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Though Wei Wuxian’s storm-battered soul rests, the spirit realm is far from silent. He drifts along a constant stream of ghost fires, surrounded by the formless sounds and colors of the mortal plane on which theirs is overlaid. The fires are not so complex, with little more to them than the current they follow: sail and dip, sometimes brushing up to one another, sometimes guttering out only to flicker back into existence some indeterminate moment later. Sometimes extinguishing for good. Where they go is not for Wei Wuxian to know. These souls cannot communicate with words, though a bright burst of feeling or memory — like the grief he himself conveys — carries across from time to time. Like the lights and warmth of the mortal plane, they last just long enough for Wei Wuxian to notice their presence and just short enough for him to not recognize what they are.
It’s like this that Wei Wuxian is pulled into a potent underswell of spiritual energy, resurfacing somewhere so similar in its movement and change that he doesn’t realize, at first, that something isn’t right.
He’s warm. The second thing he notices is that he’s still.
Everything else comes in by degrees: the cool wood beneath his body, worn by age and weather, the sound of water lapping against a dock as familiar as breathing. Then his awareness of having a body at all, as he relishes the sensation of eyes and of keeping them closed against the sun for another moment. The scent of wind stirring grass and fresh water, of sizzling meat cakes and oil, the indistinct clamor of voices at market, bartering in the gentle tones of Gusu dialect.
When he finally makes the effort to blearily open his eyes, what comes into focus is a clear and boundless lake, shining through the mist lingering on its surface. Clouded green and gray peaks curve gracefully toward the water, converging with the lightness of the sky in a way that makes something in Wei Wuxian’s chest tighten involuntarily. He has to turn his head, resting against the docks as it is, to see where they meet. It takes effort and angle, maybe more than he’d anticipated, though he hasn’t taken physical form in so long, things must be strange at first.
In the mid-distance, a bird takes off from the water. The rippling disturbance left behind conjures what Wei Wuxian thinks could be a different day on the lake — the even motion of standing on a sailing boat, a loquat arcing through the air — some strange and other age and life that might have been.
He’s content to stay exactly where he is as morning rises into noon, but the easy rhythm of market shifts without regard for his wishes. The stall he’d been luxuriating under packs up and clatters back down the dock, exposing him to entirely too much sensation at once, and he has no option but to stretch out his numbing limbs and move on.
Which is when it occurs to him that the arms he plants in front of himself to arch his back in an instinctive, unfamiliar way are, well. Rather small, rounded, furred a dark gray-brown. He crosses one paw over the other just to feel how soft they are. What must be a tail swishes above him.
This isn’t a problem if he doesn’t make it one, anyway.
Even though it’s Wei Wuxian who’s got the frog pinned in the trampled grass, he’s the one held at a complete loss. The frog has long since stopped struggling, staring Wei Wuxian down as it unrelentingly covers his paws in cold slime.
The chasing had been fun. The discovering, the stalking, the shrieking, riotous dive into the lakeside assemblage of countless, suddenly airborne frogs, scattering in every possible direction — there was something namelessly indulgent in it all, and oh, is Wei Wuxian going to indulge. But now with a small frog in his grasp, by now more irritated than afraid, he has no idea what to do. Should he eat it? He lowers his head to try, and the frog, reenergized by the threat of immediate death, bursts backwards in an abrupt surge of strength that Wei Wuxian gladly mirrors. It promptly disappears into the grass, only slightly worse for wear, and Wei Wuxian congratulates himself on a frog well chased.
Darting his way out of the marshy field and through the legs and wheels of Caiyi Town proper, Wei Wuxian sets his sights on a drying rack. There’s only so much trouble he can get into by the embankment, and besides, the concept of frog-eating has reminded him of the joys of proper food.
With the same motion as the merchant’s turning back, Wei Wuxian jumps with only a slight wobble onto the first beam. The overwhelming scent of fish and salt clouds his senses for a moment before he settles on a cut small enough for him to carry without it dragging on the ground.
“Hey! Damned cat!”
Wei Wuxian has only just jumped off, his feet digging into the road and stirring up more dust as he pivots away from the merchant’s accusatory gesturing. He’s halfway across the street, sizing up a stack of boxes against the wall of a liquor shop, the distance it’ll take for him to reach the eaves, when the cursing in his ears is drowned by a distant bark.
His legs sink into the earth and take root. His jaw goes slack, prize dropped and forgotten as his head rings and a tremble travels up his legs and spine and through him in his entirety.
Another bark, a responding chorus, and the world rushes back in, faster than full motion. Wei Wuxian closes his mind to everything but the beat of his paws against the ground, carrying him as fast and far from the dogs as they can, his body at times moving faster than his legs, nearly tumbling over himself, his heart threatening to burst out of his narrow chest.
A flash of white at the end of the path finally compels him to stop and throw himself behind it, burying his head under his paws. The growling of his pursuers comes to a slow halt as well, fading into increasingly distant whines and whuffing as he studies the familiar embellished hemline and waits for his breaths to even out.
The robe whirls lightly in Wei Wuxian’s face as his shield turns and bends into an elegant crouch, looking upon him with clear eyes he would (does) recognize in death.
Wei Wuxian thinks, Lan Zhan.
He thinks, Lan Zhan will protect me, and he can’t for the life of him explain why. Absurdly, he’s reminded of earlier in the morning, reaching over the edge of a pier to bat at the tiny fish gathered inklike at the surface, formless and untouchable as his thoughts are now.
Before he can understand, Lan Wangji reaches out and sets a warm hand on Wei Wuxian’s head, gently stroking from his cheek to his chin. The repetitive motion is calming unlike anything Wei Wuxian has experienced so far, and he tilts further into the touch with a happy sound, asking for more.
Wei Wuxian could be here forever. Of all the cat delights he’s known, this is it for him. Not an instant has passed, though, before Lan Wangji withdraws his hand and rises, casting one more look at Wei Wuxian as he turns to continue into town.
As if you’re going so easily. The Lan sect robes had called to Wei Wuxian like a beacon when he had nothing but fear in mind, and are effortlessly easy to follow through the streets and alleyways Lan Wangji walks through with the measured, deliberate pace he takes to most everything.
Lan Wangji’s destination sits nearly at the town gates, a small, open-air tea house with a signboard that needs repainting, but bearing a dignified air nonetheless. Wei Wuxian settles atop a low wall nearby to wait, watching as Lan Wangji exchanges greetings with and sits across from the only other patrons in the tea house: an elderly woman, upright and dressed humbly, and a bright-eyed younger woman, perhaps her daughter-in-law.
“Madam Yin, young Madam,” Lan Wangji says, “the matter of your rice fields has been resolved. It is safe to return.”
“Hanguang-jun, we cannot possibly do enough to express our gratitude for you,” Madam Yin says. “It’s a relief to have you here, helping us.”
Young Madam Yin leans forward, excitement flashing across her face. “May I ask, what was the cause of the trouble?”
“A-Lin!” Madam Yin chides quietly, smacking her daughter-in-law’s elbow under the table.
“Your irrigation pond had a contaminated source,” Lan Wangji says. “I have eliminated the water ghosts and obstructed the supply. The water and soil are purified, but I could not recover the damaged crop. There may yet be time to replant before the end of the season.”
“We have truly troubled you,” Madam Yin says, bowing her head. She removes an embroidered money pouch from her robe, but Lan Wangji shakes his head.
“There is no need.”
“Please, I insist,” Madam Yin says. Seeing Lan Wangji make no further move, she pats down her outer robe, flustered, before A-Lin takes her arm and presses a bundle of fresh stemmed lotus pods into her hand.
“Then please, accept these,” A-Lin says. “Just for the journey back.”
Madam Yin smiles in relief and holds out the lotus pods with both hands. A moment passes before Lan Wangji reaches out to take them, with an almost stricken expression that returns to neutrality as quickly as it had appeared.
“Thank you madams for your generosity,” he says. “Return safely.”
Closely watching as Lan Wangji pays the tea attendant and steps back into the sunlight, Wei Wuxian rises in anticipation, sidling up to Lan Wangji when he comes close to the wall and rubbing his head against his sleeve. Lan Wangji pauses. He looks down appraisingly at the lotus pods in his hand, then carefully picks out a few seeds, peels away the pith, and offers them to Wei Wuxian.
Wei Wuxian is far beyond social expectations and doesn’t hesitate — he buries his face into Lan Wangji’s palm with a delighted sound and savors the seeds’ light sweetness for as long as he can. By the time he’s licked his face and paws clean, Lan Wangji is several steps down the side road, lotus pods tucked away. Wei Wuxian jumps off the stone, more confident in his footing, and takes the same way back to the edge of town by Lan Wangji’s side.
As they near the mountains, the well-trodden path becomes less and less defined, winding and half-obscured by grass and stone. Broad, shallow streams flank the road, drawing Wei Wuxian out more than once to splash around. Lan Wangji doesn’t exactly wait for him, but he does slow down, exuding a faint aura of disapproval without even turning around.
Lan Wangji stops where the road turns steep. His sword unsheathes from his side and hovers low to the ground, and Wei Wuxian starts wauling like his world is ending.
While Lan Wangji is still frozen in surprise, Wei Wuxian wobbles sadly over to plant himself across his boots, howling at a haunting pitch that he himself has never heard before. Some sad leg-pawing, and — success — he feels Lan Wangji’s hands wrap securely around his middle, lifting him up and settling him in one arm while the other pets lightly behind his ears. Wei Wuxian just hadn’t expected it to be so easy.
When Lan Wangji seems certain that the crying has stopped for good, he holds Wei Wuxian out, as though to set him down, giving Wei Wuxian the chance to smugly meet Lan Wangji’s gaze. Lan Wangji huffs near-imperceptibly and tucks him into the fold of his outer robe, and they take off.
The higher Lan Wangji’s sword flies, the harsher the wind whips around the tips of Wei Wuxian’s exposed ears. His whole body presses close to the way Lan Wangji’s heart beats loud and steady, revels in his warmth.
Dust motes float languidly in the muted afternoon light, taking Wei Wuxian’s focus with them. From daybed to writing desk, there’s nothing he hasn’t already accounted for — some hollow-sounding floorboards had seemed promising, up until he remembered he doesn’t have fingers — and it’s true. There’s nothing interesting in the room where Lan Wangji had promptly abandoned him, no sunlight to roll in.
He jumps onto an ornately carved windowsill, and a few more well-chosen launching points take him to the roofs. The air is brisk and sweet from up high, and there, half obscured by the eaves, he can see Lan Wangji standing in a courtyard, amidst a flock of waist-tall disciples. He adjusts their arms as they practice sword forms, startlingly in his element. Wei Wuxian is inexplicably happy to see it.
Further to the left, where the buildings become sparse and the hills slope more severely, Wei Wuxian can only just discern dozens of round white spots. A now-familiar impulse wells up within him as he makes off in their direction, eager to chase.
The moment he touches down at the edge of the field, he senses trouble. The rabbits had seemed as small and defenseless as ever from above, but as he slinks closer to them through the tall grass, it becomes increasingly clear that they might be more formidable than expected.
Case in point: the rabbit whose tail he pounces to catch is utterly unmoved by his attack. It looks at him calmly, nose twitching, then itches at its ears with its hind leg in an abrupt motion that sends Wei Wuxian sprawling backwards instead. He has no more success with any of the others — no amount of running starts, yowling, landing facedown on their backs can make them stir. The only show of resistance he gets happens when a particularly large rabbit, emboldened and weathered with age, lumbers over to lie down on him.
The gall of them!
After giving a token struggle against the dense layer of soft, Wei Wuxian lets his muscles give out. He finds he doesn’t mind so much, between the warm weight and herb-smell of the rabbits and the coolness of the grass.
Wei Wuxian kind of forgets himself until the rabbits collectively stir. His rabbit cover finally releases him, and between his unsteadily full breaths, he sees two figures, one half the height of the other, come around the hillside.
“Hanguang-jun, there’s a cat!” the smaller one calls, running ahead for a moment before catching himself and slowing to a brisk but collected walk.
“Mn,” the taller one assents. If he’s surprised to see Wei Wuxian out here, he doesn’t show it.
The boy — he can’t be more than ten, and though he looks sheepish now, it’s clear to Wei Wuxian that he holds himself well — arrives first at the tree where the rabbits have knowingly gathered. Lan Wangji approaches at his own pace, and sits down on the grass before giving the boy a bundle of radish leaves from a large basket. Together, they feed the profusion of rabbits, the boy sending quick glances every so often toward where Wei Wuxian lies limply at a distance.
“Could I hold him?” the boy asks. Wei Wuxian wriggles onto his front, perking up to give them his full attention.
“Show him what you intend to do,” Lan Wangji says, “let him see your hands. See if he agrees.”
Smiling hopefully at Wei Wuxian, the boy half-rises on his knees and opens his arms to him. Wei Wuxian pretends to consider the offer for an instant before bounding over and letting the boy hold him in his lap. His delighted laugh rings like a song, and Wei Wuxian stretches upwards, pushes his head against the hollow of the boy’s throat, his soft cheek. The boy hands off the last of his leaves to the rabbits and hugs Wei Wuxian close, sitting back down beside Lan Wangji. The three remain as they are long after the vegetables run out, comfortably silent under the drifting sky.
The first dinner bell catches Wei Wuxian by surprise. The boy shifts, slightly dislodging Wei Wuxian, who can only watch as the end of Lan Wangji’s white ribbon slips from between his paws.
“I should go join the others,” the boy says reluctantly. “Zewu-jun said he would show us Cleansing tonight,” he adds in a tumbling sort of way, “Jingyi’s really excited, even though he acts like he’s not that interested in music techniques. Actually I am too, but…”
“It’s alright,” Lan Wangji says when the boy falters. “We can have our lesson tomorrow.”
The boy assents, his smile returned where it belongs. “Goodnight, cat,” he says, carefully setting Wei Wuxian back on the ground. Wei Wuxian touches his nose to the boy’s outstretched hand and returns the sentiment as best as he can. The boy grins. He turns to Lan Wangji, more shyly, and says, “Goodnight, Father.”
“Goodnight, Sizhui,” Lan Wangji says, placing a hand on the boy’s — his son’s head. His lips curve gently upward, and Wei Wuxian is finally, truly lost: a fathomless wellspring, a first hint of moon on the horizon.
A shallow dish awaits Wei Wuxian outside Lan Wangji’s quarters when he returns. He makes short work of the steamed fish and boiled vegetables — despite their blandness, a day of hunting without any returns has taken its toll — and squeezes through the sliver of open door into a warmly lit room. Lan Wangji takes his own dinner at a low table, looking over at Wei Wuxian in acknowledgement as he enters.
The space is different in candlelight. The shadows are longer, the shapes and edges more stark. Brushing past a vase holding the day’s lotus pods, Wei Wuxian jumps onto the desk for closer investigation. He walks from one end to another, leans as far as he can over the edge without overbalancing, sticks his head downward, and there — a burnished handle, protruding just enough for him to push his nose through and nudge open. The drawer is disappointingly empty, save for a lacquered wooden box tucked against one corner. He steals a glance at Lan Wangji, who is still steadily eating, and pushes off the lid.
Inside the box is a bell: silver with petaled ornamentation, affixed to a long purple tassel, faded somewhat with age.
Wei Wuxian drops heavily onto his hind legs, something stormy and jagged welling up inside. He doesn’t know what it means. He can’t look away.
Muted footsteps approach behind Wei Wuxian where he sits motionless, and then Lan Wangji is kneeling before him at the desk, one hand smoothing down the fur behind his ears. Wei Wuxian watches as his gold eyes shift to the drawer, as Lan Wangji, too, stills.
Slow, like he’s moving through water, Lan Wangji picks up the bell, looking at it in the low light for one breath, and another, and another. Then his fingers close around it and he presses his hand to his lips. With an inaudible sigh, a distance clouds over Lan Wangji’s features, heavy and unbearably intimate at once.
Wei Wuxian won’t leave him be after that, whether Lan Wangji wants it or not. He burrows under Lan Wangji’s arm with a soft sound and sticks close as he returns to his meal, weaves around and between Lan Wangji’s feet when he stands to clear away his tray, when he gathers his guqin into his arms and descends the front step into the crisp night air. They walk by moonlight for what feels like an age, past the compounds and the rabbits’ hillside, until the trees clear into an outcropping overlooking a mossy gulch. Lan Wangji settles on the exposed stone, guqin poised in his lap, and begins to play.
The song is a dialogue Wei Wuxian hears through a clouded veil, distorting the meaning such that he can’t understand the words. At the sound of the first notes, tiny, watery lights emerge, alighting on the tips of grass blades, on the lowest branches, on the ends of the guqin. In the ghost fires that drift close enough to Wei Wuxian, he can clearly see the roiling glow of their souls — in turn, the living shapes that surround him suddenly seem less definite than they had a moment before.
The night is running out, but it is beautiful. Wei Wuxian leans into Lan Wangji’s side and lets the music lull him. And maybe Lan Wangji is affected by all this, too, because when the nine o’clock bell rings, Wei Wuxian can feel him shift with a start before he closes the song and the spirits disperse into the ravine.
The walk back passes all too quickly, Wei Wuxian tucked contentedly into the warm curve of Lan Wangji’s arms beside the guqin. The Cloud Recesses are dark when they return, with only the lantern of a distant night watch to rival the moon.
As Wei Wuxian clambers onto the bed, the candles in the room extinguish together, and he feels more than sees Lan Wangji’s folded outer robes set down beside him. Then his eyes adjust, and he tracks Lan Wangji’s movement as he undoes his forehead ribbon and carefully folds it atop the robes. He curls beside Lan Wangji when he lies down, thinks ah, this is really good.
He touches his nose to the crook between Lan Wangji’s folded arm and his body, drifts to the lift and fall of his breathing, drifts under.
Lan Wangji wakes at the first flush of morning, to an empty space beside him that should only be all too familiar, and yet —
And yet.
He sits up, surveys the gray-blue light of his surroundings. The long dark fur the cat shed everywhere he had gone in the Jingshi is nowhere to be seen. Half-dazed, he approaches his desk, reluctant to see what might be there. What won’t be.
The drawer sits askew; the imprint of paws is embedded across the blank scroll spread over the desktop.
In the spirit realm, a soul burns brighter and closer to whole.