Chapter Text
Nie Mingjue waits in the Unclean Realm’s courtyard. It has been more than a month since he sent his little brother off to the Nightless City with only their cousin and some disciples for protection, but he finally received word from scouts that the group had been seen crossing the border from Qishan into Qinghe.
Since they left, Nie Mingjue has spent an hour longer at the training grounds than usual each morning, tearing into disciples and dummies alike with Baxia and trying to banish the thought of his brother returning from Wen Ruohan's side on death’s door, the way their father did less than a decade ago.
But there are no dummies in the courtyard, and so Nie Mingjue paces back and forth, hand on Baxia’s hilt, eyes on the gates, and barks orders to the disciples who cross his path, until finally—finally—the disciple standing on the ramparts over the gates cries out, “Er-gongzi and Da-shixiong have returned!”
Nie Mingjue halts in his path.
Two disciples rush to open the gates, heaving against the heavy logs and iron brackets. Nie Mingjue stares at them, and knows he could go help, knows he could get to Nie Huaisang faster if he would just move, but his feet are weighted to the ground now at the fear of what the gates could reveal.
But Nie Mingjue has never been one to tolerate fear for long, and as the gates part enough for people to come through, his feet finally leave the ground.
“Huaisang!” he calls, rushing forward, and his little brother’s face lights up.
“Da-ge!”
Nie Mingjue pulls Nie Huaisang into a hug, tight but gentle, wary of injuries, and Nie Huaisang embraces him back, arms thrown around his shoulders in gleeful abandonment of any sense of propriety.
“You’re ok?” Nie Mingjue checks as he pulls back. He scans his brother for blood, for torn or muddy clothes, for any sign of distress, but Nie Huaisang just smiles at him and goes in for another hug.
“I’m ok,” Nie Huaisang mumbles, voice caught in Nie Mingjue’s robes.
Nie Mingjue hugs his brother back with ease, but his eyes go to the disciples waiting behind Nie Huaisang. Unlike his brother, they all look battered; there don’t appear to be injuries, and there’s no blood, but their clothes and hair are in disarray, and their boots are muddy.
Nie Mingjue makes eye contact with Nie Zonghui, and his first disciple and older cousin bows to him.
“Zongzhu,” Nie Zonghui begins, “Wen Chao took all of the disciples on a night hunt against the Xuanwu of Slaughter.”
Nie Mingjue bristles, and Nie Huaisang pulls away—out of the safety of Nie Mingjue’s arms—and stands at his side, watching Nie Zonghui.
“While on the hunt, tensions broke between the sects when Wen Chao and his mistress attempted to physically harm one of the disciples. We were all forced to give up our swords and seal our golden cores from the first day, but we were able to escape. Jiang-zongzhu has likely already returned for Wei-gongzi and Lan-er-gongzi, who were trapped and had to be left behind. And—”
Nie Zonghui hesitates, his eyes flashing to Nie Huaisang before returning to Nie Mingjue, but when Nie Mingjue looks, Nie Huaisang has a fan open and blocking any view of his face.
“And?” Nie Mingjue prompts, keeping his eyes on his brother.
Nie Zonghui bows again. “Er-gongzi was of great help in the escape,” he says. “Wen Chao did not ask him to seal his golden core, and meant it as an insult to Er-gongzi’s ability, but I was able to wield Er-gongzi’s fan form in the battle.”
Nie Mingjue thinks he might qi deviate right then and there from the overload of emotions: Joy, that his brother allowed someone to wield him; jealousy, that he was not the one to do so; anger, that someone would insult his brother in such a way; fear, that his brother faced such things without him by his side.
Fear. Always fear, holding Nie Mingjue still and making him unable to act.
Not this time.
“War is coming,” he announces, projecting his voice so all the disciples in the courtyard can hear him. “But we will be ready. We are QingheNie—we are made of steel, and we do not fall.” And then, turning to Nie Huaisang, “And you, Didi—pack your bags. At the soonest opportunity, I’m sending you to Lan Qiren.”
The Lan elder fortified the Cloud Recesses after the Wens attacked, and the Lans are farther from Qishan than Qinghe. Nie Huaisang will be safe there. Nie Mingjue will be able to act without fear holding him back.
Except as Nie Mingjue looks at Nie Huaisang, his brother folds his fan up to reveal furrowed brows and determined eyes.
“I’m not going anywhere that isn’t by your side,” Nie Huaisang declares.
If Nie Mingjue hadn’t known Nie Huaisang all these years, he thinks the hairs on the back of his neck would rise at the look on his brother’s face. But this is his brother, the same man who Nie Mingjue has diapered and carried and pampered, the same man who Nie Mingjue has comforted when he cried and hugged him tight until he squeals for mercy, the same man who showed Nie Mingjue how to hold his birds without hurting them and fainted the first time he saw blood and refused to eat meat for a month when he learned where it came from.
Nie Mingjue feels fear—but it is not of his brother. It is for him.
“You’re going to the Cloud Recesses,” he says, voice flat from the effort of not raising it.
“I’m staying with you,” Nie Huaisang argues, voice high from emotion. “I’m going to do my duty as Nie-er-gongzi and support you in battle as a cultivator weapon.”
“You’re a fan,” Nie Mingjue protests.
“I’m Qinghe steel!” Nie Huaisang yells. “Just like the rest of you. I may have tried my best not to be, but I am. I am QingheNie; we are made of steel, and we do not fall. I won’t let you fall.” Nie Huaisang’s voice breaks on the last sentence, but he stands strong, shoulders back and eyes meeting Nie Mingjue’s.
“You don’t have a saber anymore,” Nie Mingjue tries.
“I won’t need it if you wield me.”
Nie Mingjue bows his head. He has no other arguments to give that anyone would respect, nothing but the protests of an older brother. Nie Huaisang finally wants to follow tradition and do his duty as a second son; the elders and tutors will rejoice.
Nie Mingjue just wishes he could feel the same.
It’s not long until the tension finally tips the scales into full-out war: Lotus Pier has burned, along with most of the sect members; Wei Wuxian is lost, but Jiang Wanyin is found; Lan Wangji rescues the swords and sabers from the Nightless City; Jin Zixuan and Jin Ziyao lead a small regiment of Jin disciples at the Langya Front; Lan Wangji and Jiang Wanyin search for Wei Wuxian; Lan Qiren defends Gusu.
Nie Mingjue mans the Hejian Front.
Nie Huaisang is at his side at all times.
They share a tent so they receive information at the same time, and Nie Huaisang actually applies his brain from time to time, pointing at the map that Nie Mingjue and Nie Zonghui have spent hours pouring over and lazily suggesting a maneuver.
Nie Mingjue could have dealt with having his little brother on a battlefield if that was all it was, but whenever he rides out to battle himself, Nie Huaisang is inexplicably at his side—even when Nie Mingjue never told him he was leaving.
Thankfully, though Nie Mingjue ties Nie Huaisang’s fan form to his belt each time, Nie Mingjue has had no need to actually draw Nie Huaisang and wield him in battle. Nie Huaisang doesn’t protest when he transforms back to human again, either; it is this that tells Nie Mingjue his brother just wants to be there. Just in case.
In war-time, just in case becomes inevitable.
They’re in the middle of battle when it happens. The Wens had begun to push forward more, and Nie Mingjue rides out to meet them, Nie Huaisang tied to his belt like always. Nie Mingjue would never tell his brother this, but the slight weight of Nie Huaisang’s silk and steel has become almost comforting; the steel protects his brother more than robes do, and at least this way, Nie Mingjue always knows where his brother is.
What Nie Mingjue did not want was his brother at his side when Wen Xu shows his face. They’ve known Wen Ruohan’s heir is at the Hejian Front for some time, have seen glimpses of him flying over the Wen camp, but this is the first time Wen Xu has gone into battle himself.
And of course he comes straight for Nie Mingjue, sword at the ready.
The day is clear, sun high and sky blue, and it hasn’t rained in days.
The ground underneath their feet splashes onto the hems of their robes and sticks to the soles of their boots anyway, dirt turned to mud at how much blood has soaked into it over the past weeks.
Wen Xu slides to a stop in front of Nie Mingjue, mud flying every which way, and shouts something, face twisted with a sneer.
Nie Mingjue can’t hear him over the sound of clashing swords and sabers, but he doesn’t need to know in order to heave Baxia in the way of Wen Xu’s strike, their blades shrieking as his sword slides up Baxia’s blade and hits her hilt. Baxia thrums with anger, and Nie Mingjue thrusts out and up, throwing Wen Xu away with the force.
Ok? drifts in his mind from Nie Huaisang, his typical check-in whenever Baxia speaks. Nie Mingjue sends as soothing a feeling down the mental connection that he can while still locked in battle.
Wen Xu is a better opponent than Nie Mingjue usually faces, full of rage and arrogance that batters against Baxia time and again, like a fire spitting sparks and jumping from tree to tree, determined to burn the whole forest down.
But Nie Mingjue has been training to kill Wen Ruohan since his father died, and Wen Xu is not his father.
Baxia slices through Wen Xu’s neck with the ease of the bloodthirsty.
Nie Mingjue shouts in tandem with his saber, grabs Wen Xu’s head, and holds it aloft like a battle standard.
It’s at that moment that a Nie cultivator crashes into him, and Nie Mingjue lets go of both the severed head and Baxia in an attempt not to stab his own disciple. Baxia shivers in the bloody mud, happy to soak it up but yearning to return to Nie Mingjue’s hand. Wen Xu’s head lays next to his body and sword, never to stand and fight again. The Nie disciple whirls back into the battle, a babbled thanks and apology vanishing into the clamor, and a Wen disciple rises in his place, sword at the ready.
Baxia is still on the ground; if Nie Mingjue dives for her, he will be decapitated next.
But Baxia is not the only weapon he carried into battle.
Da-ge! Nie Huaisang shrieks, and Nie Mingjue rips the silk and steel fan from his belt, stretches it to its full spread, blocks the sword with a sweep of the leaves, snaps the guards closed again, and stabs the Wen disciple through the throat.
From the ground, Baxia shrieks in delight.
In his head, Nie Huaisang is silent.
It takes a bit for Nie Mingjue to extract himself from the battle. He scoops Baxia and Wen Xu’s head up, tucks Nie Huaisang in his belt, and carves himself back to the Nie side of the Hejian Front. Around him, the battle starts dissipating faster and faster with each Wen disciple who catches sight of Wen Xu’s head and starts to flee.
When he reaches the Nie camp, he passes command to Nie Zonghui and tosses him Wen Xu’s head.
Nie Zonghui catches it, eyes wide and startled, but he recovers quickly and nods when Nie Mingjue orders him to post Wen Xu’s head on a stake looking out towards the Wen camp.
Nie Mingjue doesn’t stop for anything else. He gathers a bucket, fills it with water from the well, and goes to his tent. Once there, he sets the bucket on a table, places his saber cleaning materials next to it, and gently gathers Nie Huaisang in his hands.
“Don’t transform back yet,” he whispers.
Nie Huaisang hums in his mind, and Nie Mingjue’s heart eases; his brother was silent for so long, but he’s still there.
He’s still there.
Taking a rag, Nie Mingjue dips it in the water and begins to scrub along the fan’s steel guards. In the time it took to get to the tent, the blood of the Wen disciple has dried; Nie Mingjue doesn’t want to hurt his brother, but at times he has to scrub harder to remove the blood. Soap and oil helps, and at times he dips Nie Huaisang into the water bucket to rinse. Each time the fan rises cleaner, and each time the water turns a darker color as the blood and gore mixes in.
What gore there is is small, thankfully. The throat is soft and delicate, easily damaged, unlike the heart, protected by bone and made of thick muscle. When he pulled Nie Huaisang free, most of the throat was left where it was, a clean strike even as it bathed the fan in blood.
Eventually, Nie Mingjue deems Nie Huaisang clean enough on the outside for now, and opens the fan.
The blood has soaked into the silk. Nie Mingjue winces, remembering how Nie Huaisang had always bemoaned how he couldn’t paint the fan.
The silk is painted now, but not in the way Nie Huaisang wanted.
Nie Mingjue strokes his fingers along his brother’s steel ribs. “Just a little longer,” he whispers, and turns to the thread that had tied Nie Huaisang to his belt. There hadn’t been time to untie the knot, not with the sword coming straight at them, and Nie Mingjue had drawn Nie Huaisang with pure strength.
The knot didn’t break, but the thread by the fan’s rivet did, cut through by the combination of strength and steel.
Nie Mingjue doesn’t know how to care for most things, but he knows how to care for fans. He has watched his brother do it over long hours, painstakingly mending frayed leaves and buffing weathered ribs. Now, he takes the two ends of the thread in his hands, and knots them back together, making the knot itself as small as he can.
He knows the thread is Nie Huaisang’s right hand. He knows it because he has lost count of how many times over the last few weeks his brother has gripped his belt tight and transformed, or transformed back to human still holding onto Nie Mingjue.
He knows that the broken thread likely broke something in Nie Huaisang’s hand, but he hopes that in tying the thread together again, the broken bone will heal faster. The doctors will still have to see it, and Nie Huaisang will have to devote qi to the hand until it is as healed as possible, and even then, he may experience aches and pains in it. Injuries to cultivators in weapon form are never easy to heal, and they all heal in different ways.
For now, Nie Mingjue does what he can. Only when that is done does he take Nie Huaisang in his hands and lay him on his bed before kneeling next to him.
“It’s time, Didi,” he whispers. “Come back to me.”
A second—two—and then the fan shivers, and Nie Huaisang’s human form slowly appears. He cradles his right hand in his left, and tears streak through the blood coating his face, but he is human again.
“Da-ge,” he whimpers, and Nie Mingjue shushes him.
“It’s ok,” he says. “Come here.”
Nie Huaisang goes, as willing to do what Nie Mingjue asks as he was when he was young, and Nie Mingjue takes up the rag again and wipes his brother’s face clean.
“I’m sorry,” Nie Mingjue says. “I should never have—"
“Don’t you dare!” Nie Huaisang hisses, the pain and sadness on his face disappearing as anger takes over, and his eyes pin Nie Mingjue in place. “You wielded me like I said you could, and we’re both alive because of it. Never apologize for that.”
Nie Mingjue stares at his little brother. He hates that he wielded Nie Huaisang as he did. He hates that he shocked his brother, and he hates that he hurt him. But most of all, he hates that his brother is right. They are Sect Leader Nie Mingjue and Second Young Master Nie Huaisang, and they fulfilled their roles perfectly today.
They will have to do so again, with the Sunshot Campaign still unwon and years ahead of them both, if the gods are kind.
But while they are Sect Leader and Second Young Master, they are also Da-ge and Didi.
“Come here,” Nie Mingjue says again, opening his arms, and Nie Huaisang throws himself into the offered hug. “I’ll always protect you.”
“And I you,” Nie Huaisang says.