Chapter Text
The jiānghú is supposed to welcome the earliest winter, yet Yunmeng endures the same mixture of vibrant shades. Yellows, browns, and oranges remain the warmest, though peeking between them are hints of greens left uncovered by maple leaves. Lotus Pier stands amidst earthly colors in regal shades of purple, proud and noble where they are fortressed by crystal blue waters.
Barely enough snow has descended about two nights ago and has only ever sprinkled a few whites over the tips of the browning red pine needles. Whatever pieces that have fallen over the lakes have long melted back into the same blue that reflects the same sky.
Jiang Cheng is looking at it—into it—though he indulges not at the reflection of his young, young face, but rather at the brownish, yellowish tadpole underneath.
It is a shy little thing, Jiang Cheng has observed, but it is interestingly determined. He has never seen a tadpole parenting a frogspawn before, but his childish ministrations have proved him something of worth centering on to amidst the graying of the world around him.
The still waters ripple as the tadpole—perhaps only a week more from a froglet if Jiang Cheng is not wrong about the legs— undulates itself slowly through the withering lotus stalks, a little ball of eye-like jelly floating atop its spotted head. The process is painfully slow, and the little thing has only managed to evacuate five of his egg siblings, but it is a pitiful lot from the number of frogspawn Jiang Cheng is still poking with a shriveled lotus stalk.
It is ridiculous, he thinks, for both him and the little thing, because a frogspawn is anywhere between several hundreds to a number of thousands and still he watches with a thinning layer of patience he somehow insists to stretch thin.
After the thirteenth egg, the tadpole has noticeably grown tired. Its squirming has slowed as it approaches again. It rolls a few eggs to separate from the clump, but one of them twitches, rides a few waves of ripples, then reveals itself to be a larva.
The tadpole seems to hesitate. It pauses and suspends half its body on the water surface, but, as if unwilling to break the routine, it tries to herd its sibling anyway when Jiang Cheng splashes a handful of water towards it.
A lazy smile stretches on a pair of drying lips as the tadpole gives chase to the squirting larva. The excitement raises a few droplets of water towards where Jiang Cheng is lying leisurely on a bent trunk of a red pine. Then the larva disappears in between browned lotus pods, while the tadpole resigns itself under a clump of water moss, routine forgotten and eggs forsaken.
Jiang Cheng turns away, huffing at the lack of further amusement. He tucks a wet hand under his head and lays comfortably to watch the patternless spread of thin wispy clouds.
After what feels like thirteen seconds—thirteen thoughtless drumming of the index finger of the hand resting on his stomach—he picks up some irregular rustling from a nearby bush, followed by a faint, serious voice.
“Gōngzǐ, it is time to go back.”
A broken rhythm—a rueful smile.
“I wish it is,” he replies, and then go back he does.
It is no surprise, though never not strange, to hear Madam Yu’s imposing voice all across Lotus Pier that Jiang Cheng already misses the comfort of the back forest. It is not a sunny midday: The air is cool and the sun is only peeking shyly somewhere around the curtaining clouds. However, the mistress of the pier has always burned hotter than fire itself.
It is even less of a surprise to see Wei Wuxian kneeling below her feet, the overactive expression nowhere in sight at the heat of the moment, and Jiang Cheng’s gut churns at the familiarity, and ironically the unfamiliarity, of it all.
Yinzhu barely has to announce their arrival when Wei Wuxian is jumping up, having already seen him, with only Madam Yu’s glare faltering at the sudden return of his enthusiasm.
Jiang Cheng does not wither when the cutting gaze zooms in on him. Instead, he feels a bit funny in a way even he doesn’t understand.
“Kneel, boy,” she commands through tight lips.
The floor rustles and vibrates when Wei Wuxian aborts his mission to catch his younger martial brother in favor of surging forward, hands reaching out to grapple at flowing purple skirt.
“Yú-fūrén—” Wei Wuxian protests but his only response is a shove that lands him next to Jiang Cheng, whose knees meet the floorboard with a crack when his shoulders are pushed down by Madam Yu’s stronger spider. Yet Young Master Wei has never been one to be deterred. Still, he rises again, and reaches, yet again, for the purple boots looming over their persons. “I can take punishment for Jiāng Chéng!”
Whatever reply he gets, Jiang Cheng hears but only registers as a distant ringing. Magpies sing sweeter by the window, and their little twitches and dances are far entertaining than any dream he has long since stopped wishing.
“Not another word, Wèi Wúxiàn. If you really had not wanted to see the heir of the sect who took you in kneel by a servant’s side as if he was another servant, you should have known best than let him out of your sight. Until when will you fool around, Wèi Wúxiàn? Have you not grown enough to feel ashamed of playing around like a child? You never learn, do you? And you—” Something cold and sharp press against Jiang Cheng’s jaw, forcing him to look up and away from the window. He registers only belatedly that they are purple-painted claws. “Look at me when I am speaking, Jiāng Wǎnyín, if you have any shred of respect left for me.”
Jiang Cheng obliges easily. He turns his eyes until they are mirroring what should have been his own face—except it is not. It is the Violet Spider, and she is breathing, seething, mad. She does not know what to do with her son, and neither does Jiang Cheng know what to do with everything.
“While I endure the shame of letting you lie on your bed like a damned maiden while your shīdìs sweat themselves away, you still have the face of sneaking away? Tell me now, Jiāng Wǎnyín, since you are so brave, can your skills match that bravery? Can you beat a servant who is better than you? Can you even call yourself an heir?!”
A strangled noise sounds from the other teen beside him, but Jiang Cheng keeps his attention up to the angry figure of the Violet Spider while wondering distantly just how long it has been since the phantom words have felt this real.
“Did you think you are delicate just because you have been bedridden? And you have had yourself bed ridden for what? For what, boy? Have you gone stupid enough to fall off your own sword after throwing a fit and running away? Do you even know how to fly properly? How come you would fall? Can you even call yourself an heir after losing face? Was I even teaching you anything at all? Were you even learning at all? Jiāng Wǎnyín! Look at me!” Jiang Cheng returns his gaze to its rightful focus and blinks. Yu Ziyuan’s shoulders are shaking as she tries to reign in her temper, though the way she curls her fist indicate that she’s more frustrated than angry, and she’s spiraling. She asks, rough tone hiding hints of confusion underneath, “You rebel, yet you would not explain yourself. I will ask again, Jiāng Chéng, what is it that you want?”
The floors begin to feel like needles dug in his knees. Jiang Cheng sighs at this. Isn't she tired? Because he is.
Unsurprisingly, the door slides open and a wave of coolness from the newcomer’s ever-calming aura washes over, though with very little effect in face of the infamous Violet Spider’s temper.
Yu Ziyuan rips her gaze off of the teens and turns to the door, Zidian sparking so brightly she seems eager to manifest into her true form.
Jiang Fengmian’s ever-present mild smile comes into view as he walks inside, light steps not too different from the Lan Sect’s trained gaits. His eyes are placating, or at least attempting to placate whatever there is to smooth over, but long been coffin-nailed history whispers to the walls that oil and water do not mix.
And so Yu Ziyuan speaks like the judge of everything, and Jiang Fengmian tries to parry until he runs out of diplomatic words to say. As if his wife is one a sect official needing diplomacy. There is no point listening into every word they spit at each other. There is nothing new. There is never anything new.
Jiang Cheng shakes his head and stands up. He presses a few points on his red knees and then looks at Wei Wuxian’s stupid expression. The other seems taken with the argument, so he leaves his post first and on to a corner of the ancestral hall where he picks up his fallen clarity bell.
He attaches it on his hip and gives Wei Wuxian one last look, who finally notices him and is staring back, albeit even more stupidly.
“Are you coming?”
Wei Wuxian’s widened eyes dart between the arguing couple then on to Jiang Cheng but he remains stuck in his place. Jiang Cheng shakes his head and stalks ahead, straight to the battlefield where a pair of husband and wife attempt to douse the other with fire and water. He dodges Zidian’s sparks easily and walks around the arguing couple towards the door that Jiang Fengmian has not even managed to close before he's caught in the chaos.
Yinzhu and Jinzhu stand stiff by the sides of the door, each throwing their serious expression aside at the surprise of seeing Jiang Cheng making it out alive. But they say nothing nor is he inclined to mind them.
Barely a few steps after and the door is thrown open yet again, this time spitting out a haggard-looking Wei Wuxian whose arms sneak readily around Jiang Cheng’s shoulders.
“Let’s go hunt pheasants” he asks, voice soft but tone firm. He shoves his face so close it’s a little unbelievable. “I can’t believe you—”
Jiang Cheng steps to one side and shrugs the weight off his shoulders. He watches as the other stumbles and straightens without any noise of complaint, as if he has not noticed he stumbled in the first place. Likely, he is up in his head.
Figures, spirited as Wei Wuxian is, he is still, after all, a child whose mere existence raises flags for battle. And a child should not have business in a battlefield.
Yet here he is, Jiang Cheng snorts. Yet here they are.
“Can’t believe what?” he asks. “Can’t believe this? All of this? Perhaps I have really hit my head, and in doing so, I have shed fear. Believe me, I can believe it.”
Well, Jiang Cheng can’t. Never can, but he is also a coward and a coward like him would still be kneeling in the ancestral hall, still trembling under Madam Yu’s slightest shift in mood, still so filial he will want to swallow whatever courage he has had when he has thrown the tantrum to scramble after his parents’ affection—wherever that thing went.
Unfortunately, this is Jiang Cheng and his knees are burning, and his knees are more important because he dislikes pain on his lower half, so if they demand he stands up, he will.
Wei Wuxian just has to keep up with the momentum because Jiang Cheng has never had the luxury to slow down for himself. He will not do so for others anymore, and it is fair Wei Wuxian will have to be the one keeping up with him this time, no?
“Do you not have training?” he asks at the silenced Wei Wuxian.
He glances at the sun position, eyes miraculously shoveling through the wispy clouds to spot the glowing star, and then at whatever part of the training field he can see across the lotus filled lake. He sees a few disciples lined up, shouting and swinging their swords, but he notices most of them are squatting down in groups, laughing and chatting idly, the courage no doubt drawn from Madam Yu’s absence.
“Ho~ Jiāng Chéng, how can you send me away while you get to enjoy yourself?”
He raises an eye at that and watches as the teasing smile, that oh-so-familiar unrestrained grin, youthful and carefree, falters.
“I am sick, you know. Fragile and delicate, did you not hear?” he replies, then, and ignores Wei Wuxian’s protesting whines.
“But that is so unfair! You are clearly okay now!”
And Jiang Cheng chuckles, the sound of it dry, hollow, mirthless.
Ah. Wei Wuxian, Wei Wuxian. Wether it is in reality, in dreams, in nightmares, and in the afterlife, it is never been fair. Between us, there is never fairness.
Because his sickness is a promise, none of his tutors come to find him. So he finds himself on a hill, where a tree that has burned still breathes and dances, a pair of kites extending from a lower branch out into the sky, thrashing with the wind as if wishing to be set free.
Jiang Cheng lies on his back and watches. He watches, and watches, and watches, and he rubs, rubs, and rubs at a phantom weight around his index finger. And then he listens, and hears, then hears.
He hears the noise—the life, the buzzle, the loud chatters, the unrestrained laughter, the smell of spice, the scent of lotus—and everything is a noise so old.
He wonders dimly: Was his soul so charred dìyù would breathe him the ghosts of the past?