for insisting he be included in the journey. 

The living did not seem to notice the rustle of leaves that followed them or the shadows that moved on their own. There was laughter that danced through the air and dead eyes that watched from behind the still trees.

8-8

There was something following them and no one seemed to notice. It moved with silent steps, cautious and slow. It blended into the shadows, and swayed within the darkness. 

It made no sounds and held no resentment and no malicious intent. But it followed them, always too many steps behind to be noticed, always too far away to draw attention. But with every turn taken and every river crossed it continued to follow them. 

And no one seemed to notice. 

Wei Wuxian would not have detected the intruder either, if it was not for the tugging that pulled at his chest. He would not have perceived the subtle feel of eyes watching him, if it was not for the darkness that swirled around him. The darkness that now tinged him, had clung to him since he held the Amulet  within his power and destroyed it once again. 

It cuddled close to him in a way that was different from before. Because now it did not yell, but whisper as it said, rememberrememberremember.

But he could not recall what he forgot and he could not investigate on his own. For he was tethered to his flute and tethered to the man who wore it. And although he did not regret it, it posed to be inconvenient.

There were eyes watching him. One pair from the darkness that he could not see and one made up of twin gold suns filled with worry. 

He did not tell Lan Wangji of his suspicions. He could not. He could not tell him of the tugging in his chest or the way the resentful energy felt so foreign, but so familiar. 

He could not do that, could not add to the fear and the stress he knew the other man carried. He had seen the apprehension that clouded the other's face now when he looked at him. Could see the warriness that curled along his lashes just like the black resentment curled around Wei Wuxian’s fingers. 

It was heady. The power the resentment granted him, even after death. It was a familiar taste that clung to his gums and begged for more, moremoremore . He knew what Lan Wangji feared. 

He feared the same thing. 

The voices. The screaming. The desperate desire for control. He did not want to feel that way again. How long until the whispers grew and grew and grew? How long until they became screams once more?

Wei Wuxian knew his existence had a time limit. He knew that eventually his light would fade and there would be nothing of him left. He knew the resentment would make that time pass by faster, that it would stifle the glow that let him live. But he did not know how to stop it, and so there was no point in bringing it up to the other man. There were other things to worry about now. 

With each step they took, they made it closer to Yunmeng. Wei Wuxian’s nervousness grew. It started as a ball within his stomach, it shifted and swole until it pressed upon his stomach, on his lungs. He could feel an accompanying restlessness from the being that followed them. 

It was on one of these nights that the thoughts got too loud and the darkness too oppressing--there was no candle left burning for him; too dangerous and too suspicious in a tent surrounded by strangers--that Wei Wuxian tentatively tested the bounds of his invisible tether. 

There were too many thoughts within his head, too many things in this world that he could not stop and could not fix. But there was something following them and maybe he could at least confront that .

He whistled long and low, drawing the resentment to him, calling to the being that had followed them for days. 

He curled his fingers in anticipation. Waiting to yank the resentment into use. Waiting to twist it to his will, to use it to protect the little family that he still had. 

There was a rustle, the leaves whipping from their branches and the night air howling along the ground. 

The figure stepped out from behind the tree. 

Wei Wuxian froze.

8-8

There was a corpse and he stood drenched in darkness. 

There was a being who was less than a ghost and he stood bathed in light. 

They faced each other and neither moved; neither had a need for breath and so the air around them remained still and silent. 

They stared at each other for a long moment, across a low burning fire, before the spector whispered, soft and broken, “Wen Ning?” 

The corpse could not answer. He stood in silence and knew no sound. He was a puppet with no strings and a master long dead. He was trapped in a body that could not--would not--move, and he could not find it in his cold heart to care. 

No .

No, that was wrong. 

He was not a puppet. He had fought. He had dug nails from his head and followed a glittering light. It had tugged on his sternum and guided him out of hell. 

He had followed it and followed it, and now here he stood. His chest burned and he could see the brightness shining through his tattered robes. It matched the light of the man before him. 

The corpse twitched, shuddered, his body heaving in an unnecessary sigh, and in a moment he deflated. Wen Ning fell to his knees before the other, head bent low, "Master Wei."

Glitter clinging in clumps along the other man’s lashes, but they would not fall, they would not provide the relief that tears could bring. Wen Ning watched as his hands unclenched, no longer poised claws. It was so familiar, a motion that had become commonplace, as Wen Ning had watched Master Wei harness resentful energy. As he had watched the man draw ghosts from shadows and corpses from dirt and life back into his cold limbs. 

He watched as that hand softened, as it reached forward, as the man took step after stuttering step, closer to him. He had not moved out from the tree cover, had not dared to, had not understood what he wanted. But now he did. Now he felt the desperate pool to move closer, to stumble forward and reach home. 

They met in the middle and Wen Ning fell to his knees. If he could cry he would. He felt the pressure all the same building in his chest. It hurt more than he expected, but it felt so human, so normal. He welcomed it. 

He stared before him, at the figure that looked so familiar but so different, he stared at the man he had known in a life different from this, in a life where they both lived. A life filled with gentle smiles and soft hands and a loyalty that only three people knew. There was not a smile now, and that stabbed at Wen Ning’s heart more than any nails could. 

“Master Wei, I’m sorry,” each word was broken and disjointed, croaked from a thoat unused. 

He dipped his head in shame--but it did not stop him from seeing the shimmering hand lifted to a grey cheek-- as Wei Wuxian murmured, “Oh Wen Ning.¨

And then without a sound the other man dropped before him, a glowing figure on his knees. 

Wen Ning’s head shot up, his arms reaching for the man before him--“Master! No!”--but his hands passed through. Horror rewrote his face as he stared at Wei Wuxian, then at his hand still hovering mid air. 

“Master Wei, I--I don’t understand,” there was a sad smile that graced the others face now, and silver eyes softened to grey. 

“I think there is a lot we need to catch each other up on. Would you like to continue this conversation standing up? Or shall we kneel here all night?”

With hasty movements, Wen Ning shuffled to his feet.

8-8

They had moved deeper into the crop of trees, far enough that Wen Ning could once again hide within their shadows, but not so far that Wei Wuxian began to flicker. Wen Ning watched him with questioning eyes--he had always been too perspective, too knowing of all of Wei Wuxian’s weaknesses--but did not comment as Wei Wuxian leaned himself carefully along a tree and folded his arms across his chest. 

His fist clenched where they were hidden against his arms. He wanted to reach out, he wanted to hold his friend close and never let go, but he knew he could not. He had seen the stricken look on Wen Ning’s face earlier and never wanted to be the reason that it appeared again. 

He tried to smile gently--like his sister used to do, when she found him and Jiang Cheng knee deep in mud and stolen lotus plants--and tried not to let the shimmer of tears well within his eyes when he asked, “Wen Ning, what happened to you?”

He watched as the other man took a deep breath in preparation--they both knew he did not have need for breath, but Wei Wuxian knew better than anyone how the routine still brought strength--before he began. 

Wei Wuxian wished he had not.

Wen Ning spoke of a plan made through silent looks and how they had marched to a land of gold, only to be left forgotten. He told of a tower, of a cell with no windows. How, for a while, he was not alone. How his sister had sat beside him in the dirt, cold and forgotten, until, eventually, they took her, too.  

He mumbled through long days, spent with nothing but stone walls and dirt floors. Then, voice strong, he spoke of two men, one with a slithering smile and one with sharp teeth both dressed in gold. The way they thought they could control him, and the way they failed. 

Finally, he told of the emptiness, of the lost days spent in a void; where he knew nothing--was nothing--and how a shrill whistle shattered the blankness, and a golden light gave him the strength to pull a set of nails from his head and tore his rattling chains from the walls. 

“Who was it? Wen Ning, who did this to you?” Wei Wuxian said, his voice no more than a whisper, but there was no denying the power behind each word. 

The shadows grew darker and denser; they twisted around the trees and stretched over the ground, crooked fingers reaching for a man who was not there. He had tried to reign them in, to hold them together, but it became harder and harder and the story progressed.

He knew without question that one of those men was Xue Yang. He knew it with a certainty that only came with dread and a deep-seated loathing.

 Wei Wuxian regretted not killing him. He regretted not tearing him limb from limb and letting the fierce corpses shred his skin from his bones.  would have used all of his power to resurrected Xue Yang again , just to watch him die over and over. 

 A snarl twisted along Wei Wuxian’s lips, as red eyes shined from within the brilliant light of a man. 

“I am sorry I don’t--I don’t know. I don’t know his name,” Wen Ning said, and cast his gaze to the side. He did not know if he ever had, or if the nails had robbed him of a knowledge he once knew. 

"Could you identify him? If you saw him again?" desperation made the words sharp. How could he fix this? What could he do? Xue Yang was still in Qinghe, but who was he working with? A Jin was the obvious answer--but which one? There were so many Jin’s; they swarmed like gold crusted cockroaches. 

Wen Ning gave a hesitant nod, “Yes, Master Wei, I think I could identify them if I saw them again.” 

The shadows flickered, Wei Wuxian clenched his fists and felt nothing but rage. 

They stood in silence for a long moment, as Wei Wuxian stewed in regret, before Wen Ning began to fidget.

“Master Wei, there is more, too,” Wen Ning mumbled to the ground. 

His eyes snapped to the other, instantly attentive, “Hmm? Wen Ning? What is it?” 

With cold fingers he pulled the tattered cloth away from his chest, bearing a glowing talisman. “Master Wei, I think you saved me. Again.”

He stared at him in shock, eyes unable to leave the glowing talisman across his chest. The lines of it moved along grey skin slithering in a constant flow of energy. 

It matched the ones along his body. It matched the ones that he etched into his own skin with needles and ink. 

It looked like the one he gave Wen Ning, before his world ended in blood and fire. 

He could not stop himself from reaching out. He could not halt his fingers, and they edged closer to cool dead skin. He was drawn by a force he could not explain, and though he knew that they could not touch, he wanted desperately to try anyway. 

When his fingers met the golden light, he felt a spark, a current, run through him. For a moment, energy flowed between them, hotter and brighter, until a blinding light illuminated their faces and the forest floor around them. 

It only lasted a moment before Wei Wuxian jerked his hand away. He stared at his hand for a long moment, flexing his fingers. Before a nervous voice broke through his thoughts.

“Master Wei, I heard your whistle and then I felt this burning. It gave me the strength to save myself. I think it was because of this that I was able to find you, too. It was like a pulling sensation? It did not stop until I was outside of Qinghe, it did not stop until I found you.” 

For a moment, he looked like he did when he was still alive. Wide innocent eyes staring up at him with such trust. There was so much faith within that gaze. 

It was a devotion that Wei Wuxian did not deserve. 

“Wen Ning--I...The  Wens...” but he could not finish the sentence. He could not say, they are all dead. He could not say, I let them die. He wanted to say, I failed.

A somber look stole over Wen Ning´s face, “Master Wei, I know.” I know that they died, I know that you tried. I know that you died for them, for all of us. 

But it did not matter what words they could not say, because sometimes words did not need to be spoken to be heard. They shared a smile, one made of splinters and broken edges, a smile that has been shattered and smashed and pasted together time and time again. 

It was a long moment before either moved, before either spoke. It was Wen Ning that broke the silence, “Master Wei, If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to you ?”

8-8

They sat in a circle around a table solemn and disconsolate. The room had once been a haven, where three children had hidden from the world, from the responsibilities thrusted upon them at ages too young to bear. This little room with its nicked table had once been filled with food and laughter. Within these walls, meals were eaten and stories were told, joy had danced through the pillars and under the chairs. 

Now the faces were grim, haggard and tired. 

It had been years since there had been any happiness found within these walls. Even after the war, there had still been too much tension, too much sadness and grief that it snuffed out any happiness that may have clung to the rafters.

“So, what are we going to do?” Luo Qingyang broached, when the air got too heavy with melancholy. 

“What do you mean?” Jin Zixuan glanced at her, bobbing Jin Ling in his arms, trying to stem his current wave of tears. It was late and he was still unused to the sweltering heat. 

"Well the Jin's are coming here and last I checked we had no plan. What was the goal of coming all the way to Yunmeng when you left?" 

Jin Zixuan and Jiang Cheng glanced at each other then away. 

Jin Zixuan bounced Jin Ling with a little more focus as Jiang Cheng clenched his fist under the table. 

It was finally Jin Zixuan who spoke, though his eyes did not leave his son, “There have been a lot of rumors around Lanling, recently. I didn’t think we were safe there anymore, and we thought that if we left we would have a better chance of finding out what was actually going on.” 

Luo Qingyang nodded in understanding, “They must know that, or suspect something.” She cast them all a critical look. “None of you are particularly sly. They must have created this visit as an excuse to halt whatever progress you guys made.” 

“That’s just it, though! We haven’t had a chance to find out anything!” Jin Zixuan said, the frustration evident in his voice. Jiang Yanli swept in to resume her son from her husband's tightening grip. 

“Didn’t find anything?” Jiang Cheng shouted, slamming his fist against the table, “They tried to kill us! They used demonic cultivation and tried to kill you! They tried to kill Jiejie!” There was rage in his voice and sparks of purple sizzling from his fist upon the table. 

Jin Zixuan whirled on him, “We know that! But how are we going to convince the rest of the cultivation world of that? Do you have any great ideas? ‘Cause it’s not like they have any reason to just believe any of us!” 

Jiang Cheng snarled, prepared to spit venom, when Luo Qingyang spoke up instead. 

“What if we used this moment to go find evidence in Lanling? I could sneak back in? It has been a few years, no one would suspect me.” 

Jiang Cheng’s face twisted in contemplation. Jin Zixuan eyes squinted in worry. Jiang Yanli’s gaze darted between her brother and her husband. 

“You want to go by yourself?” Jin Zixuan asked. 

“Well yeah. It makes sense, I know where everything is and what to look for.” She continued with a shrug. Her words did not ease the worry Jin Zixuan felt. “Besides, all of you have to be here, when the rest of the sects arrive, or else it would look suspicious.” 

“MianMian, you can’t--” Jin Zixuan started.

“Can’t what?” she cut him off with a glare. “I have spent these last few years on my own. Before that I grew up there with you. I am pretty sure I can. ” 

“That isn’t what I am saying! But MianMian, what if something happens here? What if something happens there? ” 

“Are you saying my disciples couldn’t handle it if something happened, Peacock?” Jiang Cheng asked bracing himself for a fight. 

“No! That is not it! I jus--”

Annoyance and guilt shone across Jin Zixuan’s face in equal measure. Desperate to stop the conversation before it got heated she blurted, “What about Wen Qing?” 

All eyes darted to the crimson shadow standing in the corner. Her robes were new. They had been laid out in her room one afternoon. Tears had tugged at her eyes when she had seen them. They were not Wen red. They were richer, deeper. They reminded her of the color of blood. They were the color she had once seen every day, under ratty black over robes. She refused to wear them for over a week, before melancholy consumed her, and soon when she looked at the robes she saw nothing but home .

“It won't be safe for you if the other sects see you,” Jiang Yanli addressed the other woman. And though this topic was partially a distraction, it was also a real concern. 

Wen Qing tensed as the attention fell upon her, but she had nothing to say. She had no sway in the proceedings, no power in this discussion. She was nothing more than an added fixture on the wall.

“She could pose as a servant? That’s what she did back at Koi Tower right?” Luo Qingyang asked, a crinkle in her brow. 

Jiang Cheng stayed quiet as he watched her. She did not look up as she spoke, instead directing her words to the floor boards. “I will just stay out of the way. This is a big pier. I can stay in the medical wing or in my rooms.” 

“But,” she said, and there was a bit more strength in her voice, and she finally raised her head to look at Luo Qingyang, “if you are going to Lanling, I want to go with you.” 

“No,” Jiang Cheng said, before he thought. The bench he sat on clattered to the ground as he stood, the word slicing through the air with all the strength of Sandu. 

Wen Qing whirled on him, a tornado of fire, “Excuse me?” she asked in a deadly calm. 

“I said ‘no’,” he said with a confidence he did not feel. 

“Who are you to tell me where I can or can not go?” There were embers in her eyes sparking with a heat he had not seen in far too long.  She took a step forward, no longer a shadow lurking on the wall. He met her half way, until they stood toe to toe in the center of the room. Wen QIng’s head tipped back, until she could stare him in the eyes. 

“Who are you to think that you can tell me what to do?” Her words were needles dipped in poison pointed and deadly. 

“I'm not telling you what to do! I'm trying to help you! It’s too risky for you to go back there! Do you know how hard it was to get you out?” every word was a shout. This was not what he meant.

Her eyes flashed, whose fault is it that I was there in the first place , which she did not say. 

“A-Ning is still there! I have to go back to find him!” There were tears in her voice and an arrow in Jiang Cheng's heart. It felt like failure and a thousand missed chances. It felt like fire and death and a war. It felt like all the little pieces of his life scattered on the floor. Each time he put pieces together again, another one would fall. 

“There are other ways!” And he wondered if the others in the room could hear the desperation in his voice. He thought his sister might, but could not tear his eyes away from the woman before him to look. 

“Like what?” Her desolation sounded like defiance. No one heard the crack in her voice. The only people who would have been able to tell were dead or missing. 

Jiang Cheng sputtered for a response, but Wen Qing continued before he could put together a thought.

“I don't need your help! I never did!" It wasn’t a scream, but it was near.  No one could comment on that lie. No one was willing to remind her of all that had gone wrong, but they thought it all the same. 

No one can help me, she did not say. 

Your help is worthless, is what he heard.

She was brittle and breaking, and no one noticed. She was a thousand bits of person. She was one of the flowers on the lake, wilted and dying. She was the leaves falling from the trees, lost to the wind. She finally had a chance . She could find her brother. She could fix things! And they were taking it away! 

His lips part to respond. To say something cutting. To say something that would draw blood and leave a wound behind that will not heal. To say something that was meant to make her stay but would only make her run. 

"Enough," Jiang Yanli cut in. She never raised her voice, but the room froze all the same. The baby in her arms glanced around to them all, unperturbed by the raised voices. 

She released a long suffering sigh when she realized all eyes were on her, before she began to speak. “No one is leaving yet. We don’t know who all will still be in Lanling, and who is coming to Yunmeng. It wouldn’t be safe to send any one to investigate only to walk into a trap ” 

A few mouths opened in protest, but she calmly shifted her son and held up a silencing hand. 

“I’m not saying you can’t go. Either of you.” She cast a firm look at both her brother and her husband before continuing.  “However, I suggest that both of you stay hidden until we know more about the situation.” 

But where do we hide them? There will be people swarming the pier, we can't just lock them in their rooms!” Jiang Cheng's voice was still abrasive. There were so many things that he wanted to say but so many words that he could not find. He locked eyes with his sister and hoped she could help him search. He had not moved away from Wen Qing, but he did not look at her as he spoke. He felt her eyes on him, her burning gaze and her simmering ire.

A gentle smile sketched along Jiang Yanli’s lips, “I think I might have an idea.” 

Chapter Text

Jiang Cheng hated this. He hated the scrutiny, the judgement, the eyes that watched his every move. The whispers that told him he was not enough. He hated the fickle hearts and the fake faces. He hated the politics that came with being Sect Leader. The way others smeared at him for being the youngest, the weakest. They belittled him and looked down on him. He knew they did. He could feel it in every meeting. In their pitying smiles. 

He hated that they were coming into his home. The place he had carefully rebuilt plank by plank. He could not stop the fear that they would find all of his hard work lacking. 

That they would find him lacking. 

He stood before the gates of Lotus Pier, wood still raw below their feet, still fresh and new and vulnerable. Still so very weak.

But it did not matter how much he hated this. It did not matter how much he feared, or how vulnerable they still were despite the fresh lacquer and fresh cut boards. 

He could not stop them from coming and so he stood tall and proud as he welcomed the greatest sects into the carefully constructed walls; and with them came the judgment. With them came the sanctimonious words hidden behind false smiles and half-hidden sneers. 

It helped that he was not alone in his sentry. His sister stood to his side, back straight and beautiful. Her face was clear of expression, and if it was not for the softness around her eyes she would look just like their mother. Her husband stood to her other side, hands twitching, unable to hide his unease. Jiang Cheng could see the same distaste reflected in Jin Zixuan’s face that he feels churning in his stomach. He felt a vindictive glee to know his brother-in-law hated this as much as he did. 

They all braced themselves for the oncoming storm. 

The Jin's stepped forward first, led by Jin Guangshan. He smiled and dipped his head in a paltry estimation of a bow and spoke words that had no meaning. Jin Guangyao bowed deep and deferential behind, eyes lingered as they passed through the gates, following the servants to the Sword Hall. 

The Lan’s swept by next. Clad in their whites and blues. Lan Qiren assessed them all with a critical eye and Jiang Cheng felt like he was fifteen again, caught with liquor past curfew. His mood soured further, the memory reminding him of things he had lost. Lan Xichen smiled at them all. He exuded pleasantry, but even then Jiang Cheng wondered if he imagined the stiffness in the other man's cheeks. They exchanged greetings before they, too, moved on. 

The Nie’s were last, before the minor clans began to filter in--it would be a blessing for there was less fear of judgment from those that did not have power. 

Jiang Cheng wanted to breathe a sigh of relief. He held less worry when facing the Nie. There were no airs here. No facades that needed to be kept, no pompous pretenses. The Nie’s were strict but honest; qualities Jiang Cheng could respect. 

He met Nie Mingjue with a proper bow, exchanged pleasantries with Nie Huaisang and turned to follow them through the gates when he realized there was someone standing still before him. 

"Hanguang-Jun," he said as he dipped into a bow. He tried to hide his shock, but knew he was unsuccessful. 

“I was unaware you would be gracing us with your presence,” he said. He knew his words were biting. He knew they could not hide the rancour and the guilt that nagged at him. He could still see the swirl of white robes, as a winter storm had left him in a gilded tower–left him behind, because he had refused to follow. 

It was a moment he would never forget. A pinnacle of his downfall. The moment he knew he had made the wrong choice. He knew that now; could acknowledge that in the safety of his own mind. 

But Jiang Cheng was never good at regulating his emotions. He would feel and feel and feel and soon they would all become too much. They would build inside of him until they bubbled up. 

In the end he would explode. A raging fire, sparing no one from the fallout. 

He took in the man that he hated. The man Jiang Cheng himself had made to represent all that he had lost. The man--Lan Wangji, Hanguang-Jun --before Jiang Cheng was another person that was so much better than he could ever be. 

He hated him. 

He hated his straight back posture. He hated his condescending air. He hated what he represented--so good, so pure, so clean-- and he hated the sacrifices made for him-- the sacrifices Wei Wuxian had made for him-- that he did not deserve. 

Wei Wuxian had stood up for him, had defended him, and in the end, Lotus Pier had burned and Wei Wuxian had died. 

Lan Wangji's gaze had burned Jiang Cheng in Koi Tower. Filled as it was with so much disgust. He had belittled him without saying a word. But what good did it do? What good had he done? Wei Wuxian had still died . 

Hanguang-Jun had taken too much from him, and Jiang Cheng could never forgive him for it. 

Jiang Cheng tried to stare the other man down, with eyes of lightning and a snarl he let slip. Eyes raking down the other man, from head to foot, trying to be as condescending as possible. 

It was then that he noticed it. A black flute, a black dizi , nestled at the waist of pure white robes. He felt his resentment rise. Another thing he had stolen from Jiang Cheng. Another thing that was not his . 

He clenched his fists--words like whips ready to wound--when he noticed those pristine robes began to rustle. There was a murmur. Then a little fist poked out, grasping the fabric between pudgy fingers. 

There was a child half hidden behind Lan Wangji’s legs.

Lan Wangi murmured something soft--in a tone Jiang Cheng did not know the other man knew-- and then the child stepped forward and his gaze was met by light eyes large with wonder and curiosity. He knew those eyes, had seen them before, peeking out from behind another set of robes. Black instead of white. 

There was a red ribbon in the child’s hair. 

A memory tickled the edges of his mind. Of a little face covered in dirt, being admonished for trying to suck on equally dirty fingers. 

Of a familiar laugh soured by nerves and guilt. 

He wanted to crane his neck to twist and search for a man who would not be there. But it was pointless. There was no longer someone to seek. No one left to laugh at him, to tease him, to stand beside him. 

He felt as gentle fingers tugged on his sleeve. He had stared too long, been silent too long. It was rude. But he could not bring himself to care. There was a bird trapped in his chest and it was banging on the bars of its cage. It was clawing at his bones and nipping at the flesh of his lungs. He was not sure if he could breathe. 

Besides, what did it matter? He was not known for his diplomacy. 

The only thing he could hear was the soft whisper of his sister's voice as she said his name so low that the others could not hear. With one word she was asking for an explanation he knew--to understand what had stopped him, what had shocked him so badly that his face went slack and his spine went stiff--but her inquiry came with a realization. She did not know.

  A-Jie did not know. 

She had not been to the Burial Mounds. She had not seen a little boy once covered in dirt. Nor had she seen a familiar hand card through disheveled hair. She had not watched a man--a brother--heave a child into too frail arms and cradle him close to his chest. She had not seen silver eyes soften to grey as they smiled down at a little boy, too young and too innocent to understand the evils that surrounded him. 

A-Jie did not know. 

There had been a child on that mountain once, his brother's child in all but name. 

There had been a child on that mountain once; a child that he had forgotten, so consumed by bitterness and jealousy and rage. Filled by disappointment of his own making. 

And he had not thought once of that child. He had not remembered him, his big eyes and nearly too hollow cheeks. He had forgotten him as soon as he had stepped foot off that mountain. 

But it did not change the fact that there had been a child on that mountain once, and a family who had died. 

And his sister had never met them. She had never trekked up the desolate dirt road. Neither of her brothers would have let her, even if she had asked. It was not safe for her to travel for so long, to be in contact with so much resentful energy. 

She had never met the family. She had never seen the hovels that they lived in or the gauntness in their brothers’ cheeks. She had never met a little boy, too young for all the horrors that he faced. 

She had never met the little boy who in another life, would have been her nephew. 

But Jiang Cheng had. 

What is your burden? He had been asked, and in that moment he realized his burden was greater than even he knew. 

"Who is he?" He heard the words before he realized he was speaking. They tumbled off his tongue before he could stop them, before he could breath.

He knew the answer. He knew, he knew, he knew.  But he was desperate. Desperate to be wrong. A morbid curiosity begged to know what the other man would say. If the great Hanguan-Jun would confirm his fears. Would he level Jiang Cheng with his emotionless gaze and pass judgment?

Jiang Cheng needed to calculate the weight of his sins. He needed to know if he would be tried before he knew the total. He needed to know if others knew how deeply he had failed.

He held his breath as he waited for the answer. 

Elegant fingers tensed, but beyond that Hanguang-Jun did not react. Then without inflection he said, "this is Lan Yuan. My son."

Jiang Cheng gasped, but no breath met his lungs. The world receded; sounds too far away to hear. The gentle tugging on his sleeve became more insistent, more worried. In an instant it all became too much, too real. 

Lan Yuan.

My son.

The man before him said. 

 A-Yuan. 

My son! I birthed him with my own body! 

The man in his memory said. 

Jiang Cheng turned away. He tried not to choke, to gag on the bile he could feel rising in his throat.

He could no longer face the confirmation of his sins.  

He left them all standing there at the entrance. He was moving before he could stop. Long strides taking him deeper and deeper across the pier, down walkways and memories he wished he could escape from. 

He did not look back to see the expressions of his sister and her husband, concerned and confused respectively. 

Jiang Cheng did not care to see the expression of the other. Of a man he hated. A man who embodied his sin. But he expected that there had been no shock on his impassive face.

He did not look back at the little boy, whose eyes were wide with fear. A little boy that in another life he might have known. A little boy who he should have gotten to love. 

A little boy in this life he had failed to protect.

He did not see a flash of gold reach for him, nor a pair of sad eyes watching him as he left.

His core twinged. He ignored it.

8-8

Tears pricked at Wei Wuxian’s eyes as he watched his brother retreat. There were moments that he hated that he could not cry; that he could only feel his tear ducts fill, but never ease. He could never relieve the phantom pressure that built behind his eyes. 

He could not tear his gaze away from broad shoulders clad in purple, from the storm settling over the pier. He curled his fingers to his palm and dug them into his skin, but he felt nothing.   

He felt nothing but the phantom pain that settled behind his ribcage and squeezed at his sternum and pushed on his heart and trapped his lungs--he wanted to gape, he wanted to cry and laugh and scream. 

This was his family. His family. This was once his home, and he had not known how desperately he missed it. He had not realized that day long ago that he would never see it again. 

There were memories here, hidden between the planks and strewn across the lake. Laughter tingled against his unfeeling skin. Tears rode along the wind. 

He wished he could smell the lotuses in the air, feel the sticky heat upon his skin. He wanted the hot-wooded pier to burn his toes and cool water to ease all his hurts. 

He just wanted to go home. It was an aching-longing he had not acknowledged. He had not voiced it, because of the impossibilities that it represented. 

But he was here, half dead. 

He was here and no one knew. 

He was here and it didn’t matter.  

He thought the pain could not get worse. That the longing in his soul had reached its limits. 

He had been wrong. 

Wei Wuxian had known this the moment he had faced his brother. Hair swept back from his face, posture rigid. Robes deep and rich and regal. He had met his eyes for a blink--when Jiang Cheng had made a sweeping glance of the area--and the empty space within his chest had clenched. He had reached for him, for his brother, before he remembered the futility of it.  

It was a moment--he had not even heard the words that were spoken, too lost in all that he felt--and then it was gone. His brother stomping off, the sight so familiar it only made the pressure behind his eyes, build and build and build. He glanced away, no longer able to bear the sight, and clenched his fist, lowering it to his side. 

How many times would he have to watch those he loved walk away? 

He looked back at the little party still before him. Trying to see where Lan Wangji's attention had gone. 

He saw her then. She had been half-hidden behind Jiang Cheng, a violet flower hidden behind an amethyst shadow. She stood in pale pinks and soft purples. For a moment he thought he could smell her scent, the tingle of lotus and lavender coating his nose. He gasped in air he could not breathe. 

Never had he hated his death more than now. Her eyes, too, tracked Jiang Cheng in his retreat, full of sadness and concern, before she turned back to Lan Wangji.

“Excuse my brother,” she said with a gentle bow, “he must attend to an urgent matter.” 

Lan Wangji hummed in agreement. Not commenting on the obvious lie. 

Wei Wuxian stumbled forward, an unseen step toward the other woman. He wanted to reach for her. He wanted to hold her: to bring her head to his chest and feel her arms cling to his robe and he wanted to never let go. 

He longed for safety and the comfort only felt in her arms. He longed for days spent with gentle fingers running through his hair, and soft words caressing her ears. 

He watched as his sister knelt down, uncaring of the dirt that would get on her robes. She dipped her head slightly, eyes locked on the fluttering robes.

“It is a pleasure to meet you Young Master Lan,” his sister said, her tone light and pleasant. 

A-Yuan stared up at her from behind his shield of robes, eyes wide. He inched forward slightly, hand still clenched to his fathers robes. 

“Our son is a few years younger than you, but maybe you could keep him company while you visit? I am afraid there are not many children here at Lotus Pier at the moment, and I do not want either of you to be too lonely..” 

An air of longing melded into the ends of her words. He wondered if she, too, held tight to the memory of three children running through Lotus Pier; covered in muddy water, lotus roots held securely in folded robes, smiles stretching along sunburnt cheeks. 

In another life their children could have been cousins. Raised together. Family. 

He couldn’t look at her anymore. He couldn’t think of all of the possibilities. He could not consider all of the “could have beens” or he would break. And he has worked so hard to put himself back together again. 

He choked on nothing. Lan Wangi’s sharp gaze caught his own and he tried to shake his head. Tried to tell the other man, not here, not now. 

He stood straighter, and took a step back, positioning himself back at Lan Wangji’s side. He turned to the other man, only to find Lan Wangji already looking, uncaring of how odd it might look to others. That he appeared to be staring into the air.  

He reached out to the side, desperate for Lan Zhan’s touch. He knew he would not be able to feel it. There was no logic to his movements, only desperation. Lan Zhan seemed to understand, he shifted slightly so their pinkies touched, just barely. A glimmer of light warming ivory skin.There was a spark. A barely-there shiver ran down Wei Ying’s spine, his eyes never leaving Lan Zhan’s gaze. 

A small voice broke the tension, “Baba?” A-Yuan glanced around questioning. He had picked up on the strain in the adults around him, the tension. Light eyes stared up at Lan Wangji wide and worried. 

“Mhm. Baba is here,” Lan Wangji said in his low, comforting tone, the fingers of his other hand shifting through the child's hair.

A-Yuan nodded, slight shoulders relaxing from where they had hiked up to his ears. He nodded once, strong and sure, before wrapping small fingers around Lan Wangji’s free hand. 

Jiang Yanli still stood before, concern etched along her brow. Confused smile gracing her lips. Wei Wuxian couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t see the worry in those eyes. He could not see that look of gentle concern that had been so prevalent within his childhood. 

He turned his head. Lan Wangji noticed. He knew, because the next moment he heard Lan Wangji speak, “thank you for welcoming us into your home,” and saw him give a deep bow before striding through the open gates, no hesitation in his step. 

Wei Wuxian wanted to laugh with the wrongness of it all. How he had wanted to bring Lan Wangji to Lotus Pier! How he had spoken once so long ago of all the things that they could do! Now all he knew was the gaping hollowness of loss. 

Wei Wuxian followed Lan Wangji into his home, and had never felt more like a ghost. 

Chapter Text

Nie Huaisang fluttered through the gates behind his brother, gaze drifting to the wooden walls and delicately carved lotuses hidden within. 

His eyes were wide and guileless. He murmured words admiring the architecture. His fan waved before him, and his robes--pale greens and silver gauze- encrusted with delicate beading along the edge--flitted about his ankles. 

He appeared in awe of the construction that had been done, the beams freshly lacquered, the lakes of flowers clearly visible through the open pavilion. 

His eyes were wide taking it all in, but no one would ever know just how much he saw. 

He noticed when Hanguang-Jun stopped at the entrance, though he could not hear the words that were exchanged. He saw Jiang Wanyin storm away, as Jin Zixuan stepped forward to Jiang Yanli’s side, he moved quite well for a man who was once believed dead. And wasn’t that a mystery of its own? That the Jin heir still lived when rumors whispered of his brush with death. When the stories still told of the monster that tore out his heart? When it had not yet been two years since a battalion charged upon a mountain and killed the man charged with Jin Zixuan’s murder? (The same man who had won their war for them--not that that seemed to matter to anyone anymore.) 

Nie Husang gripped his fan tighter and made the rounds, tittering about clouds and birds and poetry as his brother grunted in disgust at all the smaller sect leaders trying to gain his favor. This did not prevent him from watching as they all settled down for the feast; as Jin Zixuan was seated next to Jiang Yanli, to the side of JIang Waynin. It was unconventional. It was a statement of alliance and one not subtly done. Whispers grew when the crowd of cultivators noticed. The Jin assembly made no mention of the seating arrangements, but there was a tightness around Jin Guanshan’s eyes that hinted at his displeasure. 

Nie Huaisang fluttered his fan so no one could see him smile. 

Dining made it so much easier to watch people, so absorbed as they were with their meal and keeping up the pretense of propriety, no one noticed when eyes were on them. No one noticed if their every move was noted and cataloged. And so Nie Huaisang let his gaze wander back to the Lan delegation, where Hanguang-Jun had joined his brother. Although he did not seem to care much about where he sat, or even what was happening in the room around him. Lan Wangji’s eyes drifted to the empty ground at his side, staring intensely at the empty wooden planks, a wrinkle barely perceivable upon his brow. Besides a brief flicker to the head of the room--landing on Jin Zixuan for a moment before snapping back to his side, he focused on little else. He did not grant his brother more than a customary greeting. 

Lan Yuan wiggled in his seat, eyes wide, taking in this new place, filled with people he did not know--and who brought a child so young to one of these dinners? Why was this boy not sent off with the other children to play and frolic and be watched by the poor servants and younger disciples?--There was something more to his wandering looks, however, as if there was something all his searching could find. As if, maybe, if he looked hard enough, looked long enough, he could match the scenery before him with a story long-forgotten. As though if he searched in just the right corner, behind just the right pillar, he would find a man who once was everything. It was a feeling Nie Huaisang knew well. The boy picked at his food, and clung to the side of his father, and didn’t speak above a whisper the entire dinner--an uncomfortable sight for even Nie Huaisang who had spent weeks with the little hellion’s shrieking laughter filling the hall. 

Both Lan Wangji and the little Lan paid no attention to their sect leader, made apparent as Lan Xichen’s worry became more palpable--a wrinkle appeared between his brows, growing deeper as the night grew later.. As subtly as possible, he added bits of food to both his brother’s and nephew’s plates, only for them to continue to ignore him. Lan Wangji intentionally, Lan Yuan out of greater curiosity for the hall around him.

Lan Xichen glanced at his brother, then to Da-ge then back again, as if Nie Mingjue held the answers. His fingers twisted beneath his sleeve. A motion one would not see if they did not know his tells. It was one only Huaisang knew to look for from years of exposure, of awkward moments witnessed between the First Jade of Lan and Nie Huaisang’s own brute of a brother--who was too busy to notice his friend's uncertainty. 

Da-ge spent the entire meal glaring at Meng Yao--Jin Guangyao now--where he sat behind Jin Guangshan. Nie Huaisang shook his head at his brother's obliviousness. Wouldn’t it be better at this point just to let it go? Jin Guangyao got what he wanted, to be able to wear that ghastly yellow--though it did seem that he had not been granted all of his wishes, if his name had any thing to do with it--and they no longer had the traitorous snake in their realm. It seemed to Nie Huaisang that everyone got what they deserved. 

His eyes drifted in a lazy drawl about the room. He fluttered his fan at intervals. He sipped his tea and gushed about the food, the drink, the lack of alcohol--an anomaly for any conference not held in Gusu--until his eyes fell once again on the Jaing contingent.

Jiang Yanli's eyes were set in an anxious tilt as she peeked at both her husband and brother. Jin Zixuan to her side and Jiang Wanyin at the head of the room where he sat, back ramrod straight, jaw clenched. He was the youngest sect leader here. Though Huaisang knew both his brother and Zéwú-Jun were not far off, only a few years his elder. But it was their confidence and their bearing that made the difference. They were strong and proud in turn. They were sworn brothers who had won the war. They fought with integrity and righteousness--with honor  and virtue. The word did not see the darkness hidden in the Nie sabors, or the austerity of the Lan’s rules. 

Jiang Wanyin did not have that luxury, for his strength lay in a man. A man of flesh and blood with too much power and too much heart. Nie Huaisang wanted to sigh and he wanted to weep, because sitting on that throne was not the friend he once had. He was not the boy who stood with perfect posture even when another boy sprawled lazily across his shoulders. He was not the boy with the small crooked grin, who let himself be dragged along with every silly scheme. That boy had died, burnt to the ground with the pier. On the lotus carved throne was a being filled with anger and anguish in equal folds. A being who spoke in glares and sharp commands; who did not fit the seat he sat, but would admit it to no one, not even himself. His words hid his insecurities and the scowl hid the fear. But Nie Huaisang suspected that he was one of the few people who knew that. 

He let his gaze continue to slide about the room. He watched as sect leader Yao whispered something to the man next to him, a condemnatory sneer twisting his fat face. Tension permeated the meeting hall. It was cloying and heaving. Gazes drifted across the room, filled with worry. Glares burned holes in unsuspecting heads. Smiles were stilted and filled with lies. Nie Huaisang wondered if he was the only one who could see it. There was no comradery within this room. Each sect sat along, sectioned into little colorful groups, never blending. 

There were no dancers to accompany the meal, only a few musicians with instruments playing softly. It was not the ostentatious presentation loved by the Jin, nor the show of strength Nie Huaisang was used to seeing in his own sect. It was understated, tasteful. 

It was fuel to the ever growing fire. Another place for the Jiang’s to be mocked. Another place where they would inevitably be found lacking.

From their position to the side of the great hall, the musicians provided little barrier between the sects. There were no glinting sabers to draw stunned gasps. Nor fluttering skirts to capture heated gazes. There was nothing to distract the eye from the tension that stiffened shoulders or the smiles carved on so many faces. 

Nie Huaisang watched and he watched and he watched. He laughed and fluttered and twittered and fawned. His fan never ceasing its flittering and his tongue never stopped wagging. He played the part to perfection and saw so much more than anyone could. 

There had only been one man who knew just how much Nie Huaisang could see, and the many colored monsters in this room had killed him. There was no one left who knew as much as he knew–no one left to see the world in shades of grey. 

Nie Huaisang took a sip of wine to disguise his scoff. Da-ge had wanted to leave him behind. His brother had wanted to leave him back in the frozen tundra they called home. But how could he have stayed when his brother was traveling into this den of snakes? How could he have stayed when there was so much more he could do here? 

What his brother would do without him, Nie Huaisang really didn’t know. 

8-8

Wei Wuxian was floating. 

He was hollow, he was weighted. 

He was anger and agony. He was homesick and nostalgic and filled with so much guilt he thought he would choke. But you cannot choke without air, and despite the gasping nothings his body continued to make, he knew he could not breath. And so he floated. A mass of emotions with no anchor. A kite with no string and a lotus with no root. He drifted on the surface of the water, 

He had followed Lan Wangi through the gates into a world that used to be his home. He walked past his family, broken and fractured and they did not even know. He felt excavated, empty.

Everywhere he looked, memories dashed passed him like little boys running from trouble, like ghosts running from the past. He had taken slow, stuttering steps along boards that were lighter, newer than those that marked his childhood. And yet these same boards were still darker, more worn since the last time he had seen them; marks and scratches that must have happened in recent years. Years in which Wei Wuxian was not here. Years in which Wei Wuxian had only broken fragmented memories of. The years he spent on a far away mountain. The years he had spent dead. 

The things inside of him that once bled felt as though they had been scrapped raw; they were dry and cracked and aching as though there was no more blood to bleed but the nerves were still tender. It was funny how he could not feel the things around him, could not touch Lan Zhan's hand or tug on the wisps of A-Yuan's hair. He could not smell Jiang Yanli's soft scent as he walked past her. 

There were beads of sweat from the late summer sun clinging to the foreheads of those not used to the humidity of Yunmeng, but he had no concept of heat. A breeze fluttered though the pavilion, but if it was not for the fluttering of the curtains he would not know. It was funny, because for all that he could not feel the things of the earth, he could still feel the torment of all of his failures. He could feel these pains with all the grueling agony he had never had time to feel in life. He was so accustomed to the grinding-churn of desolation that it followed him even to death. 

And so he followed a man clothed in white; he stepped on wood that had no color and felt no evening breeze. He stepped into a world that could not see him, and felt none of it. 

There was movement around him, laughter and raised voices. Lights and color and the rich aroma of spiced food. It meant nothing. He did not see it, did not smell it. He could not even taste it if he wanted to. 

He sat in a hall that was once more familiar to him than any other place in the world, and no one knew. 

He sat beside Lan Zhan, hovering over air in a mockery of those around him. He did not sit behind a table or on an embroidered cushion. He did not have a plate before him or a cup of wine. 

The gentle breeze that ruffled robes and tugged at the soft cotton curtains did not pull at his hair or ruffle his ribbon. 

An entire meal, and no one knew he was there. He watched his brother greet a room full of strangers. Men who had fought a war with him, with them--with Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng and Lan Wangji. His brother greeted a group of leaders who had then waged a war against him-- against Wei Wuxian. A group of leaders who did not care that the people Wei Wuxian had so desperately wanted to protect were innocent. Men who had only seen only a name and hungered only for blood. 

And what did that mean? What did it say of them that they could sit here and act as though they knew nothing of the people that they had slaughtered. Had they not seen the bodies? Had they not seen the ramshackle huts? The fields of radishes? 

What did it say of him that he was here in the room with them? Could sit so calmly in the same space with those who killed his people? 

There was a small small voice that whispered in the stillest, darkest corner of his mind, and it whispered, weak. 

There was darkness in him and it twisted in pitch rivers that no one could see. It was wrath and pain and the quick knife of betrayal and the everlasting throb of a rotting wound. 

These men who had killed all those he had once tried to protect, and they sat within a hall that they had let burn, a hall that they had no right to step foot inside. 

These men, these dogs, w ho had let his first family burn out of cowardice; who had butchard and killed, who let Wen blood dribble in the dirt and run in streams down a mountain. Men who should have been torn apart by the dead that Wei Wuxian had raised. Their blood that should make oceans.

His emotions swirled inside of him. He felt everything and nothing all at once. So much he could not focus, could do nothing but drown as each emotion clogged his throat.

He wished he could bleed. He wished so fervently for a physical wound. Something that could be patched together with stitches and bandages. His nails dug into his palms but there was no pain. He longed to feel anything. He wanted to see more than too-new wood. He wanted to see blood, it did not matter whose. 

Then he saw it, a figure shifted out of the corner of Wei Wuxians eye. A speck of gold where there should only be shades of purple.  And when he turned his head, when his eyes did more than nothing, when he focused his mind, he was able to see; there was a figure dressed in gold.

A man who held himself with all the pride of a colorful bird. Who held his sister's hand and sat in support of the master of Lotus Pier--a seat demeaning his birth, a seat that at one point was meant to be Wei Ying's. He sat with confidence, with defiance. He sat there in this hall that once was the closest thing Wei Wuxian had to a home. He was here. Hereherehere. He knelt upon a purple cushion, surrounded by walls of the warmest wood. The gentle lake breeze toustling the jewels in his hair. 

He sat in a seat that did not belong to him, in a hall he had once sworn he hated. He sat with his fingers entwined with another. With a woman, beautiful and fair, clothed in lavender with sadness in her eyes. 

Wei Wuxian could not see any of this. All he saw was pale lips gasping, soft, broken words as blood spattered across the gravel beneath his feet.

But there was something wrong. A darkness in him that Wei Wuxian knew. One he was so horribly, intimately familiar with.

He reached for it and felt it snarl back.

8-8

The night had dragged with a slowness that Lan Wangji resented. He had known that this trip was ill-fated, even before it began. 

Lan Wangji had been watching Wei Ying, always watching, over the past weeks.

He had been witness as his light began to flicker and the haunted look shadowed his face, a little more each day as they approached Yunmeng. 

There was things that Wei Ying was not telling him, things that Wei Ying was hiding. There were secrets he was keeping from Lan Wangji. There had always been secrets between them, and Lan Wangji suspected that there always would be. He had made peace with that. He had made peace with the knowledge that there would be parts of Wei Ying he would not--could not-- know. 

It was because he was watching, it was because his eyes had not left the man tethered to him, that he had seen it. He had watched Wei Ying become more fiable with every moment within the wooden walls of a place that had once been home. 

Lan Wangji wished so desperately that they could touch. That he could run his fingers through Wei Yings ink stained hair, that he could soothe him, comfort him, remind him that he is seen. That there is someone who knows him in this world. That he is more than nothing. But they cannot and he cannot and so he settled for the imperceivable touch of his outermost finger, and the sparking connection that is all that they have. 

There were words , there were words, therewerewords and they swirled around his head. They slithered through his throat and teased at his tongue. There were words that sat between his teeth, waiting to be spoken. But he knew he never would. He knew he would not utter them, would not let the cross stone lips. 

He would not ruin what he had. He would not speak when any uttering could shatter the peace they had. Any misspoken syllable could shatter the man before him. The man who seemed to be held together by nothing more than light and longing. 

And so Lan Wangji said nothing. He said nothing as he noticed the darkness in the room collecting in the corners. He said nothing as inky energy began to twist ar Wei Ying’s finger. He said nothing as the light of him, the glowing aura of skin, gold and beautiful, began to be lost in the miasma. He said nothing. 

But that did not mean he would do nothing. 

With surety and swiftness. Lan Wangji stood from his seat, collecting the small child who had begun to doze next to him in his arms. 

Then he did something he had sworn he would never do. He collected Chenqing from her place upon the table and walked to the doorway. He did not falter, he did not look to his uncle or his brother. He did not look to his host, to Jiang Wanyin, to be excused or to make his apologies. He pushed the doors open and stepped across the threshold into the warm night air. He left the meeting hall filled with the cultivation world. 

And he forced Wei Ying to follow.

He did not stop as he walked along the empty pier. His pace was quick and sure, but his heart hammered in his chest. It beat against his bones so loud he could feel it in his ears. His arm tightened around the child hoisted on his hip, as the fingers of his other hand clenched white around the black flute. He did not regret removing Wei Ying from that hall, removing him from a room filled with those who had caused his death. 

Lan Wangji hated them all. It did not matter the rules that this broke, they had broken more. He despised them all, the way they spoke as though they were very word lined with poison. 

He did not stop until he stood in an empty pavilion, surrounded by nothing but clear water and lotus blossoms. 

Lan Wangji turned, the sleeping child still in his arms, and his fingers still wrapped around a stolen flute, a flute he had no rights to that belonged to a man he had even less rights to. He held his breath as he braced for censor. He practiced the words that were so hard for him to say, the reasons he could justify taking Wei Ying’s will from him; every sentence he constructed fell short, every word not enough.

But when he turned he did not see anger. He did not see the resentment that he feared. 

He did not see a bird who fought against his cage, or a man who loathed his captor. 

He saw only Wei Ying, knees buckling as he fell across the wood below. His shoulders were wracking in sobs that he could not cry. 

“Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan I don’t understand! He was dead! I saw him die, I killed him, I killed him. There was blood, so much blood, it dripped dripped. Wen Ning's hand, he was just the sword, Lan Zhan don't you see? He was just the weapon. It was my fault but Wen Qing. Wen Qing! They said she burned. They came to my mountain, they killed everyone for nothing, for nothing, he isn't dead. Why isn't he dead? No one could save him! They all died for nothing.” 

And what could Lan Wangji do? What could he say? In those moments on the abandoned pier he could do nothing but let him mourn. Let him cry and wail. Let him scream for the deaths of his family. For the death of himself. 

There was so much cruelty in the world and Lan Wangji hated that it always found Wei Ying.

He reached for the man before him, unsure what he meant to do, unsure how he could offer comfort when there was none, when a broken sob splintered the air he could do nothing.

Lan Zhan was a moon beam. A being made of the purest light. As he watched his sun crumple before him, a smile filled with horror but lined with relief and heartbreak in his eyes. And like the moon--the light--he could do nothing but watch.