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Chapter Text

Jin Ling hates Koi Tower.

Jiujiu would scold him for saying such a thing. 'Koi Tower is your home,' he'd chide, hands on his hips and a frown etched on his face. 

'No, Lotus Pier is my home!' Jin Ling would retort twice as fast, lips pinched in a scowl that made Jiujiu sigh and pinch his nose, muttering something about 'peacock genes'. His uncle's face always softened whenever he said as much, a touch smug as if he was raising his fist to Jin Guangshan and Xiao-Shushu, but he'd fix his expression and rest his warm hands on Jin Ling's shoulders.

'Your father left you Lanling Jin, little prince. Koi Tower is yours as well.' What would Jiujiu know, Jin Ling thinks, spitefully kicking at the grass beneath his feet. Jiujiu spends all of his time in Lotus Pier, surrounded by the babbling streams of his home, his smile lighter there than it is in Koi Tower. See, if even Jiujiu doesn't like it--eyebrows knitting together and lips going thin--then why does Jin Ling have to like Koi Tower?

He's small for his age, slight and quick enough to avoid the maidservants who Xiao-shushu instructs to watch over him, and Jin Ling always finds himself meandering over to his mother's garden. Koi Tower has a similar structure, lovingly built by his father for his dearly beloved wife, but it pales in comparison to the blessed blossoms of the lake in Yunmeng. 

The water is clear when Jin Ling slips his fingers through it, a lotus bobbing against his hand as if saying 'hello', although 'goodbye' would be more apt since Jin Ling is to go back to his 'home' the day after. He sniffles at the thought, clutching his knees close to his chest, ready to be condemned by his cousins and watched intently by elders who will smile tautly in the presence of Xiao-Shushu but whisper behind their hands when they think Jin Ling isn't watching.

"What's with all the sniffling?" A cranky voice questions, and Jin Ling startles. His head whip in the direction of the voice, but he can spy nothing, squinting his eyes nearly closed to make out a figure. He nearly jumps out of his skin. 

"A yao!" A sputtering noise, more akin to bewilderment than anger.

"What did you call me? Haven't you seen a ghost before, brat?"

"Of course I haven't!" Jin Ling pauses. Jiujiu has mentioned, in an off hand, almost casual way, that Yunmeng Jiang sometimes screamed at night. Jin Ling had baulked at the words, Jiujiu's right-hand looking at the sect leader severely, who smiled to diffuse his nephew's fear. 

'It's just- a lot of things happened here before, A-Ling.' Jin Ling knew about that, of course. Everyone knew that Yunmeng Jiang was once burnt to the ground, and that the remaining heirs of the sect built up back up until only one was left of the tightly knit trio. 'Sometimes, the land holds onto the grief for us.' 

The words gave Jin Ling comfort whenever he heard the creak of floorboards, his knuckles white as he shivered under the covers, resolutely not looking at the shadows that spread across his floor. It might have been the people who lived in the family quarters before him visiting, curious about this little ancestor of theirs. 

It comforted Jin Ling, this little fairy tale of his. In Lotus Pier, people cared about him--their golden peony amongst a sea of lotuses, the younger disciples swarming around him and teasingly calling him 'young mistress' just like Jiujiu did. 

The ghosts might care about him too. Jin Ling wouldn't mind if they did.

"Have you lost your voice out of sheer fear?" The ghost's irritated voice drags his attention back to him. "Aren't you supposed to be a cultivator? What kind of cultivator is scared of ghosts?"

"I'm not a cultivator, yet!" Jin Ling replies hotly. "I'm only six!" The ghost's outline faintly shimmers, and Jin Ling can make him out just the slightest bit more. He's taller, shorter than Jiujiu, robes billowing around a resolutely built figure, and his arms are crossed over his chest. At least, that's what Jin Ling thinks. 

"Well, boy of only six, what brings you here?" 

"I should be asking you that! This is my home!"

"This is my home." The response startles Jin Ling, who gapes up at the ghost. "At least, it was." The amendment makes him even more intrigued. His earlier wariness disappears, his eyes keenly trying to take in the ghost. Was his spirit a previous disciple of Yunmeng Jiang? 

"It was? Were you a disciple before the burning?" The air around them grows cold. It's a rapid drop in temperature, so surprising that Jin Ling's teeth begin to chatter, and it slowly begins to warm up. What kind of ghost is this, to have control over the atmosphere around them? Jin Ling doesn't quite know the classifications of ghosts, but the power strangely reminds him of Jiujiu's, whose cruel smirk can make even the strongest of cultivators silence themselves in moments.

"I was." Words forced through gritted teeth, just like how Jiujiu's expression grows woefully pained whenever he brings up the past, his fingers tight around the top of a bottle of Yunmeng wine and his words softly slurring in a Yunmeng accent. 

"Shushu should know a lot about Lotus Pier, then, shouldn't he?" He defaults to the standard address for the stranger, and a sharp click of a tongue clears through his ears. 

"Shushu? You look like a spoiled cherub, brat." Jin Ling stomps to his feet, drawing himself up against the perceived height of the spirit. 

"I am not a spoilt brat! And what else should I call you?" He can feel a gaze brush over him, and the lotuses seem to sway with a hint of melancholy.

"I was supposed to have a nephew," the ghost says unexpectedly. "He would have been your age, I think." 

"Was he your brother's son?" Jin Ling asks curiously. There aren't a lot of children his age. Jiujiu says it's because all of the cultivators were so occupied with fighting in the war that the thought of siring children was uncommon. 

'Too many people feared the political climate after the war ended.' Jiujiu explained. 'Some people never recovered from the war. Others never came out of the war.' His voice was bitter, his eyes set on the moon, almost lavender as it languished against the night sky. 

"My sister's." Grief weighs down the man's voice, and Jin Ling swallows his burning questions. Curiosity is no reason to be poking at this man's wound, completely unhealed if the raw ache in his words says anything, and Jin Ling knows what it is like to lose two people he thought would always be watching over him. 

"I already have a Jiujiu, but you can be Xiao-Jiujiu!" 

"Xiao- how old is your uncle, you brat?" 

"Who knows? He always says he's a lot younger than he is, and that immortals shouldn't be asked such questions." Jin Ling gets the faintest impression that Xiao-Jiujiu is pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"Fine. Whatever."

"Young Master!" Jin Ling looks in the direction of the pavilion when he hears the call of his title, Fei Ayi waving at him with a frown on her lips that tells him he's in quite a scolding. The servants in Lotus Pier don't fear him, treating him exactly like how Jiujiu himself was treated in his youth--with fondness and faint exasperation. 

"I have to go," he kicks at the ground glumly, and whips around to look at the spirit. He's already looking away, the faint outline of his eyes set on the setting sun, and as it gets darker, Jin Ling can nearly make out a contemplative frown on his lips. "Will you be here, next time, Xiao-Jiujiu?"

"Who knows? Spirits linger as long as they have purpose."

"Well your purpose is to be my secret friend whenever I visit!" Jin Ling demands, and the figure pins him with a look, shaking shoulder making Jin Ling fear that he's overstepped before loud laughter fills the air. It sounds rusty, like a laugh that hasn't been used for a long time, but it's warm and comforts Jin Ling. 

"What a demanding little brat. Alright, gongzi. I'll be your secret friend next time you visit." Jin Ling beams at him, waving wildly as he jogs off in the direction of the waiting maidservant.

Koi Tower might be a 'home' away from home, but Jin Ling has a new friend--one he can keep all to himself!

Jin Ling knows that Jiujiu wouldn't appreciate not being told about his new friend, just like how he didn't appreciate the existence of Little Fairy, glaring at Xiao-Shushu like he had spit in his face and resolutely not looking in the direction of the little puppy wagging its tail. 

His uncle can be protective, born out of the desperate need to keep his only family left safe. His wandering grey eyes catalogue any sense of danger, lingering only on a white robed cultivator who Jin Ling catches staring at Jiujiu a lot before moving back to the golden spot moving through a banquet hall like a little princeling. 

Jiujiu's sister--Jin Ling's A-Niang--died on a brutal battle field and the man who killed her died not too long after. But before they were anything to Jin Ling--mother and enemy respectively--they were Jiujiu's family. Nie-zongzhu sometimes speaks with a dreamy voice of the time he spent in the Cloud Recesses, only when he and Jiujiu think he's asleep in Jiujiu's lap. 

'The youth we had, I miss it more than ever sometimes.' Nie-zongzhu would say, his dark eyes peering into the glass of wine he held, faintly smiling. 

'I certainly don't miss having to write line after line of those stupid rules.' There was something in Jiujiu's voice, a note of falseness that made the pretending Jin Ling think that he was deflecting whatever Nie-zongzhu was trying to say. 

'Oh, the Cloud Recesses had its fair share of fun. Jin-gongzi's antics then- well, they might have been ridiculous but they're the reason you have Jin-gongzi now, don't you?'

'Don't talk about that peacock.' Jiujiu scoffed. 'He only came to be bearable in the end.'

'You do hold a grudge!' A pause, heavy with tension. 'I was talking about-'

'Don't.' Jiujiu's voice was sharp. 'Don't bring him up.' Jin Ling peeked an eye open to find Nie Huaisang withdrawing, bottom lip tucked in between his teeth. An expression warred over his face before he sighed and nodded, delving into a chatter that lulled Jin Ling into sleep.

Jin Ling knows now, that Jiujiu must have avoided the topic out of the fear that he was awake. He used to tell him stories, stories of A-Niang and the brother he had. He'd spin tales of them swimming against the currents to capture Water Ghouls and climbing the stairs of the Cloud Recesses with the brother trying to trip him up every now and then to make the younger disciples laugh. Jiujiu's eyes would soften as he spoke of A-Niang's lotus root and pork ribs soup, how the brother and he would fight over the fattiest ribs and praise his mother's cooking until her cheeks were as pink as lotuses.

Mentioning these stories to his cousins, in an obstinate bid to make his uncle appear scarier to them, this uncle who wrangled Water Ghouls in the early double digits and smiled with ferocity in his eyes, was a mistake.

Jiujiu's brother was a murderer, the one who wore blood on his hands, smearing crimson stains across his face as he lost his mind. He was the reason why Jin Ling didn't have any parents, his empty gaze so vacant that he rose on trembling fingers and yanked a screaming Jiujiu's sword out of his grasp to cut his own throat.

'A coward who couldn't even face his crimes.' Jin Guangshan once callously muttered at a Discussion Conference Jin Ling was spying on, Jiujiu's knuckles white as they clenched around the same sword that was once dark with his brother's blood. 

Jin Ling screamed himself hoarse when he found out the secret of Jiujiu's 'brother', and Jiujiu never spoke of it again. Neither of them did, not when Jiujiu's face grew whiter and whiter, looking struck and hopelessly desolate even as he let Jin Ling bang at his chest with clenched fists. 

Jiujiu was his only family, but Jiujiu had a family before he came to exist. Jiujiu had someone to care for him, but Jin Ling only had Jiujiu.

And now he has Xiao-Jiujiu.

The spirit is curt and blunt with his words. He appears in smears--the whisper of dark strands when the Yunmeng wind brushes through his hair, thin yet elegant fingers wiping at Jin Ling's cheeks when he eats lotus buns messily, robes that blanket around him warmly when Jin Ling clamours to be in his lap. He never reveals his name, and haltingly tells Jin Ling of the Lotus Pier of the past.

"It was always loud, so noisy those Gusu Lan fuddy duddies would die if they had to spend even one day here." The spirit snickers, and Jin Ling quietly catalogues this little tidbit (His Xiao-Jiujiu knows about the Lans). "The markets would be open far and wide, and we'd play with the village children whenever they spied on us."

"It's noisier than it is now?" Jin Ling questions. 

"Back then, it was noisy because everyone knew each other. Whole families had been settled here for years, and even the immediate family of Yunmeng Jiang came to know and recognise the faces of the common folk. After the massacre-" Xiao-Jiujiu never calls it the 'Burning of Lotus Pier' as others do. The title he dubs it--the use of the word 'massacre' almost always involved--is always spat out bitterly, poison and grief changing the word and making it too heavy for Jin Ling's ears. It's personal, and biting. "-nobody survived. How could it be noisy when nobody knew each other?"

"People followed the new Jiang-zongzhu, though! And now they're close too, aren't they?" Another thing Jin Ling noticed was that Xiao-Jiujiu tensed whenever they spoke about Jiujiu. He had yet to mention that Jiujiu was, well, Jiujiu, because he didn't know how it would go. Fei Ayi and the other servants would grit their teeth whenever Yeye would sweep into Lotus Pier, hiding their expressions with their lowered heads and long sleeves.

'He still looks down on Jiang-zongzhu!' Fei Ayi would rage, moving through the kitchen with quick feet. 'The old Lotus Pier would have struck him down! Jiang-go-" A hasty clear of a throat, and Fei Ayi bit her tongue, glowering at the ground.

"Whatever the old Yunmeng Jiang family thought doesn't matter now." Jiujiu's right hand was a man named Jiang Xiang. He was a distant cousin of the Jiang family, and had known Jiujiu rather distantly since youth. He was Jin Ling's mother's cousin, and spoke of her fondly whenever he had the time. He never spoke about the other brother, but his expression would pinch and every month--if he was visiting Lotus Pier--Jin Ling could spy him nursing a cup of wine, pouring whatever was left into the lake. 

Maybe the spirit didn't like Jiujiu, like other people did. Jin Ling nearly scorned Xiao-Jiujiu when he thought as much. No matter what, Jiujiu was Jiujiu! He taught Jin Ling how to shoot his first arrow and took him to see the lanterns every Lunar New Year and let Jin Ling crawl into bed at night even when he had been up at night writing reports. 

But the former disciple didn't seem to hate Jiujiu. Even now, his voice is thin like a tightly pulled string but there was something almost fond lurking in it as he spoke. "Yes. I guess you can say that Yunmeng Jiang has...," he trails off, and doesn't continue. Xiao-Jiujiu is quiet like that. Sometimes, he'll snap at Jin Ling, yelling at him for stomping around or trying to swim in the deepest part of the lake. Other times, he'll do his best to pat Jin Ling's head and awkwardly console him as he blubbers about something or the other.

He can't seem to leave Lotus Pier. The one time he tried following Jin Ling into the market, he disappeared and reappeared, disorientated and not responding to Jin Ling's frantic calls for several moments. But Xiao-Jiujiu doesn't seem to mind much. He ventures to Jin Ling's room to clumsily read him stories when he spies that he's awake and peering at the sky, sputtering inelegantly when Jin Ling demands a lullaby ("Do I look like one of your nurses, brat?") but reluctantly singing a melody that resembles the Yunmeng style of singing. 

Jin Ling can't feel Xiao-Jiujiu. The spirit isn't a yao. That would allow him to feel Xiao-Jiujiu's hand when he smooths down errant strands of his hair or lightly smacks the back of his head properly. Instead, Jin Ling can just feel--watered down versions, more like nudges than anything, something he can almost pretend is the wind. 

It's enough for him, for now. 

The more time passes, the more Jin Ling wishes Xiao-Jiujiu was a stronger spirit. He might linger in Yunmeng for a reason he refuses to disclose, but he's still a spirit. One day, he'll vanish, and Jin Ling will have to deal with staring into a space, his heart wishing that an irritated voice would respond but knowing that nothing will happen. 

He doesn't expect that day to dawn so quickly. 

Golden robes stick to his skin, and Jin Ling makes a face as Xiao-Shushu adjusts the over robe he's forced into wearing. Lanling fabric is not suited for the hotter climate of Yunmeng, and Jin Ling wouldn't be wearing it if not for the Discussion Conference currently being hosted in Lotus Pier. Jiujiu had already welcomed them, sitting on the Lotus throne in ostentatious robes of lush violet, the fabric thin enough to let the brush of wind that makes its way around the corner every now and then through. 

Ever since his grandfather passed, Jin Ling has been expected to sit in on more of these Discussion Conferences. It was a compromise that Jiujiu and Xiao-Shushu came to, that Jin Ling only sit patiently throughout a few of the debates before leaving to amuse himself.

'He is seven.' Jiujiu's voice had a sharpness to it that Jin Ling never heard. 'You know better than anyone that A-Ling doesn't need to be sitting in on Discussion Conferences. He's still a child!'

'Jin Ling is the heir to Lanling Jin.' Xiao-Shushu answered, trying his best to placate him. 'He needs to learn-'

'He is seven! He doesn't need to be learning about politics at his age!'

'Learning about politics in your youth is better than starting to learn it when you've suddenly become the sect leader, isn't it?' Silence, drawn out and furious, a coldness in Jiujiu that could freeze all of Yunmeng over.

'You overstep, Lianfang-zun.'

'Jin Ling is the heir to Lanling Jin.' Jin Guangyao repeated. 'He has to sit in and learn what kind of world he will be entering into when he becomes a sect leader.'

It didn't make it easy, hearing that conversation. Jin Ling wasn't particularly close to his grandfather, but the sudden shift of attention onto him made his shoulders shrink in, a trait his grandmother tried to stamp out of him. Her thin fingers would press against his hunching back, making him stand straight.

'This is your home, Jin Rulan.' She said fiercely. 'Nobody can take it away from you, but only if you don't let them.' Looking at Jin Ling, she clicked her tongue bitterly. 'How cruel the world is, to make you resemble your maternal line. A-Yuan's genes really are impressive.' 

His robes are embroidered so heavily Jin Ling has to steady himself when he rises, relieved by the nod Jiujiu sends in his direction as a recess is called. His shoes skate against the ground as he makes his way outside, blinking when he bumps into something. "Excuse me, Jin-gongzi," a gentle voice apologises, and Jin Ling gazes up at the man smiling down at him. Zewu-jun is his Xiao-Shushu's sworn brother, his silver guan bright under the morning light, and his white robes are not as thick as Jin Ling expected.

"Your robes aren't heavy," he notes, and then turns pink with embarassment at his loose grasp over his tongue. Zewu-jun merely chuckles, nodding.

"A friend of mine once told me that Yunmeng summers are very hot. I had my robes ammended accordingly."

"That's good advice." Jin Ling nods sagely as if he doesn't barely reach up to Lan Xichen's knee. "Does Zewu-jun visit Yunmeng often?" Lines appear around the man's eyes, and he avoids Jin Ling's curious gaze, lifting his own to stare outward. The lake is beautiful under the sun's rays, and Zewu-jun's breath comes out a tad bit harsh. 

"No. I wanted to. I had been told a lot about how wonderful it could be."

"Would Zewu-jun like me to show him around?" Jin Ling asks, perking up excitedly. It's his favourite thing in the world to show people around Lotus Pier, preening in the background as they marvel over the unknown beauty of his home, and Zewu-jun is no different. 

His eyes sweep over the different parts Jin Ling points out to him with a kind of heaviness that makes Jin Ling eye him sideways. It's the same way Jiujiu looks at the entrance to Lotus Pier, hands clenched by his sides as if he's waiting for the former family of Yunmeng Jiang to be reunited again. It's how Xiao-Shushu looked at old Nie-zongzhu sometimes, his eyes practically cutting through the older man, all with that smile on his face. It's how Jin Ling can spy Xiao-Jiujiu's misty form from the window in his room, the fireflies bumping around him and illuminating him just enough for Jin Ling to sense the wish Xiao-Jiujiu has--one he can never understand.

"It truly is as beautiful as he told me it was," Zewu-jun mutters quietly to himself, one hand behind his arm, the other locked around a lotus, finger thumbing over the purple-tinted petal. 

Jin Ling pauses in front of the path that usually leads to his secret hideout with Xiao-Jiujiu, not knowing how to bid the older man goodbye. Jiujiu has been telling him not to be so curt and rude, idly wondering where Jin Ling gets it from (he knows exactly where Jin Ling gets it from. Like nephew, like unc-) and Xiao-Jiujiu too has admonished him from blurting out whatever he wishes to say. 

He opens his mouth to try to piece together a semblance of a proper goodbye when Zewu-jun turns to face him. The man's face grows white, desperation and yearning crossing his face as the lotus he's holding crushes itself in his arm, stepping forward quickly.

(Behind the young Jin stands a fading figure. His hair is moving with the breeze, and his eyes are focused on the golden-robed boy frowning at Lan Xichen. There's a soft smile on his face, reserved entirely for the boy, and it makes him younger, gentler, sweeter. There is no blood around his neck, no wrath in his form, only the beauty of Lotus Pier. He is a ghost, a painting trapped in the youth Lan Xichen has outgrown, and Lan Xichen needs to see him- the condemned man- the boy who-)

"Jiang-" Jin Ling turns around quiziccally, trying to figure out what it is that's making Zewu-jun's amber eyes rim with red. 

(He's gone, flickering away and Lan Xichen trails his eyes downwards to see a spitting image of the boy who he cared for so intensely, his back stinging with the phantom pain of the punishment he took. It hurts to look at Jin Rulan now, as it does whenever Lan Xichen comes across him, his appearance a ghost to many)

Zewu-jun smiles, but it is a weak thing. He looks drawn out, strung out to dry and growing more brittle by the moment. "Excuse me, Jin-gongzi, but I find myself growing tired. Thank you for showing me around Lotus Pier. I shall take my leave." Still bewildered, Jin Ling returns the bow Lan Xichen aims at him, eyes still fixed on his leaving back and not focusing on the figure manifesting behind him. 

"What are you looking at?" Jin Ling smiles at Xiao-Jiujiu, and it flickers as the air around them turns frosty. 

"Xiao-Jiujiu?" 

"You... why are wearing golden robes?" Xiao-Jiujiu's voice is low, tempered with something on the crescendo of being a shout. 

"Because of the Discussion Conference. Yunmeng Jiang is hosting. " Jin Ling starts when the sensation of hands clamping on his shoulders registers. The spirit's agitation sends the wind around them flying, and his form dims before brightening, the irises of his eyes like silver orbs in the sky. 

"What is your name? Your full name." In front of the demand, said in such a voice that has never been aimed at Jin Ling before, he feels weak. 

"Jin Rulan." The hands around his shoulders slacken, and Jin Ling can see the stunned look in those eyes. Xiao-Jiujiu backs away, and his spirit glitches. 

"Of course!" Xiao-Jiujiu's voice comes out a screech, and Jin Ling stumbles backwards, fear a rope around his throat. The emotion is quickly drowned and replaced by fear, and Jin Ling watches in horror as the spiritual energy of the ghost turns the burning shade of white, shifting into violent violet and blue, like the flames on the highest heat. 

"Xiao-Jiujiu!" 

"No!" With a wave of his hand, Xiao-Jiujiu simply--

Disappears.

Xiao-Jiujiu doesn't show up after that, and Jin Ling is distraught.

No matter how many times Jin Ling returns to their little hide out, the spirit won't come back. Jin Ling pleads, voice going hoarse with how he dissolves into sobbing for his friend--no, the other uncle's grown to have. When he wails 'Xiao-Jiujiu!', he truly means 'uncle' in a familial way.

Not that it matters. Xiao-Jiujiu is well and truly sick of him. Is he disgusted by Jin Ling's name? He doesn't like it much himself. It's far too girly of a name for a boy like him. Protesting in the past made Jiujiu chuckle and ruffle his hair, the smile on his lips not matching the glazed over look in his eyes, the one he got when he was reminscing. 'The one who named you did not have particularly good naming skills, A-Ling. You should be grateful it's not worse.'

But Xiao-Jiujiu couldn't be upset about that, could he? Maybe the ghost hated that he was a Jin. In Jiujiu's younger years, Yunmeng Jiang and Lanling Jin had a rivalry, with the younger masters of Yunmeng Jiang always getting ready to show up the proud young master of Lanling Jin. Is it a rivalry that made Xiao-Jiujiu scorn him?

Maybe it's just him. Maybe Xiao-Jiujiu has grown sick and tired of having to console a child who comes running whenever he has the smallest inconvenience. Jiujiu is too good-tempered to get angry at small slights, always urging Jin Ling to get over it and not mind the tongues of others, but Xiao-Jiujiu is different.

'What? How dare they say that? I should break their legs!' He'd boom, smoothing a hand down Jin Ling's back, and Jin Ling would feel relieved to have someone in his corner, someone so enraged on his behalf. Xiao-Jiujiu would seethe and scowl, snidely remarking about the other boys 'not being half the archer A-Ling is going to be' and encouraging him to stand tall.

'If you're a gongzi like they all say you are, act like one! Who else can take away your strength other than you?' 

Jiujiu is concerned, his eyebrows knitting together tighter and tighter when he sees Jin Ling stomping off to Guanyin knows where, only to return close to tears, having shed some already. "Where do you keep on going?" he asks over dinner, and Jin Ling glares at him, the expression so familiar he has to wrap fingers around to steady himself. 

"It's a secret! It's a secret between me and Xiao-Jiujiu!" 

"Xiao-Jiujiu?" He repeats, half-appalled. "Have you replaced me already, A-Ling?" 

"He's my friend! You can't have him!" Jin Ling sure is possessive. As if he has any friends. Who else remains but Hanguang-jun and good old Nie-zongzhu? The 'friends' of his youth are gone, nothing but a tattered violet ribbon and a sputtering ring that destroyed him left of his closest one.

Jin Ling doesn't give up. Every month he visits Yunmeng, he heads down to the garden, clumsily tending to the flowers the way Xiao-Jiujiu showed him to. 

'Don't tug at the weeds- that's a flower, A-Ling!' 

'You're going to make this place balder than that Fifth Shixiong of yours. What kind of stress must he be undergoing to be losing that much hair at twenty?'

'A-Ling! Get back here! How many damn times have I told you not to go into the deep side of the lake!' 

His voice haunts Jin Ling, and he bites back bitter tears every time the little conversation he makes floats into the air with no reply. 

"Are you crying, Jin Ling?" A taunting voice questions, and Jin Ling turns around, baring his teeth. There's no Fairy here to protect him against this band of cousins of his who Xiao-Shushu insisted on bring with him to 'cheer A-Ling up'. "What's this place, anyways? It looks worse than the gardens in Mo Xuanyu's room." 

"Fuck off!" Jin Ling says fiercely, rising to his full height of scarcely any inches. "This is my A-Niang's garden!" The laughter ebbs at that, a few of the children looking at each other guiltily before the leader scoffs. Jin Chan crosses his arms over his chest and sneers.

"Instead of listening to the Discussion Conference like a good little heir, you're out here in your mother's garden? How pathetic!" Jin Ling snarls, stomping forward. In Lotus Pier, he does his best to behave, but this isn't just his mother's garden. It's his special place with Xiao-Jiujiu, who showed him how to care for the flowers and paddle through the lake even though he physically couldn't appear.

Jin Chan will not ruin this for him.

"I said fuck off!" The bully is already growing into his gangly limbs, taller than Jin Ling who he shoves backwards. 

"That's all you can do--bark like a dog. No wonder you're an orphan!" Jin Chan's laughter ceases to a halt when a rumbling sound echoes in the air. Jin Ling shuffles up to his knees, his elbow hurting where it scratched against the grass, and looks wondrously as what looks like lightning forms around him. "Wh-What?"

The figure is hidden behind the cloud, but Jin Ling can see the rage in its eyes, the wild hair flying in every direction and the hiss that leaves its mouth coinciding with the strike of lightning that crashes in front of the children. It doesn't do anything more than lightly singe them, but they all howl, turning tails without any hesitation. 

Xiao-Jiujiu pants, still furious, and stills when a hand touches his. "Xiao-Jiujiu?" The small voice makes him freeze even further, and Jin Ling clutches onto him tightly, grinding his shoes into the ground to hold him still. "Xiao-Jiujiu! Don't leave again, please!" He's sobbing, voice cracking as he cries loudly, and Xiao-Jiujiu doesn't look at him. His anger made him vaguely manifest, and Jin Ling presses his forehead against the spirit's knuckles. "Please don't'- don't leave A-Ling! A-Ling is sorry!" Jin Ling hiccups when he's swept into a hug so tight it makes him squeak at the presence he feels.

"Don't apologise. Jiujiu should be the one to apologise to you." Xiao-Jiujiu's voice is pitched low, as if he's scared he'll reveal too much in what he says. "Jiujiu should stay away from you, A-Ling. I'm not a good person."

"Who says?" Jin Ling demands, pulling away, but Xiao-Jiujiu's figure flickers, fading in front of his eyes to become a blur. "Xiao-Jiujiu takes care of me, and wipes away my tears, and threatens to hurt anybody who hurts me! You even hurt Jin Chan and his bullies."

"Fighting kids is not a good thing that I should be doing," Xiao-Jiujiu says dryly. His hands cup Jin Ling's cheek so tenderly he blinks rapidly at the faint visage of the ghost. "You'll hate me one day when you find out the truth." There's a surety in his voice, weariness that comes with the knowledge of how much trial and error it took for that statement to become true. 

"I don't hate Xiao-Jiujiu! I'll never hate Xiao-Jiujiu--as long as you don't go away," he tacks on hopefully, and can feel Xiao-Jiujiu's laughter rumble as the spirit swoops him into a close carry. 

"The naivety of youth. Fine." He rocks Jin Ling back and forth, the boy nestled closely in his arms, so content he barely hears the man's whisper. 

("Let me have this, cruel fate. Let me love him for as long as I can, even when he'll hate me.")

For his eighth birthday, Jin Ling gets a clarity bell from his Jiujiu.

The party is an extravagant celebration that Jin Ling doesn't care much for. It's exhilarating, having the attention of so many at the start of the event, but by the time the sixth gift is presented--accompanied by pretentious rambling he can barely understand--he's wishing he stayed home. 

Xiao-Jiujiu had taken him down to the lake the week before his birthday, knowing that Jin Ling would be in Lanling for the event. He refused to be corporal enough to show his face, but he would let Jin Ling swing their hands between them, softer now that Jin Ling was growing older. His hands were gentle as he helped a giggling Jin Ling into a boat, letting them float into the centre of the lake before a faint crackling noise filled Jin Ling's ears. 

Violet light went swimming forward, dancing around the boat and caressing Jin Ling's skin like a tickle, arching in the air before exploding like a firework. The lake came to life the usual dimness turned into something wonderful and vivid as fireflies flew forward at Xiao-Jiujiu's command, 

'You see this lake?' Xiao-Jiujiu had whispered as Jin Ling had gasped at the dragonflies that lazily drummed around the boat. 'This is a part of you. This is your home just as much as Lanling is.' Xiao-Jiujiu couldn't give him a gift other than this act that drained his spiritual energy and made him wobble weakly, but it was enough for Jin Ling, to have Xiao-Jiujiu here in the first place. 

Jiujiu strides forward in confident movements, the deep purple of his robes intertwined with shades of black, a crimson ribbon in his dark hair. "A-Ling." A smile is tucked into the creases of Jiujiu's face, showing how much he wants to gather Jin Ling in his arms and tickle him until he's squealing for mercy, but all he does is present Jin Ling with a pouch embroidered with a lotus. "Here is my gift to you, my dear nephew."

The clarity bell hand crafted by his uncle's calloused hands, gently pressed into his palm in front of the gathering of other cultivators who have all travelled far and wide for the birthday of the heir, and Jin Ling wondrously knocks his fingers against it. 

A light, bell noise rings through the air, and Jin Ling beams at his uncle, throwing himself into his arms with no regard for the tittering it will bring. 

His next visit to Lotus Pier makes his stomach twist with excitement, Xiao-Shushu needing to gently chide him for every anxious move he makes as they fly through the sky and land in front of the gathering waiting for them. "A-Ling!" Jiujiu smiles, and gawks when Jin Ling flies past him. "A-Ling?"

"I'll see you later, Jiujiu! I've got to see something first!" He calls over his shoulder, and lets his Jiujiu deal with entertaining the visiting sentry from Lanling. The pier creaks noisily under his feet as he races as fast as he can, screeching to a halt in front of his mother's garden. He can already sense Xiao-Jiujiu, and excitement makes his fingers tremble as he interrupts the spirit's greeting with shaking his clarity bell.

Spiritual energy floods out of the clarity bell, and the figure in front of him stiffens. "A-Ling-" Jin Ling can see a mouth shaping his name. The spirit's form wavers, shifting as the spiritual energy forces it to present, and Jin Ling doesn't dare blink as a figure finally knits itself together in front of his eyes. 

A tall man stands in front of him, half of his dark hair tied in a top knot secured with a violet ribbon, the rest coursing down his back in smooth waves. His face is heart-shaped and familiar, phoenix-shaped eyes the colour of a lake slowly starting to freeze, and long bangs curve around his face. He wears dark robes, so dark it takes a moment for Jin Ling to place the colour as viciously dyed violet, and the shifting wind reveals a deep cut through the flesh of his clavicle.

Jin Ling's fingers tremble, his breathing coming out harsh. 

He's seen this man before. He's seen paintings of him, younger and brighter, darker and violent, painted in the careful hand of his Jiujiu and the lighter strokes of Nie-zongzhu who drunkenly recounted his youth. 

A clattering noise behind him, and Jiujiu sounds stunned as he calls out the name of his parents' murderer, the depraved man who slit his own throat after killing his sister.

"Jiang Cheng."

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian always has violent dreams.

Sleep eludes him on most days, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches restlessly over Yunmeng, over the Lotus Pier he recalls fixing himself—clumsy chips of wood piercing the soft flesh of his thumb, the acidic smell of burnt corpses stinking the rotting lake, the sweetness of lotus buns hastily baked with the little ingredients in the pantry.

In his dreams, he's accompanied by a lithe figure, as tall as he is but made slightly smaller by the oversized robes he wears. The long sleeves drift down his wrists as he glares down at a hammer like it personally offended him, and his dark hair is knotted in a bun, a violet ribbon scented with a dying lotus swaying in the air.

'Wei Wuxian,' he'd say, turning to face the man with a temperamental scowl. 'Are you going to stand there and do fuck all or pass me those god damn nails?' The wooden pier beneath his fingers began to stain, a deep red creeping across the surface, and Wei Wuxian realised with horror that it was dripping out of Jiang Cheng's wrists. 'Wei Wuxian.' A whisper, his bright, silver eyes as black as soot, purple electricity moving around him and crawling through the open slit at his neck.

He was dying. He was always dying—whether he was the child who fiercely chased away the dogs he loved for a cowering Wei Wuxian or the teenager carrying him down the hundreds of stairs in the Cloud Recesses or the youth who smiled faintly at the new Yunmeng Jiang disciples crowing over their victory.

'Jiang Cheng.' The name was all Wei Wuxian could mumble, all he could curse into the sheets of his bed when he woke up with his eyes burning and the slow recall of his brother's death flickering behind his lids.

His hand does its best not to reach for Suibian unless he absolutely has to. The silver steel was once decorated with Jiang Cheng's blood, his younger brother knowing that for all Wei Wuxian was screaming himself hoarse as he knelt by Jiang Yanli's cooling body, he could not kill him.

How could Wei Wuxian kill Jiang Cheng? Oh, how he wanted to. Jiang Cheng, who ran away in the middle of the night to make his way to Guanyin knows where and disappeared for months. His reappearance was violent and lacking any kind of humanity, his eyes as dead as rotting bark, and he stood by Wei Wuxian's side before forsaking him for a group of people Wei Wuxian could nearly count on one hand.

Jiang Cheng, who Jin Zixuan died for. The peacock who frowned pensively every time he heard about Jiang Cheng, miles away from the scowling toddler who would reluctantly play with him on the many play dates their mother arranged, a darkened version of the youth who tried to clobber him for daring to insult his Jie. Jin Zixuan's eyes were bright at the thought of reuniting the family, his foolish little heart undoubtedly thinking that things would get better, as if he didn't know they Jiangs were cursed with complications from the moment a yearning Jiang Fengmian married a heartbroken Yu Ziyuan.

Jiang Cheng, who Jiang Yanli died for. Shijie, her wails cracking and filling the air as Jin Zixuan's corpse returned to her, louder than Jin-furen who shook the messenger back and forth.

'Who killed my son?' she demanded, her eyes wild and full of disbelief. 'You lie! You-'

'It was Sandu Shengshou, Jin-furen.' The messenger could only say through a choked voice, and Jin-furen screamed, ripping at her hair, not believing that the young boy who sweetly called her 'Ayi' would turn against her son.

Jiang Yanli could scarcely believe such a thing. Her pale countenance was full of determination that day on the battlefield, still recovering from A-Ling's difficult birth but her tracks steady as she rushed to her brother. She opened her mouth, but no words came out, only tears as Jiang Cheng looked at her soundlessly.

'A-Jie.' He said quietly, turning his wrists up to her and not meeting her eyes. 'I've come to turn myself in.' It did not matter, what he said, the cultivators all dying to grasp onto Sandu Shengshou, who kept his eyes only on his shixiong and sister. A slash of a sword at his shoulder made them cry out, yet Jiang Cheng wouldn't move. Pale and bloodless, his lips curved with soundless mirth as he glanced at the trembling fool and flicked his hand, the spiritual energy of Zidian lighting his face and casting eerie shadows against it.

Jiang Cheng didn't care about dying, but his sister certainly did. Her heart brimmed with hurt at how much he had changed from the boy who clung to her skirts and petulantly demanded her attention, and then it hurt from the sword driven through it.

Wei Wuxian couldn't move fast enough then, to stop Shijie from acting first.

He couldn't stop Jiang Cheng either, mouth open in a scream that only sounded when Suibian clattered against the ground noisily. The hearty cheers of the cultivators around them—'Wei Wuxian has killed Sandu Shengshou!'—were drowned out by the faintness of Jiang Cheng's pulse, his mouth parting as he dragged himself to Jiang Yanli. Wei Wuxian held her tighter in his arms, shifting away, wanting to protect her, but Jiang Cheng was always more determined than he was.

Jiang Cheng swept a hand over his sister's cold hand, and turned his eyes to Wei Wuxian. He found them full of tears, the coldness in them lost, only the brightness of the boy he considered brother to be there.

'I'm sorry, Wei Ying.'

Little A-Ling grows up to resemble his Xiao-Jiujiu more and more every day. 'I'm not younger than you!' Jiang Cheng protested, scrambling over the makeshift table in his lair—'It's not a fucking lair!'—to try to fight Wei Wuxian for the title of 'Jiujiu'.

'Boys, boys.' Jiang Yanli chided, beautiful in her wedding finery. 'A-Xian can be Dajiu, alright?' Jiang Cheng smirked at him as if he won, and the ensuing scuffle was loud enough to make Wen Qing enter the room to chide them for the noise.

Jin Ling pouts at being teased, wrinkles his nose at bitter greens and discreetly trying to feed it to the unimpressed ducks in the lotus ponds and walks with his nose so far in the sky Wei Wuxian marvels at how he hasn't tripped and fallen into a lake yet.

It's painstakingly similar to Jiang Cheng huffing at Wei Wuxian making fun of him, hiding treats for the stray dogs they might encounter in his qiankun pouch and crossing his arms over his shoulder with his head tipped up proudly.

"You gave him a courtesy name and he decided he was going to become every bit like you," Wei Wuxian mutters bitterly into the wind, fingers loosely wrapped around a gourd of wine. Wei Wuxian can never tell Jin Ling about why he smiles nostalgically at his antics, not when Lanling Jin has thoroughly poisoned him against his other Jiujiu.

'You said he was your brother!' Jin Ling's high pitched screams echo in his mind. 'He was a murderer! He killed A-Niang and A-Die!'

If things hadn't gone as wrong as they did, Jiang Cheng would be the one teaching Jin Ling how to paddle through the deepest part of the lakes, his smooth baritone keeping Jin Ling company just like how he'd shout encouragements at a young Wei Wuxian who was yet to like the lake. He'd show Jin Ling how to bare his teeth at the stupid bullies in Koi Tower and yell for him to remember who he was. He'd even show Jin Ling how to plant the lotuses and various water flowers, his small smile coming out, like how it did when he discovered that Jiang Yanli was going to have a baby.

If only Jiang Cheng hadn't gone back to Yunmeng.

Maybe then everything wouldn't have gone to hell, and Wei Wuxian would have whatever was left of his family instead of a nephew who was communicating with a spirit aptly named 'Xiao-Jiujiu' who vanished right before their horrified eyes.

Nie Huaisang wonders how many secrets Jiang-xiong kept buried under his flesh.

He understands secrets better than most think. Nobody minds their words around the whimpering younger brother of the great Nie-zongzhu, frightened out of his wits by the sound of the wind creeping in on them, completely unaware that the breeze is dragging their conversation into his ears.

But the secrets Jiang-xiong held? No, no matter how slyly or covertly Nie Huaisang prodded, the man's lips remained tightly shut. He wouldn't explain where he had disappeared off to or why it was that his clothes were always stained deep with blood. He wouldn't breathe a word when Nie Huaisang bumped into him in Yiling, a small child clutching at his tightly clenched fist, a wary gang behind him. He wouldn't look in the direction of Er-ge, no matter how hard those amber eyes were boring through him.

Secrets, Nie Huaisang can understand. Jiang Wanyin has kept his emotions so tautly clenched that even the slightest whisper of the wind would make him explode, but he was devoid of all the fire that made him bright when he trudged through the grime of war with corpses biting at his shadows. He'd vanish them in the face of Jiang Yanli's wane smile, but sometimes, Nie Huaisang swore that he could see them clinging to him.

Ghosts, sometimes dressed in tattered violet. A hand smoothing over the errant electricity off of his ring. A shadow of a smile behind the shining guan he wore.

The darkness threatened to eat even the young Jiang-xiong up. It shrivelled and coaxed itself forward when Jiang Wanyin saw how battered and bruised Wei Wuxian was from his punishment. It sputtered and wheezed in the hollow of Jiang Wanyin's throat as his eyes watched his father approach a kneeling Wei Wuxian without any regard for him.

It was everywhere after the burning of Lotus Pier.

The silver guan he wore tumbled from his head, slipping off his fingers and being replaced by a responsibility Nie Huaisang could not understand why Jiang Wanyin took.

A retired doctor who was the favoured niece of the warlord. A wizened grandmother who held her grandson close. A walking corpse he couldn't stand to look at. A hacking drunk whose laughter would pause whenever those cold silver eyes glanced in his direction.

He hated the Wens. He despised them so much Da-ge would quietly grumble about how the Jiang boy would go chasing after even a dog dressed in those cursed whites tainted with red. He drove himself endlessly, eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep from a night of poring over battle plans and voice hoarse from shouting for the Yunmeng Jiang disciples to hone their wobbling talents.

He held a life long vendetta against anyone who wore those sun-rich robes.

So why did Jiang-xiong take in a ragtag bunch of Wens?

There was a time when Jiang Wanyin shined brighter than the sun.

Lan Xichen will not deny that he did not pay much attention to the boy before. Jiang Wanyin was just another sect heir, arrogant and proud, although he quickly proved his pride to not be misplaced but rooted in facts. Not as shining of a solider as his brother, but enough to impress Shufu, the man humming in approval.

'His emotions will lead him astray.' Was Shufu's only complaint. 'He has inherited all of his mother's heart, and never learned to restrain it.' Lan Xichen did not remind his uncle about the rule forbidding against gossip, not when Shufu looked forlorn, lips in a thin line of unhappiness.

It was a folly, to not pay heed to Shufu's words, to not mind his own heart. Fragile, brittle it is, and he had pretended that years of trying to build up his walls would strengthen it. A clumsy wall, built by the youthful hands of a boy who had to tug his quietly crying brother away from the house of a mother who had passed, the hands of a teenager having to rediscover the cruelty of the world and turning to pray feverishly that his family and home would be safe.

Jiang Wanyin shone, always did, and always will. The light in his eyes dimmed as he returned from the deep pits of hell, his tight jiaxu robes replaced by billowing ones that gave him a fearful appearance—as fearful as the spirits he demanded pay attention to him. The upwards tip of his chin, the cruel smirk moulded onto his lips, he pursed his mouth and whistled to command forth a legion of ghosts who would rip apart any who he desired.

Off the battlefield, he swayed, exhaustion in those long limbs of him, carefully catalogued by concerned siblings who hid their brother's weakness with aptly placed smiles and soothing words aimed in the direction of offended cultivators.

'Does Zewu-jun not have anything to say to me?' Jiang Wanyin asked after scorning Lan Wangji, his cruel, brilliant eyes glimmering under the moonlight, and Lan Xichen found himself at a loss of words. Many stared at him with respect, admiration for the man who travelled endlessly to promote and rouse courage against the invading Wens, but Jiang Wanyin’s eyes were empty of anything other than arrogance and knowledge. He held political understanding that his and his sect held nothing in this world other than sheer rage contributing to the cause, to the desire to shoot down the sun, but he woke up every day with a smirk on his face and a hand blackened with electric soot from cutting down soldiers. His heart beat—with affection sparsely shown for his siblings, pride for his fledgling sect, rage and the never dwindling hunger for revenge.

It was unnerving.

'Would Jiang-zongzhu join me for a drink?' The boy did not expect it, but graciously accepted, fingers curving around the cup he used to warm his hands instead of drinking. He looked a touch petulant, as if he didn’t want Zewu-jun’s company, when men outside would be fighting to exchange words with the cultivator travelling through the thick of war to make sure their blood, sweat and tears were not unnecessarily shed. ‘Wangji is just concerned.'

A contemptuous snort. 'Not for me, certainly.' No, he wouldn't. He would have been concerned about the bags under Wei Wuxian's eyes, the effect Jiang Wanyin might have on him rather than Jiang Wanyin himself.

'Jiang-gongzi... is observant.' Lan Xichen said sheepishly, and Jiang Wanyin's eyes were alight with amusement.

'Don't worry. I won't hurt your little brother's feelings, too much.' He tacked on carelessly and Lan Xichen found himself laughing.

That single moment in a tent, the wind outside howling and the light inside rather dim, it shaped Lan Xichen. He had become restless, curious about Jiang Wanyin, and how he seemed to understand death better than anyone else. His shoulders were accustomed to carrying the weight of corpses, and his dark clothes hid the stains of the dead as best as they could. While cultivators grieved, Jiang Wanyin would stand to the side, gaze and expression dull. He had gone through unexplainable terrors when he was missing in those three months, and no amount of cajoling would make those taut lips unbutton. He had become familiar with death in the manner that no cultivator-no man ever wished to be, and Lan Xichen’s heart ached whenever he thought of him.

He smiled when he thought nobody was watching, a duck of his head as he swatted away Wei Wuxian’s loud laughter, a curve of his mouth lit by firelight as he listened to the soldiers praise his sister’s cooking, a charming huff of laughter when Lan Xichen had sheepishly shown him the robes he ripped trying to clean. He’d share the little rations he was given with his brother, silently breaking apart the fledgling meat pieces in his soup and passing them out, giving even his violet ribbon to wind around a cut in Lan Xichen’s arm to stop the weeping of blood.

Jiang Wanyin would stride through the battlefields with nothing other than his eyes set on the enemy, only fluctuating to catalogues those he held close—his shixiong, his new disciples, Lan Xichen’s heart skipping a beat when those silver irises flicked over in his direction even when that sculpted face was marked with blood.

‘Zewu-jun.’ Jiang Wanyin’s voice had a perfunctory standard accent, but when he spoke in anger, in haste, it slipped into the sweet tones of a Yunmeng accent. Lan Xichen wanted to hear more of that accent. Wei Wuxian had once teased Wangji about the softness of Gusu’s regional dialect, never prodding at his own shidi’s tongue twisting around the familiar dulcet tones of an accent he left behind in his older years.

‘Lan Xichen!’ He once boomed, ripping his hand out of Lan Xichen’s grasp as he reached for him on the battlefield, and let Lan Xichen hold him again. Jiang Wanyin’s chest heaved as he glared at the man, and Lan Xichen fixed him with a stern glare, decidedly not looking at the mass of bones and sinew around the younger boy, the ghosts clutching at his tattered violet robes.

‘Jiang Wanyin. Let us go home.’ There was no ‘home’ for either of them. Lotus Pier was reclaimed but buried in a mountain of dead. The Cloud Recesses smelt of the most foul smoke, the crisp air tempered and burnt until one could scarcely breathe.

By ‘home’, Lan Xichen meant ‘us’. Return to me, return to the remnants of your family. Return to the disciples who admire you, who snarl and hiss at others who whisper about your techniques. Return to those who will mourn the loss of you even when years pass, disgusted and revolted at the fragility of their hearts but not being able to let go the shining memory of you.

A scar cut across Lan Xichen’s wrist. Like a feather stroke, the pattern weaved itself through his flesh, nursed patiently by Lan Xichen’s arm—left to fester until the horrified Gusu Lan healers wrestled him into submission and healed it forcibly.

‘No.’ Lan Xichen snarled at the healers cowering at the rage leaking off of his form, his arm wrapped protectively over the stinging burn. ‘This is evidence—evidence that he lived!’ Only his quiet, anxious brother knew who ‘he’ was, his concern enough for Lan Xichen to surrender under the less than careful arms of the Gusu Lan Elders.

The injury left a mark, pale enough to be recognised and placed in certain lighting. Lan Xichen would trace his fingers over it in nostalgia, when his eyes would spy violet and brighten only for Wei Wuxian’s form to cut past him, when he’d hear the sound of laughter and turn to see the young Lanling heir racing with his pet dog.

It had burnt more in those nostalgic moments than it did when it was first inflicted, Lan Xichen fighting through the crowd of cultivators, heart beating a mile a minute and nearly collapsing when the cheer went through those gathered. ‘Wei Wuxian has killed Sandu Shengshou!’.

Electricity swarmed around the collapsed corpse of a man he loved, Wei Wuxian’s hand wrapped around his sister’s body, eyes glazed over and becoming wild at the sight of Zidian sparking. ‘No-’ he could reach for his brother but was pushed out of the way, righting himself with a hiss and faltering at the serene Zewu-jun undone with desperation.

‘Xiongzhang!’ Ignoring Lan Wangji’s shout, Lan Xichen tried to cut through the fierce electricity coursing through Jiang Wanyin’s body, biting his tongue to silence his noise of anguish. At the pained hiss he managed to contain, the electricity seemed to hesitate, just enough for Lan Xichen to grace a trembling hand over Jiang Wanyin’s slack face.

He was smaller, the graceful and deliberate movements of his robes no longer making him seem as large, thinner and more gaunt after months of living in the Burial Mounds with ghosts and worries biting at his heels. As a sect leader, Jiang Wanyin had worn silver vambraces and a guan threaded through his severe top knot. As someone who had seen that those he had protected had died and arrived as a prisoner, he had worn the trademark violet ribbon that was spun through his hair and robes starched with the same sweet Yunmeng perfume he wore as a child, a pale imitation of the luxury he could once afford easily. A smile graced his lips, relief in death, and blood decorated his neck like a collar, leaching onto Lan Xichen’s pale skin when he cradled him close.

He could never hold Jiang Wanyin in life. He could only hold him in death.

Tears dripped down Lan Xichen’s cheeks at the knowledge that Jiang Wanyin thought that death would free him—would free them, and he turned stunned eyes up to look at Wei Wuxian when the man rose on shaking legs with his arms heavy with his sister’s corpse and his other hand extended to grasp Jiang Wanyin’s. ‘Let him go, Zewu-jun.’ The coldness of Wei Wuxian’s voice was condemning, and Lan Xichen refused to surrender Jiang Wanyin’s corpse, holding him tighter.

‘Wei Wuxian killed Sandu Shengshou!’ Joyous voices echoed around them, and tears dotted the bloodied ground as the great Zewu-jun wept for the condemned man, the man’s shixiong dry-eyed with shoulders that suddenly stood tall.

‘Where is his body?’

‘We should inspect it, make sure the rat is well and truly dead.’

‘I heard he slit his own throat, the snivelling coward.’

Blood roared in Lan Xichen’s ears and he drew Shuoyue out with a scream of steel. Let any of them get close, and he would kill them all. How dare they speak about Wanyin like this? Had Wanyin done anything other than take their hatred? He knew that they sneered when they said ‘Jiang-zongzhu’, when they stressed on the Sandu of his title, yet he withdrew into the peace of his home and, later, the grime of the Burial Mounds to keep his sharp tongue at bay.

Zidian came alive at the words, as if the spiritual weapon had been hearing everything and anything in lieu of its master. Its previous mistress, a woman who suited its electric and venomous energy so much Zidian would feel her emotions as if they were its, had demanded that the spiritual weapon keep her son safe. To protect him from harm, and these men, they were going to turn on her child, weren’t they? Her child, who suffered time and time again, carving out his insides and never telling the foolish man weeping soundlessly about the loss of his siblings about how he lost that which made him whole.

They would not do anything. They would not lay their grimy hands on her son’s corpse.

Lan Xichen was hit with electricity so sharp it sang as it coursed its way through his wrist, and he was pulled away by Lan Wangji. He could not look away, nor unhear the shattered scream that left Wei Wuxian’s mouth as electricity pieced through every divot, every nook, every cranny of Jiang Wanyin’s body. They watched him crumble, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

In the darkest of nights, Lan Xichen remembers his mouth open in a wail he could not utter. He could only scream later, combing through the Burial Mounds when all had left and he had been unlocked from the seclusion Shufu said to impose for his sanity, dust on his face except under his eyes, where two twin tracks of shining crystal drew themselves.

“Come back!” Lan Xichen’s whisper would echo in the silence of the Burial Mounds. “Come back—as a ghost, as a spectre, as a pale memory, as anything.”

No one would answer. Jiang Wanyin would not answer anyone other than his family, and nobody remained except for a brother who would never speak of him and a nephew who was slowly poisoned against him.

Had Lan Xichen been braver, he would have cradled those thin hands of Jiang Wanyin’s and swept his thumbs over calluses from hammering nails into the piers of Lotus Pier. He’d have pressed a kiss against those marks and listened to Jiang Wanyin’s sputtering. “Shameless!” he’d bark, the same way he’d yell at Wei Wuxian or the Yunmeng Jiang disciples gushing on about his accomplishments.

Or maybe he’d smile, gentle and tender, cheeks blooming with pink.

Lan Xichen could only hope, burning joss paper and playing sweet, melancholic songs of the past. Songs he wanted to play for Jiang Wanyin who rejected and fled from the music as if he did not want to relieve sanity only to lose it moments later. ‘You could have stayed forever.’ Lan Xichen wanted to tell him. ‘I would have played for you every day, every night, whenever you asked.’

Jiang Wanyin would speak haltingly about himself when Lan Xichen asked, sitting across from the man with tea moistening his mouth but not need his need to speak. He would only boast up and down about Lotus Pier, and Lan Xichen commits the words he spoke then to memory, using them to see through the dead man’s eyes as he looks around the Lotus Pier a young Jin Rulan guides him through.

“We would steal lotus pods from the old farmer down the local area.” Jiang Wanyin’s is alight with laughter as Lan Xichen peers over the closed gates to see a washerwoman making her way down the crowded street of the civilian town, lotus stalks blooming out of the lake with their pods swaying ever so slightly in the breeze.

“The children would come and look at us practising sometimes, and Wei Wuxian would do stupid antics like flying in circles on his sword to please them.” The chatter of the children hurrying after the older Yunmeng Jiang disciples strays Lan Xichen’s eyes away from the light voice of Jin Rulan, their scraps of clothing mended with the patient hands of family members, one whooping as an exasperated disciple passes them a wooden sword.

“The air would smell faintly of lotus, and every stretch of water you would see would be filled with them.” Jin Rulan’s footsteps are light on the pier, as if the wood remembers and greets the young master who hails half from the waters where the lotuses bloom. Lan Xichen’s footsteps are more weighed, the wood wondering about this man who walks with a ghost in his shadow and a longing to explore more. The floral scent curls around Lan Xichen, who kneels to press his fingers against a lotus lined with purple veins, the petals soft against his index finger.

“Lotus Pier is home. It’s the best place in the entire world!” Jin Rulan’s voice overlaps with that of his uncle’s, and Lan Xichen’s breath is pulled out of his chest as he spies the figure standing behind the boy. His violet ribbon is whipped playfully around the wind which caresses the boy it watched grow up, his robes a bright purple that blanket him like the petals of a lotus do, and his eyes are stars shot against the night sky, centred entirely on his nephew. The smile on his mouth is painfully sweet and gentle, and Lan Xichen can feel ‘Rulan’ indented against his finger as he traces the characters and helplessly wonders why Jiang Wanyin’s naming sense has remained the same style all this time.

He’s happy. He’s beautiful, brought to life by his love for his nephew, and Lan Xichen stumbles forward, mouth parting around the syllables of his name. “Jiang-” Those silver eyes inch up, detaching themselves from Jin Rulan’s figure to the man who shares the same character for ‘orchid’. In them, Lan Xichen can see what he was blind to—surprise, yearning, loss. The figure vanishes as a confused Jin Rulan turns around, and Lan Xichen is dragged an inch forward, mouth left open.

He could not scream this time either. He could only watch, failing to capture this figment of his imagination, his Wanyin a combination of his youth and age.

The water of Lotus Pier laps against the pier Lan Xichen seeks refuge on after he flees from the young child who shared too much of the man he loved. Chang’e is the only witness to the tears that slip down his cheeks, a violet ribbon pressed against his mouth, the only thing he has left of his love.

A memory brightens in his mind, as if the flickering stars above his head bring forth the last he saw a smiling Jiang Wanyin.

“Lan Xichen.” Jiang Wanyin called him once, voice full of amusement and barely restrained laughter as a child clung to his leg and refused to let go. His skin was sallow, lips dry and eyes shadowed with bruises, but his mouth was twitching upwards and a gleam of mirth filled his silver eyes—striking Lan Xichen worse than any blade could have.

‘Is this what you have become now?’ he wanted to ask, wanted to plea. ‘Do you know how tired you look? What exhaustion are you shouldering, and why must it be you who shoulders it? The ghosts of the deceased, the future of your sect-will you leave nothing for yourself?’

“Wen Yuan.” Jiang Wanyin plucked the boy off of his leg, and the little Wen child looked up at Jiang Wanyin with a bottom lip that wobbled as if he was going to burst into tears. Jiang Wanyin rolled his eyes, impatiently hoisting Wen Yuan up and letting him lean against his chest as he braced him on his lap. “You cry and cry when you see me, but demand I hold you all day? What a little hypocrite you are.” His voice was absent of any scorn and real scolding, and Wen Yuan must have sensed it because all he did was snuggle closer into the warmth of the older man’s embrace.

Lan Xichen was dizzy with his desire. He remembered Jiang Wanyin’s clumsy gentleness with the young recruits of Yunmeng Jiang, helping them hold silver swords securely with an expression that looked like it fiercely wished that it was wooden swords they were practising with instead of immediately needing to smooth out any tactics to fight in a very real war. He did not know how to express himself with the kindness of Jiang Yanli, but in his words, people could parse through the gruffness and see the gentle heart that lay underneath, blackened and burnt yet still persisting.

Lan Xichen wanted to take him home. His mother’s home could hold Jiang Wanyin, who had lifted up the trailing lengths of his Cloud Recesses student robes and splashed ankles through the thin streams, who had trailed through Caiyi Town with his violet ribbon weaving a pattern behind him. It would suit Jiang Wanyin, breathe some life into him. Lan Xichen could breathe some life into him, mouth pressed against his.

It would. It would.

“The world is cruel, Lan Xichen.” Jiang Wanyin said his name more easily then, and it mattered to Lan Xichen that he could pretend they were close enough for Lan Xichen’s pleas to register in the stubborn man’s mind. “The world is cruel, and it needs a pariah.” Lan Xichen could close his eyes and try to make the noise around him soften, the harsh vowels of the Yiling accent softening into the sweeter Gusu dialect. A blink revealed the world that was now in front of him, the past melting before his very eyes. In the crowded streets of Yiling, with the sky rapidly darkening behind him, Jiang Wanyin looked eons away from the boy who laughed as he followed his shixiong and martial siblings through the twisting lanes of Caiyi Town. Jiang Wanyin turned to leave, startling when thin fingers wrapped around his wrist, wrenching him back so fiercely he bumped into Lan Xichen’s chest.

“Does it need to be you?” Lan Xichen asked then desperately, peering into Jiang Wanyin’s eyes with red-rimmed eyes barely disguised by the setting sun. “Can it not be anyone else?” Jiang Wanyin’s mouth twisted with bitterness. It would smile no longer, especially not for Zewu-jun.

“It must be. I could never master the three poisons. I became them instead.”

Chapter Text

The memories of Lan Sizhui's past were all but nearly erased.

He recalls the pure white robes of a man who appeared out of nowhere, the tone of his skin matching his pallor, his mouth parted in surprise and eyes lit with feverish hope. He doesn't remember anything of his past, not when the fever had burnt away every bit of identity he had.

Instead, Lan Sizhui knows the soothing smile of Zewu-jun, the softness of his hand as it brushes through his hair. He knows the complicated gleam in Hanguang-jun's eye whenever he came across him in the Hanshi, the purse of Grandmaster Lan's lips and the gently ticklish motion of the rabbits' whiskers against his cheeks as he held them close.

His dreams are a way for him to try to puzzle out the past so carefully hidden away from him. His first—and most clear—memory is of a man, his back tall and straight, firm and unyielding. His silver eyes are cold as they look down at Lan Sizhui but he is warm as he reluctantly bends down to sweep the child into his arms.

'I suppose you are the only innocent one in all of this.' His voice has a lilting accent Lan Sizhui will not be able to place until he hears it reflected in the dulcet tone of Yunmeng Jiang disciples and the way an eager Lanling Jin heir shouts. Lan Sizhui only holds onto him tighter in this dream, fearing--and knowing—that he will slip away.

His fragmented memories often feature the man. He smiles very rarely, and he avoids the other faded figures who sway in the decaying land they seek refuge in. It's as if he resents even seeing them, his harsh expression softening only slightly in the presence of a child.

'You can not avoid us forever.' A feminine voice confronts the man who stiffens, making a dozing Lan Sizhui grumble.

'I have no responsibility over you, or anyone.' His response is cold and devoid of any warmth. 'We made a deal—you can not—more of me.'

'You brought him back to me. You're not as horrible as you paint yourself to be.'

'It was an accident. I didn't want to. I didn't intend to. For all you say you have no blood on your hands, your precious brother was there—that day—Pier.' The woman moves closer, the flash of her eyes filled with anger and her hand raised. The man catches it and sneers. 'Don't test your luck—you and I are in this—Qing.'

The man in his memories wore tattered robes that might have been once violet, now turned black with age and violence. Their hands would never reach for him, and he'd stare off in the direction of the West, wind whipping his hair behind him. When angered, electricity would crackle around his fingers, hands calloused from digging into soil in attempts to get anything living in the area—curses that made hands clamp over his ears echoing in the air. 

He looked like a fallen angel. He looked like a dark prince from the stories a wizened voice told Lan Sizhui.

Sometimes, he would laugh. It was a warm noise, palm over his mouth to seal off the laughter but it would bubble over and swell in the emptiness of the barren land they sought refuge in. He would smile at letters he'd receive, sometimes bitter, but mostly fond. If Lan Sizhui would creep over to him, he'd let the younger lean against him, in a good mood as he skirted fingers over elegant lettering.

'Letters from my family.' He'd answer and then the smile would flicker off of his face when Lan Sizhui innocently asked if they would come. 'No. I'm all alone now.'

(He wasn't. He threw himself into the arms of a woman who visited, breath-taking in red clothing, pulling away to inspect her, eyes glassy. He smiled and ribbed at a faint man who droned in a voice achingly similar to his and then burst into loud laughter as the man wrestled him into submission. It was the warmth of the man's joy that made Lan Sizhui happier than the meal settling in his stomach.)

He stared in the direction of the West where Yunmeng may lay, and looked wistful, yearning and angry the way Zewu-jun did whenever he attended Discussion Conferences in Yunmeng and faced off Jiang-zongzhu. His mouth would pucker around the title, as if he wanted to call the smiling man something else, but couldn't.

Lan Sizhui only tells Zewu-jun about the man once.

Thunder crackled above his head, fierce and foreboding, and he was all but seven years old and crawling in the direction of the Hanshi. It opened under his clumsy knock, and Zewu-jun peered down at him. His smile was tired, hair unbound loosely around his face, and Lan Sizhui reddened at interrupting the man's sleep. He's too old for nightmares, and shouldn't have been crawling to Zewu-jun, who always skirted the Lan rule forbidding favouritism when it came to him, Lan Jingyi joked. But Zewu-jun was as kind as ever as he ushers the boy inside.

'Could you not sleep?' he asked warmly, and Lan Sizhui shook his head, gaze trailing back at the thundering sky.

'Storms... they always remind me of someone.' His words were uneasy but Zewu-jun's eyes grew warm, something akin to hunger in them as he leaned forward.

'Someone?'

'In my memories, there's a man.' He began haltingly. 'His hair is dark and sometimes it is bound in a topknot with a violet ribbon. His eyes are silver like sword steel and he's quiet, speaking with a harsh tongue.' Lan Sizhui bit his bottom lip. 'He never wore an expression other than a frown, but on a night like this-' He broke off, and Zewu-jun's face was shadowed.

'On a night like this?' He prompted.

'I don't recall it in detail, but I remember waking because of the storm in a dark place, and the man was sitting at the entrance. His head was ducked and he-' Lan Sizhui's voice trailed off. He didn't want to break the man's confidence like this, even though he no longer knew the stranger, but something in him made him feel as if the man would snarl and hiss at his secrets leaking through like this.

'A-Yuan.' Zewu-jun's call of his name is firm, a demand to explain, and Lan Sizhui frowned at the floor as he answered in a low tone.

'He was staring at the sky and the lightning cracking through it. He was holding something- a portrait, I think? And he was- he was crying.' Lan Sizhui remembers the tear tracks glimmering on pale cheeks and the childish way the man hunched in on himself as the air carried forward the scent of the flowers he was desperately trying to grow in the empty, rancid stretch of water nearest to them. He always looked so fierce and angry, but then- he just looked empty, carved of everything that kept him alive.

Zewu-jun let out a noise, like he had been punctured, and a hand crept over his face to shield his expression from Lan Sizhui as he gestured for the younger to lie on the bed. 'You should rest, A-Yuan'.

The older man said that, but Lan Sizhui has not forgotten the steady slip of pearls down Zewu-jun's cheek as he turned a forlorn expression to the lightning sparked sky.

He thinks about that man, time and time again, wondering why it was that he seemed so distant from the world they had carved out for themselves. He did not like Lan Sizhui, but he never scorned him or his request for hugs.

The cultivation world is strife with secrets and gossip, and Zewu-jun’s close friendship with the pariah of the world is one widely known. A friendship so damning that it secluded Zewu-jun from the world until he could finally learn to look forward, the older man has only few friends that Lan Sizhui has seen in their society. 

Why is it that he looks at the blood-soaked stranger who appeared out of nowhere on this mountain with such hope, with such affection?

Jin Ling was eight years old when Xiao-Jiujiu-the spirit of Sandu Shengshou disappeared.

He had spent two years with the man he called 'Xiao-Jiujiu', the man who discovered who he was and made a fool out of him, his wandering legs always taking him down to the garden by the lake where he'd spy the waiting spirit.

Sometimes, he'd bump into Jiujiu. The man would be seated languidly on the grass, smile half-bitter as he played around with a stalk of flower growing from the bushes. 'He used to come here all the time,' he said, answering Jin Ling's inquisitive gaze. 'Whenever Jiang-shushu or Yu-furen upset him, whenever I pissed him off too much.' A pause, a sharp, angry curve of his mouth. 'Shijie would be here too, the both of them tending to this garden.' Jiujiu raised his eyes, settling them on Jin Ling. 'He found another peony to nurture when he came back. That fool.'

His words are absurdly sharp for a man who stumbled after the dissipating figure of Sandu Shengshou, his mouth open in a guttural shout of 'Jiang Cheng!' and his hand reaching forward endlessly.

As if Jin Ling was any better. Had his hands too not reached for Xiao-Jiujiu, his noise of alarm and fright warring fiercely with the hate in him?

Maybe that's why everyone continued to spit on Sandu Shengshou's name. You could not simply just hate him. You would have too many versions of him to hate—the child that toddled through the ponds of Lotus Pier, the teenager who swept through the Cloud Recesses with his shixiong and sister by his side, the dead-eyed man who raised a sword to his throat.

Jiujiu spent many days in a room that was locked to all outsiders. He couldn’t sleep easily after Xiao-Jiujiu vanished, and sometimes wore an expression of grief, as if he wondered why his brother didn’t come to see him. The room—forbidden to enter—was easier to get in than anticipated. Sandu Shengshou's own room held carved reminders of his room, a shadow of his life before he left. Everything was purple, from the curtains decorating the windows to the robes carelessly hanging from the open wardrobe, as if Sandu Shengshou was going to come back and neaten it all over again.

How much must have it hurt for him to no longer wear the violets of his youth? Of his sect, of his family?

The piers of Lotus Pier are lonelier without his Xiao-Jiujiu, but sometimes, Jin Ling can just—feel him there. Too many times has he felt the whisper of something behind him, as if is something creeping forward, entranced by the wagging tail of the puppy reluctantly allowed in Lotus Pier when its master is far away from encountering it. Yet, whenever he whips around, he’s unsurprised to see nothing but thin air.

Unsurprised, but disappointed. Angry.

“Did you have to make me care for you?” He shouts one day, tears tracking down his cheeks and splashing noisily in the water he paddled through—in the deep waters Xiao-Jiujiu strictly told him not to enter. The water rejects him, pushing him back and back, and he can not stand it no longer. “If you’re there, come out! Come out, Xiao-Jiujiu! You owe it to me! You’re my Jiujiu, damn it!” Slamming fists into the water does nothing but scare away the waterbirds near him, and Jin Ling sniffles, wiping at his face.

He knew that it would be short-lived, this friendship of his with a ghost, but he didn’t expect it to crumble so badly. He wishes that the spirit had stayed away when he found out Jin Ling’s identity, yet even then he pleaded for the man to come back.

Is Jin Ling so devoid of relationships, so desperate for love and affection that he’d ask the murderer of his parents to come back?

Two years. Two years is a long time for a child, especially one with a big as heart as his is, and Sandu Shengshou has carved his place out in it.

'What do you look like, Xiao-Jiujiu?' Jin Ling asked curiously, and could hear the frown in the spirit's voice.

'Better for you to not know, brat.' Jin Ling did know now. He knew that Sandu Shengshou was a handsome man who resembled him enough for all the lingering glances on his own appearance to make sense. His dark hair fell down his back in waves, and his phoenix-shaped eyes were the colour of the morning dew on the petals of lotuses. His smile was sweet like A-Niang's, and his expression of horror resembled Wei Wuxian's.

Jin Ling knows his Xiao-Jiujiu, the cursed man who decided to have mercy on the world and cut his lifespan drastically short. He knows how Xiao-Jiujiu sounds when he's holding back a laugh and the gentle touch of his hand on his head.

'I know my didi must have worries on his mind.' Jiang Yanli wrote in a crumpled letter decorated with tears that was never sent and instead hidden in the locked up room in Lotus Pier. 'How your heart must war with your mind, wanting to confide but knowing you can not. Can you not even share it with your Jie?'

He could not. Xiao-Jiujiu spoke of his siblings sometimes with a voice that cracked and ached. Jin Ling thought it was because of how his figure could never manifest properly, but maybe it was just grief.

Raw, unbridled grief.

It’s just like how Jin Ling feels, even as he reaches the double digits and passes many birthdays without Xiao-Jiujiu. It is grief, tinged with resentment and rage that lingers in his chest.

Some stories said that Jiujiu killed Sandu Shengshou. But saying as much only made thunder flash over Wei Wuxian’s face, but never a satisfaction or the guilt expected from a kin-slayer. Then the other story might bear more fruition.

That Sandu Shengshou killed himself right there and then, before his sister’s corpse could even cool.

Why did it have to happen? He wonders as he climbs up a mountain for a Night Hunt, armed with only the trusty bow and arrow Xiao-Jiujiu promised to teach him how to use. Why did his life have to be so fucking complicated? Why could nobody in his family be alive? Why could none of them be completely condemned? What did it make Jin Ling that he had a heart so weak?

(That maybe he took after his maternal-line—his mother who ran to protect her younger brother, and his uncle who slit his throat in his grief of losing her, who watched over a boy who he knew would hate him, almost relieved by the anger in Jin Ling’s eyes-)

Mist surrounds the mountains as the crumpling remains of a statue litter the ground, and the panting man that crushed it with nothing but sheer rage and spiritual energy dancing around his fingertips is familiar.

A storm cloud has saved him, just like it did when he was a child.

Jin Ling's footsteps thunder against the ground as he races forward to throw himself in front of the man protectively, frowning at the Yunmeng Jiang disciples harping about the stranger that fell from the sky.

Jin ling knows what his Xiao-Jiujiu looks like, and as does Zewu-jun, his eyes gaining a gleam that has been missing for years as he stares endlessly forward at the man who has just saved Jin Ling from a rampaging statue.

(It’s him. It has to be him. He looks softer, less damaged, and Lan Xichen has to—he has to take his hand and drag him close. He has to wrap his fingers around that bony wrist and flee, his feet pounding against the ground, heart beating in his chest, finally alive and undone by the return of him, his beloved who he could not save-)

Dark hair the colour of soot that tickled the edge of his cheeks. Eyes so bright it is a shame that the dimness of them doesn't match their shade. Tattered robes in a shade of black-purple around a figure that is taller than his own, one that has blanketed him comfortably as he kicked out his feet and babbled about something or the other.

Most damningly, a scar cut through the pale flesh of his throat, shaped like jagged thunder, the same kind that had seemingly soothed Jin Ling through his youth.

(Jiang-)

He isn't a ghost longer.

Jiang Cheng has finally returned.