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A skeletonized hand pokes out of the soil, and sun has bleached the fingertips pale brown. Throughout the Burial Mounds, you could see these echoes of ancient wars marking the land. A perfectly intact femur here, shards of a skull there. During Lan Wangji’s slow, trudging walk he’d come across a rib cage veiled in various kinds of weeds. Perhaps those bones still contained some life force within them, perhaps that’s reason the weeds in question had burst forth in vivid flowers.
If Wei Wuxian is dead, his remains would not yet be in this kind of stagnant peace.
Lan Wangji smells blood, and knows that some of his scabbing wounds have opened. He walks faster anyway in order to avoid thoughts of rot and putrefaction. Sometimes he attempts to run in order to spite the pain that rolls in waves down his back. His running inevitably ebbs out into determined hobbling.
He comes across a clearing. There are fire pits, humble huts, and gardens plots with drooping plants. One could almost believe that the gods had simply snatched the inhabitants away, all in one fell swoop. Lan Wangji wonders if the cultivation world would have been so scared if they had been able to see the overwhelming normalcy of this place. It’s hard to fear Wei Wuxian once you’d heard him grumble about how hard it is to grow potatoes.
This thought almost makes Lan Wangji’s face crack into an incongruous smile. This, in turn, brings Lan Wangji to his knees. He doesn’t cry; he might be too dehydrated to cry. He just digs his nails into the tainted earth until pebbles dig into his fingertips. Wei Wuxian had poured his hopes into this land, and Lan Wangji imagines he’s absorbing that same vitality into his broken skin. Lan Wangji’s pain is a greedy thing, and he lets it call in its debts as the sun glides across the sky.
A tree is breathing.
This realization cleaves through everything. At first Lan Wangji assumes his mind is wandering through metaphors, the way it had when he’d seen the rib bones. It’s like waking to a persistent noise in a dream, only to find that noise is occurring in real time. He approaches the source of the sound without any sort of caution for his own well-being.
There’s a child in the hollow of that tree, curled up in abject misery.
“A-Yuan,” Lan Wangji murmurs, remembering. He reaches his hand in, waiting until a much smaller hand reaches back.
“I’m so, so, so, so cold,” Yuan whimpers once his feet are on the ground. His forehead is hot to the touch. “Put me back.”
Lan Wangji ignores this demand, opting instead to pull off his own outer robe and wrap it snugly around Yuan. His trek out here will have been worth it if he can nurture this faltering speck of life.
Yuan is too ill to move to the Cloud Recesses just yet, so Lan Wangji attacks the fever bit by bit. Once Yuan’s teeth stop chattering Lan Wanji makes him drink water. He finds a bucket, finds a pot, heats some more water, and prepares a lukewarm bath for Yuan. After that’s accomplished, he has Yuan lie down on a pallet in one of the empty dwelling spaces.
The child doesn’t have much to say, which suits Lan Wangji just fine. He’s always known how to answer silence with silence. He also knows how to fill silence with soothing guqin melodies guqin. These are his two preferred languages and they seem to appeal to Yuan.
The night is still a long one. Sometimes Yuan stares a little too hard, as though music is a physical object he can see wafting through the air. Lan Wangji pauses when he notices this and touches Yuan’s temples. More often than not he deems it necessary to make the child drink more water.
Dawn breaks along with Yuan’s fever. He carries the ghostly pale child in his arms and hauls him out of the Burial Mounds. Past the gardens, homes, bones, and everything Yuan has known for months.
“I have terrible news about Wei Wuxian,” Lan Wangji finds himself saying after they have been traveling for a long while. Maybe it’s selfish- maybe it’s even cruel- but he wants to discuss this with someone else who would be just as devastated.
“Who is that?” Yuan asks.
*
After he finishes his long, kneeling vigil, Lan Wangji gets to meet his brother in his private chambers. That portends favorable things. Lan Xichen’s room looks tidy lately. When they’d first returned to the Cloud Recesses after the war, they’d found that fire and the elements had reduced so many buildings to their frames. Now everything is done up in the Gusu Lan colors, but Jin blood is the marrow beneath.
“Before you say anything,” Lan Xichen begins, “drink this. Don’t do anything else for a few moments.” He pours a glass of nettle tea and hands it to Lan Wangji.
He takes a sip, as ordered. The tea seeps into his digestive system, hopefully strengthening his depleted blood. Lan Wangji is startled at the sudden nourishment, and it’s the strongest sensation he’s registered in days. The lashes on his back respond, and he notices that their itching has increased tenfold. This means healing. This means his skin is being stitched back together, whether he wills it or not. The brand on his chest still throbs but it’s his newest injury.
When Lan Wangji’s cup is empty, he extends it out for Lan Xichen to see. “May I speak?”
“You may.”
“Where is the child?”
Whatever Lan Xichen has been expecting, something tells Lan Wangji that it’s not this. “With the healers. He’s still weak, but he will recover.”
“Good,” Lan Wangji says. “Good,” he repeats even though extraneous words are discouraged.
Yuan had been confiscated immediately upon the two of them arriving in Gusu Lan territories. Lan Wangji had proceeded to drink the alcohol he’d smuggled in, and then attempted to ransack his sect’s treasury. One of Wei Wuxian’s melodies had been cycling in his head, until he’d become convinced that the flute had been near. Instead, he’d only located the treasures of the Wens.
These days and nights have been wrought by the haze of liquor and the purity of pain. Now that it’s all over he’s like a rag that’s been wrung dry and discarded.
“I would like for Yuan to stay here. I will be his benefactor. You wouldn’t have to take part in his upbringing in any way.”
“A-Yuan can’t stay here,” Lan Xichen’s voice is as gentle as it had been when he told Lan Wangji about their mother’s death. He remembers Yuan’s name, though, and that bodes well. “I have my suspicions about his origins and others will, too. You have to see that.”
Their world turns and turns on suspicions. More than serenity, pride, strength, wealth, or any of the other things the great sects claim to value. It’s like Lan Wangji has wiped away dust from a sheet of metal and can see everything perfectly now.
“Zewu-jun,” Lan Wangji says, becoming a supplicant addressing his leader, “Yuan is approximately three years old. He has committed no crimes.”
Lan Xichen sets his shoulders, his posture becoming as rigid as stone. “I will not harm him, turn him over to his enemies, or cast him out into the world. There are many Lan offshoots that would welcome a new disciple and ask no questions.”
A three-year-old with enemies. Yes, Lan Wangji can see the world properly now.
“I would claim he is my illegitimate child,” Lan Wangji interjects so quickly the room seems to waver around him. “I would say that he is a child that you have sent away without my permission.”
“Oh, Wangji,” Lan Xichen whispers, more to himself than his brother.
“I would do it.”
“I know you would.” He pours Lan Wangji another glass of tea, but does not demand his silence. His hands shake a little but he doesn’t spill a drop. “That’s precisely the kind of thing you would do, lately, and it frightens me.”
“I think you are implying I will behave like the Yiling Patriarch. I will not.” It would be impossibly, anyway. There’s only one Wei Wuxian.
Lan Xichen closes his eyes, like he wants to shut a door in his brother’s face and just breathe. Lan Wangji sips his tea and waits for his brother to see him.
“A child requires stability from his caretaker,” Lan Xichen finally says, slowly. “If I permit Yuan to stay here, can you promise that you will remain peacefully in seclusion for the three years Lan Qiren demands?”
“Yes.” Just one word. That’s all Lan Wangji needs to say and, ultimately, all that Lan Xichen needs to hear.
Once their meeting concludes, he goes to visit Yuan in the sick wing. He helps the child eat some soup, and notes that he has a bit more color than the day they’d arrived in the Cloud Recesses.
“Who am I?” Yuan asks, after Lan Wangji has helped him back below the blankets. The boy is the stage of recovery where all he needs is rest.
“Your name is Lan Yuan.”
Yuan’s eyelids have been fluttering shut, but he gives Lan Wangji one last look. “You were hurt before. Are you still hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
*
Several seasons pass before he’s allowed to see Yuan again.
This isn’t Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren behaving in a cruel manner. Lan Wangji is no fit companion for a child. Wei Wuxian’s death had acted as a galvanizing stimulus, but all stimulants eventually taper off into something agonizing. Grief is a crueler master than any of the sect leaders Lan Wangji has ever known. It holds him down in bed by day. It has him yanking ferocious, ineffectual melodies out of his guqin by night. There are times he forgets to eat, and there are times he refuses to eat. Lan Xichen always arrives in order to pull rank and steer Lan Wangji back from the brink.
“I’m very displeased,” Lan Xichen finally says one day. His voice is so brittle it cracks on the last syllable. “You’ve gone back on your promise, Hanguang-jun.”
Lan Wangji chews down a mouthful of rice and vegetables. He knows his brother will stay here until he finishes the bowl. “I have not. I’m still in this house. I have not left the Cloud Recesses.”
“You promised that you would attempt to be stable for A-Yuan’s sake.”
“I think that part was just implied.” Right? “I broke no promises.”
Lan Xichen looks like he’s about to slam his hands on the table in front of him, but then he catches himself. “Wangji,” he says, all traces of the sect leader washing away. “You may be right, but I do remember you promising you wouldn’t act like master Wei. And yet here you are arguing like him.”
Lan Wangji swallows.
“How is A-Yuan?”
His brother leaps on this opening and doesn’t bother to hide it. “He’s well! He’s been a wonderful addition to Gusu Lan. He’s a clever child, too. I’ve identified him as one who has potential with the guqin.”
“He has to be started on that soon.” The study of music is like the study of any other language or dialect; the younger you are when you learn it, the easier it is to become fluent. “I will start him on it.”
“Then you are going to take sustenance and keep to Gusu Lan’s standard waking and sleeping hours. Training can begin when I no longer think you will frighten Yuan.”
The words are harsh but the tone is not. Lan Wangji cautiously entertains having a goal beyond sustaining his life. He’s come to accept that this own story had splintered into formless fragments after the events at Nightless City. At least he can spend the rest of his years entrusting music to the next generation.
And so Lan Wangji makes sure to eat. He falls asleep at 9 and wakes just before the dawn. His body continues to heal, irrespective of his heart’s wishes.
Eventually he’s allowed to see that Yuan makes for a dignified little figure in Gusu Lan white. He doesn’t dart around this way and that like he had in the Burial Mounds, but he still regards the world with bright curiosity.
“Hello again, Hanguang-jun!” Yuan stumbles a bit over Lan Wangji’s title, but his smile is a welcome thing.
Before they even approach the guqin, Lan Wangji leads Yuan out into the enclosed garden. After months and months, sunlight feels incredibly warm against his skin. He imagines his skin sizzling, burning, and sloughing away.
He leads Yuan around, naming all the flowers and their various properties. This garden had been his mother’s during her imprisonment, and she had expressed much of her cultivation through botany. He had loved – yes, loved - following her around. She always helped him smell any flower that caught his eye. Many of these plants likely still come from bulbs she had set in the earth. (She knew how to grow poisonous flowers, too, but she had been forbidden from obtaining those kinds of seeds.)
Yuan doesn’t recall everything Lan Wangji teaches him, but he remembers just enough that it’s impressive. Lan Xichen is correct; the child already has the kind of wit required to excel at guqin.
When they are back inside, they spend an entire lesson on proper posture for guqin. Yuan is disappointed he doesn’t get to play a single note yet but he hides it admirably.
“There are so many strings,” Yuan says. “Can I really learn them all?”
“Don’t be intimidated,” Lan Wangji says. “You’ll learn them one at a time.”
*
All things must come to an end. House arrest is no different.
His brother has evidently concluded that endless tasks alleviate pain, and Lan Xichen isn’t wrong. Lan Wangji becomes the main instructor for the youngest crop of juniors. It also proves to be an elegant solution for Lan Qiren’s concerns over Lan Wangji’s favoritism towards Yuan. Lan Wangji’s sphere grows to encompass the Cloud Recesses once again. This time he has students that orbit him.
Lan Wangji establishes a routine for the juniors’ schooling. He grades their papers and then he meets with each of them in order to discuss the merits (or lack thereof) in their work. At times he doles out minor punishments, but he also informs them of areas in which they have demonstrated skill. Some people could be moderately talented at all things, but some people excelled in a particular ability. Lan Wangji decides early on he wants to foster both ways of being. The results will hopefully serve his sect well.
Yuan usually enters Lan Wangji’s work area with an aura of humility. He doesn’t cringe nervously. He never seems to demand praise, either, even though he’s earned high marks for years. Early on during guqin tutelage, Lan Wangji had told him to approach the instrument as though it were a blank scroll. The guqin didn’t care whether one had played poorly or beautifully during previous sessions. It always reflected the player’s behavior in that exact moment. Lan Wangji thinks Yuan must have decided to treat all of his work in the same way.
Today is the first time he’s been distracted in Lan Wangji’s presence. His eyes are that indeterminate color of earth and stones below a river. They reflect everything, too, just like the surface of water. Currently, agitation ripples over that surface.
“Your concentration isn’t very good today,” Lan Wangji says, while they are in the middle of discussing Yuan’s most recent paper.
“My apologies, Hanguang-jun.” Yuan hangs his head low. This is something Lan Wangji is still growing accustomed to; these young children tended towards exaggerated gestures. This is against Gusu Lan’s rules, and he assumes his students will grow out of after careful instruction. Still, he wonders if he used to do this sort of thing. He had been a child once, too.
“You must address troubles directly. Distraction serves no one.” Lan Wangji gets a bitter taste in his mouth while he’s in the middle of saying this. “That is to say … if you have the power to make changes.”
Yuan peers up at him. “I keep thinking about how I’m short,” he explains, “I don’t think I can change being short?” He blinks at Lan Wangji, this time with barely concealed hope.
“Did someone mock you?” Lan Wangji’s distress at the thought is profound. “Bullying is not permitted.”
“Oh no. No, no, no.” Yuan shakes his head. “Jingyi keeps getting taller. So does everyone else. I noticed that I’m not. I don’t like it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Lan Wangji says, and means it. “And you are growing.” Far too fast it felt like, sometimes.
Yuan makes a valiant effort to be more attentive. Maybe distraction is an infectious thing. Lan Wangji can’t stop thinking about a superstition he’d heard, once, while in Caiyi town.
Well, if something is on your mind it is best to address it. Hadn’t he just said that?
Lan Wangji informs Yuan they are going to leave and go for a stroll alongside the river. Yuan must be puzzled but he doesn’t question orders.
After a time, they reach the grove with the rabbits. Yuan’s inhalation of delight is so sharp that his breath whistles through his teeth. Then he grins, crouches down, and holds his hands out for the rabbits to nuzzle him.
“You have pets, Hanguang-jun?”
“Pets are forbidden.” Lan Wangji understands the point of this rule. Animals were meant to stay within nature. Gusu Lan sect believed that it was unfair to cleave them from their natural habitat. Nothing prohibits him from enjoying the sight of rabbits, though. There’s nothing disharmonious about petting them from time to time.
And today he’s learning that there’s nothing terrible about burying a giggling nine-year-old under a dozen rabbits.
“This is ridiculous!” Yuan is amused or ticklish or both. “Ah, I mean, this is interesting Hanguang-jun.”
“It will not hurt you. It may even help you grow.”
They encounter Lan Xichen when they return. Yuan bows low upon seeing his sect leader, and chatters a little about going on a nice walk with Hanguang-jun.
“He’s going to need a courtesy name soon,” Lan Xichen’s voice is warm after they dismiss Yuan. The child joins some of his cohorts as they head towards the dining area. “Most of the juniors have started to receive them from their relatives.”
Lan Wangji starts to say that he will think on the matter. Then he realizes his heart is already set on something.
“Sizhui.”
Lan Xichen’s smile falters, and Lan Wangji can’t fault him for it. ‘Sizhui’ calls to mind implacable yearning and reminiscence. But yearning was the very thing that had driven Lan Wangji to the Burial Mounds in the first place. Reminiscence was the reason he had become the guardian of this remarkable child.
“Don’t be concerned,” Lan Wangji says, in a tone he reserves for his brother alone. “Today was a good day.”
“And tomorrow?”
Tomorrow? Tomorrow is a blank sheet or paper. Tomorrow is a silent guqin string.
“Tomorrow could be good, or it could be bad.” Either way, Lan Wangji is willing to make an effort.
Lan Xichen gives him a long, searching sort of look. “Sizhui it is, then.”
*
One morning Lan Wangji discovers he no longer feels like a wounded animal hiding in a cave. He makes some tea and watches dawn come to their mountain. The sun starts as a seam of ominous red light before it bursts into gentle, golden radiance. Lan Wangji takes a sip much too early and burns the roof of his mouth. He doesn’t know what he’s becoming but he knows he wants to be on the move.
Fortunately, his students are at an age when Gusu Lan disciples begin to hone their skills in neighboring towns and cities.
It seems that it’s time for all of them to venture out of The Cloud Recesses.
Lan Wangji hasn’t been anywhere else for the better part of a decade, and he’s forgotten that travel can be so plodding and slow. He could have flown to their destination in less than an hour, but the juniors can’t do that with their swords yet. And so they walk on and on and on for a day and a half. His chargers chatter and speculate about every other thing that they see. Lan Wangji keeps his own counsel, but he’s in a similar sort of mood. Often he slips into a reverie at the site of unfamiliar trees or a kind of flower that doesn’t grow back home. He’s memorized the shape of every boulder in the Cloud Recesses. On their journey he sees a new one around every corner.
When they arrive at an inn, they overhear a guest grumbling about how disciples of a certain sect were way too stuck-up, arrogant, and obsessed with rules. It’s nothing Lan Wangji hasn’t heard before, but the juniors are always a bit sheltered. Hearing such a negative opinion clearly shocks them. They start to buzz like a hornet’s nest and Lan Wangji has to order them to their rooms.
The incident would not have stuck with him if Sizhui hadn’t raised it later. The boy pays a visit to Lan Wangji just on the cusp of bedtime. Lan Wangji frowns until he sees Sizhui’s expression.
“Hanguang-jun, I wanted to talk to you about what that opinionated man said.”
“That was one person’s thoughts only. You have to set it from your mind.” Lan Wangji is surprised. Sizhui is usually slow to take offense.
“It’s not that.”
Lan Wangji indicates that Sizhui should take a seat. It seems this is going to be a longer discussion than he expected.
“When that man said it, I heard a few others laughing in agreement. So he’s not the only one out there who thinks that.” Sizhui looks startlingly similar to Lan Xichen when he’s puzzling something out. “It seems as though Gusu Lan’s rules make us admirable to some but … but annoying to others.” He flushes. “I tried to think of a better term for it than that. I’m sorry”
“You are correct. Many people do have that opinion.”
Sizhui folds his hands in his lap. “I’d like to be able to assist anyone who needs it but what if I want to help someone who already thinks I’m conceited? What if they argue with me or try to fight me or … or…?”
Interesting.
“Gusu Lan does value rules. There’s a reason we are like that. Having rigorous standards allows your behavior to speak for itself.”
“I see,” Sizhui says, even though something in his tone says that he doesn’t see. Not entirely. “Can you clarify further?”
“Yes.” Long ago he’d told Sizhui it was better to ask questions than to proceed in ignorance. Lan Wangji is glad the lesson stuck. “People may have certain prejudices about you, but most people respond well if you behave with integrity.”
“Oh…” Lan Wangji always enjoys watching Sizhui reaching for clarity. “That sounds right!” He chews at the corner of his lip before he remembers than Lan Wangji is watching. “You said ‘most people,’ though. So not all?”
“No.” Lan Wangji feels a corner of his mouth twitch. “There are some people who will never like you and cannot be swayed. Proceed with caution around them. Put them out of your mind if you decide there’s no merit to their opinion.” This could be a good thought exercise, actually. “Do you think there’s any merit to what the man said?”
Sizhui’s eyes are bigger than Lan Wangji has ever seen them.
“You may be candid,” Lan Wangji adds.
Sizhui gives it some serious thought. “Like you said, his opinion is literally true. We have our rules and we like our rules,” Sizhui muses slowly. “I think he’s incorrect when he implies that that’s a bad thing. He misses the greater picture.”
“Elaborate.”
“I like our rules,” Sizhui says. “I like that there’s a way I have to act when I’m out in the world, and I like that people can expect a certain standard of behavior from me. The rules are also a bit like … armor? People get to see one side of me, but there are parts of me I get to keep for myself.” He sighs, seemingly frustrated as his words tumble all over one another. “If I were writing this in a paper I would crumple up my scroll and start over again.”
“There is no need.” It’s almost 9. There will be no more speaking and certainly no writing. “It sounds as though the rules serve you. Focus on that.”
“I will.”
*
Their first outing is an obvious success. Lan Xichen himself greets them at the Cloud Recesses entrance. He scans Lan Wangji and visibly relaxes. His reaction is logical. The last time Lan Wangji made this journey, he’d returned in robes stained with blood, the scent of alcohol on his breath, and a strange child clutched in his arms. When he meets Lan Xichen’s gaze today all those years seem to melt away. They seem to step outside of time.
All the juniors bow, and the heavy breeze tosses their robes around. The sound draws Lan Wangji back into himself.
“Welcome home, Hanguang-jun.” Lan Xichen’s smile deepens. “Welcome home to all of you.”
After this, Lan Wangji supervises many assignments outside of the Cloud Recesses. Walking corpses were pesky enough to be a challenge to young adolescents. They were also rarely dangerous to anyone with the slightest bit of training. Therefore they were an excellent source of training.
One afternoon- in a village three days from Gusu Lan- Jingyi and Sizhui approach Lan Wangji. They look like they’re nervously dragging their feet, even though slouching is discouraged.
“What is it?”
Jingyi and Sizhui exchange glances, and some kind of silent debate takes place.
Sizhui begins: “Hanguang-jun-”
“Hanguang-jun!” Jingyi interjects, before falling silent at a look from Lan Wangji. Jingyi usually manages to be rambunctious without breaking any rules. Interruptions are forbidden, though, and Jingyi knows this.
“Whatever it is,” Lan Wangji says, “tell it to me clearly.”
The boys look to each other once again.
“Hanguang-jun, we spoke to the man who keeps this town’s tombs in order. He says that they have several graves for unnamed bodies! They’re for young women who were murdered. No one knew who these women were, although that’s probably not a surprise since strangers come to port towns like this all the time.” Sizhui runs out of breath and fills his lungs again. “Another body showed up yesterday and they just buried her today.”
“It’s not fair that they don’t have names!” Jingyi adds, waiting until Sizhui has finished speaking. This particular pupil is warmhearted, with a propensity to cry over tragic morality tales. “So we should do something.”
This brings Lan Wangji to a curious sort of crossroads. He knows that the elders of Gusu Lan would raise the issue with a village’s leader. Perhaps Gusu Lan would eventually help address the issue. Perhaps it would never be addressed if a leader turned down assistance. Lan Wangji knows he should tell the children about this sequence of events.
“I see,” Lan Wangji says. “What would you do to resolve this question?”
“Look at the corpse’s belongings in order to see if there are any identifying objects.” Jingyi’s face twists with unhappiness. He’s not thinking about decorum or procedure at all. “Apparently they didn’t have any, though.”
“So that avenue is closed. What avenues remain to us?”
“Inquiry,” Sizhui says.
“Inquiry,” Lan Wangji agrees, knowing in his heart that that’s exactly what he’ll attempt to do. “Though it may be too late.”
An elderly man shows the Gusu Lan contingent over to the graves in question. There are five in total and one of them is brand new. They are unmarked but they have been piled high with offerings.
“The whole thing is terrible,” the grave keeper says, “There’s a new one every year. We all think they deserve to have their names back at least. There are probably people out there who miss them, too.”
Lan Wangji almost asks Sizhui to perform Inquiry. He has communicated with spirits before, although he can’t compel all of them them to answer yet. However, this body’s spirits may have already fled. Sizhui would definitely be disappointed in himself if he can’t reach her. This task falls to Lan Wangji for now.
Who are you? Performing this question is as routine as breathing or blinking. The wide open sky seems to swallow all the notes, and all the juniors hold their breaths.
The guqin answers after a long moment.
Lan Wangji mentally translates for himself before turning to Sizhui. “What did she say?” He can still enact some training today.
The question startles Sizhui but he recovers quickly. His mouth shapes certain sounds before he trusts himself to speak. “Her name is Ruolan.”
“Correct. What should we ask next?”
Who killed you? is the standard follow-up query. Sizhui doesn’t answer right away, though. “Can we ask her where she came from? Oh, and her family name.”
He’s not sure why, but Lan Wangji is rather proud that Sizhui is more curious about the decedent than the murderer. They slowly draw out this young woman’s story. Lan Wangji plays the guqin, and Sizhui interprets its notes. Ruolang came from a village several days away. She had been killed by a neighbor and discarded in this town.
The other graves remain silent, but Lan Wangji had anticipated this.
“Will we go and tell her people?” Sizhui asks, his eyes as hopeful as a puppy.
“We will.”
They set off after Lan Wangji sends a messenger to the Cloud Recesses. His brother will need to know that they will be delayed.
The task is a horrendous one. There’s no other way to describe it. Ruolan’s father is a widower, and he makes a guttural, animalistic sound when he learns of his daughter’s death. Lan Wangji has to send the juniors away to buy food supplies for this man, even though he suspects he won’t want to eat for days on end. There are four other young women – they’d all been girls, really – who have gone missing from this town, too. Lan Wangji speaks to each family. They’re all different in appearance and habits, but all flattened by grief.
It’s somehow even more horrendous when they apprehend the murderer. He’s a well-regarded merchant with a job that allows him to haul large packages out of town without anyone thinking twice. The man has a wife and two young children.
Lan Wangji’s students are all pale that night. They poke at their food, and many beg leave to sleep even earlier than 9. He permits them to do this, because he knows they aren’t just being lazy. Sizhui spends most of the evening huddled together with Jingyi. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but it’s enough to know they can share each other’s burdens.
Finally, he’s left alone with Sizhui. The boy typically epitomizes perfect health, but Lan Wangji can’t help but think of that long night they spent in the Burial Mounds. Sizhui’s eyes have an almost feverish sheen to them. They share silence and tea in this inn’s nearly empty dining area.
“It was a troubling day,” Sizhui finally says.
“Yes.”
“The killer didn’t look like how I expected. I thought I could look into the murderer’s eyes and I would see what he did.” Sizhui stares into his cup like he’s looking for his reflection in the tea. “Instead he just looked relieved to be caught.”
“Cruelty does not manifest into physical appearance.” This isn’t the first time Lan Wangji has wondered if Gusu Lan is mistaken to emphasize good looks. Lan Wangji is aware that he’s benefited from the symmetry of his features but – after this awful, grueling day – he’d much rather be known for his actions.
“I thought we were helping people but we caused them pain.” The look on Sizhui’s face is like a knife to Lan Wangji’s heart.
“No. The killer brought them pain. We brought them knowledge. Until today they were imagining every terrible scenario. Now they can cope with a single terrible scenario.”
“Does that distinction matter?” Sizhui asks. He bows his head, knowing that he is openly questioning someone from an older generation. This is the thing about strictly adhering to rules, though. Sometimes breaking them reveals a person’s deeper values.
“It matters.” Believe me, it does.
*
Gusu Lan’s healing springs are cold enough to stop anyone’s heart. This is a common refrain in Gusu Lan (yes, they have their own private jokes, same as any sect.) Lan Wangji has always been convinced that the near-freezing water actually makes one’s heart work faster, industriously circulating warm blood throughout the shocked body.
His own heart had behaved in a similar fashion the first time Wei Wuxian tried to argue with him all those years ago. That smile had boiled his blood and frozen his limbs. There had been something elemental about it, something that could drown him. You certainly couldn’t contain it to a series of notes.
That’s why Lan Wangji runs to the healing springs, now. He requires something just as elemental.
Wei Wuxian is back, Wei Wuxian is back, he’s back, he’s back, he’s back, he’s back.
He mentally repeats this, again and again, until these words sound like gibberish. Wei Wuxian has returned to the world and he’s in Lan Wangji’s jingshi. The juniors had faced their most fearsome enemy yet, and might have died if they had not asked for his help.
At the edge of the healing spring, Lan Wangji folds his clothing neatly and begs the water to stop his heart. Just for a few seconds, just so it stops pummeling his ribcage from within. The freezing temperatures slap the breath out of his lungs. Rivulets pour out of his hair and trickle down his forehead, his arms, his back. He imagines them freezing into little icicles. His breastbone feels oddly bruised. Sometimes, pushing roughly on someone’s chest can cause a heart to start beating again. He thinks about that now, wondering about the mechanics of it, trying to think about anything but his next steps.
Maybe the joke had been right all along. Maybe his heart has been dead until tonight, after all.
A commotion ensues between his juniors and Wei Wuxian. Lan Wangji is so disoriented by this collision of his two worlds, that he almost exits his own body. Somehow he handles the situation but he won’t be able to say how.
Lan Wangji returns to himself in the early morning hours. It’s before 5, but that’s to be expected; Wei Wuxian sleeps on top of Lan Wangji, and at it first it’s so remarkable that he never wants to rise from this bed. And then it’s so remarkable that he has to leave.
Healing can be a bitter thing. Bitter like medicine, bitter like alcohol on an open wound, bitter like itchy new skin sealing lash marks.
He’s not the only one out for an early morning excursion. On the way to the rabbit grove, Lan Wangji nearly trips over Sizhui. The young man hastily rises to his feet and makes a low bow. His lamp casts wavering light over his hands.
“It’s not 5 yet,” Lan Wangji says.
“I’m sorry, Hanguang-jun.” Sizhui could have pointed out that Lan Wangji is breaking the same rule, but that’s not in his nature.
“What are you doing?”
Sizhui hesitates and then holds out a sheet of papers. “I’ve started to draw the constellations just before bedtime. I learned the other day that some planets are brightest just before dawn …” he trails off. Sizhui has often demonstrated a skill for observation. As a young child it had manifested in his memorization of the Gusu Lan rules, as well the guqin language. Once, Lan Wangji had loaned a book on famous swords to Jingyi and Sizhui and they’d surprised him by memorizing all its contents within a week. The following year, Sizhui had become determined to memorize the genealogy of every major sect (Lan Wangji had had to push down his concern over whether the name ‘Wen Yuan’ would spark a memory.) Nowadays, Sizhui seems to have drifted into charting the night skies.
“You could have asked me for permission last night. I would have granted it.”
Sizhui’s hand tightens on his pen. Lan Wangji half expects him to say ‘but you did grant permission, Hanguang-jun.’ He doubts he’ll ever remember a single concrete detail about yesterday.
Instead, Sizhui lowers his eyes and murmurs another apology. “I couldn’t sleep at all.”
“If you’re sleepless you’re supposed to meditate.”
“I attempted to do that, honest. It was just that I was … recalling things. I seemed to remember them better when I was moving. Then the memories stopped and I decided to draw the planets while I was out here so I could be productive.”
“You recalled things,” Lan Wangji echoes, his voice as flat as paper.
A year ago- a month ago- a day ago he would have welcomed any of Sizhui’s childhood memories. He would have clutched onto those shards of Wei Wuxian, even if they were sharp, even if they created invisible scars. Maybe he and Sizhui could have mourned together.
But now the sun is peaking out and everything is melting into a new day. Sizhui must be perplexed and a little scared, and part of him must need the closest thing he has to a parent.
“What do you remember?” Lan Wangji asks, forcing himself to be present. To be here, with Sizhui.
The rabbits are stirring. One of them investigates Sizhui’s ankle. “That corpse arm was very strong and the atmosphere in Mo manor was so eerie. It was like a ghost story. When I was very small there was ... a place. Just as eerie. The adults there used to tell ghost stories to pass the time. One of them-” Sizhui’s eyes squint- “one of them was better at stories than the others.”
The two of them stare at each other. Lan Wangji isn’t breathing, and he’s sure Sizhui isn’t either.
“That’s all I have, Hanguang-jun,” he says. Sizhui shakes himself, and smiles in a resigned sort of way. “What is my punishment?”
“For?”
“Rule breaking?”
Oh, yes. Rules, rules, rules. “Watch after young master Mo’s donkey today.”
Sizhui blinks. “Alright. How is he?” he asks, in such a way that Lan Wangji wonders for the hundredth time what happened the previous evening. “Young master Mo, that is.”
“He’s in my room,” Lan Wangji says, even though that doesn’t answer Sizhui’s question at all.
*
Sizhui still smells like incense even though they left Yi City a long while ago. Flecks of ash have settled into his hair like gray snow that refuses to melt. Lan Wangji notices that Sizhui is clutching a half-burnt bit of ghost currency. When the two of them have fallen towards the back of the group he carefully opens Sizhui’s hand and pries the false currency away.
They watch the wind carry it off.
This is my son. The revelation is as inevitable as paper succumbing to flames. This is my son and he’s in pain.
Awful thoughts march into his head, one after another. He pictures Sizhui being targeted by someone like Xue Yang. He pictures Sizhui forced to fend for himself like the brave A-Qing. He pictures finding Sizhui dead in that tree in the Burial Mounds.
There’s no reason for these mental exercises. He can hear Sizhui’s footsteps. He can see Sizhui’s ashen skin and reddened eyes. The taste of Yi City’s fog is still rancid on Lan Wangji’s tongue and there were so many instances when everything could have spiraled beyond his control.
“Sizhui,” Lan Wangji finally says. His keeps his voice very low, but Wei Wuxian still watches the two of them. Lan Wangji can feel his gaze without having to confirm this. “You helped us all when you used the guqin to speak to Song Lan.”
A few years ago, these words of assurance would have been enough to settle Sizhui.
“I wish I could have helped all of them, too.” Sizhui doesn’t need to name names. They both know.
Wei Wuxian has wandered into Lan Wangji’s peripheral vision, but he doesn’t look. (All the same, there’s a comfort in knowing Lan Wangji can reach out and touch Wei Wuxian if need be.)
“Does this task feel different from our other tasks over the years?” Lan Wangji asks as gently as possible, so that this doesn’t sound like scolding. “We’ve taken on some other difficult ones.”
“Yes it it does. Most of the time we prevented death. Sometimes people did die but they had entire families or villages left to mourn them. But Song Lan has to bear all this alone, and so much about today was decided years ago.”
Lan Wangji listens to the sound of their feet crunching over stones for a long while.
“Song Lan bears the hardest burden, but he’s not the only one who will remember everything that happened. All of us will, too.”
In the past, these kinds of pronouncements would have soothed the troubled wrinkle in Sizhui’s brow. Today, the creases deepen, but that doesn’t necessarily appear to be a bad thing. Sizhui looks at Lan Wangji with questioning eyes, and Lan Wangji nods back.
Sizhui speeds up to walk beside Jingyi.
Wei Wuxian fills the newly empty space beside Lan Wangji. By some silent agreement, the two of them slow down enough to put some distance between them and the juniors. They can still keep an eye on them, but their words won’t be overheard.
Not that they have much to say for a while. Wei Wuxian is uncharacteristically reticent, and the two of them are content to watch the setting sun. It almost looks like it’s setting the clouds ablaze, and the trees are skeletal silhouettes on the horizon. Lan Wangji considers the fact that Wei Wuxian experienced much of A-Qing’s life today. Empathy could be truly unsettling.
“Your juniors are pretty sentimental, Lan Zhan.”
Ah, sentiment. Lan Wangji remembers kneeling on the floor of a cave, murmuring all of his sentiments to a near-comatose Wei Wuxian. When Lan Wangji had finally been dragged home the sky had looked exactly like this. It had felt like he was standing in the center of a storm, and he’d been able to find beauty in the sight.
He can’t decide if Wei Wuxian remembers any part of Lan Wangji’s words. Sometimes the man seems blissfully unaware. Sometimes his actions indicate that he’s fully aware and mocking that confession. Wei Wuxian had had his dreadful moments in previous life, but that had never been his particular flavor of cruelty.
And today he’d taken charge of the juniors and steered them to safety. Wei Wuxian had steered Sizhui to safety. Lan Wangji tries to avoid superstition- tries to avoid seeing portents in meaningless patterns- but this has to mean something.
“Hey, Lan Zhan? Are you sleepwalking.”
“No. They can be sentimental, you are correct.”
“And you allow it?”
Lan Wangji keeps silent.
“Ah well, you were right to tell Sizhui he was helpful today. He really was. You clearly did well by him all these years. You’ve been his teacher for a while. right?”
Lan Wangji has another unexpected memory of Sizhui. This time it’s a true one; A-Yuan in that tree, Lan Wangji reaching in to pull him out.
“Yes, I’ve been his teacher.”
*
Sizhui is returning to the Cloud Recesses, and Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian decide to go meet him at the gate. They don’t always do this, but today it seems appropriate. Next week many sects will begin sending their disciples to train among the Gusu Lan. Restlessness tends to plague Lan Wangji during this time of year, but at least the sentiment is contagious; Wei Wuxian has been chattering about how he really should be allowed to teach a few classes by this point. After all he’s been living here for years now.
Lan Wangji is tempted to allow this just to see what would happen.
All of that is a still a few days away. For now, Sizhui is making his way up the trail, the wind ruffling the tails of his headband. His body seizes up like he wants to wave, but then he opts to walk faster instead. Wei Wuxian darts ahead, gives Sizhui a loose hug around the shoulders, and then starts marching him up to Lan Wangji. This display of exuberance doesn’t surprise Lan Wangji in the slightest. Sizhui has been away with Wen Ning for several months, and he’s been missed.
“Wait.” Wei Wuxian’s voice grows mock stern. “Security is very important. Where is your jade token?”
Sizhui laughs and presents the object in question. Lan Wangji doesn’t bother to inspect, even though he really should. He’s more interested in Sizhui’s welfare. Thankfully, he looks happy, healthy, and whole.
“How is the sect leader?” Sizhui addresses this to Lan Wangji.
He never knows how to answer this question, even though he appreciates it being asked. His brother smiles faintly, does his duties diligently, and avoids company completely. It’s an unexpected, lamentable role reversal; now Lan Wangji is the one hovering over his brother and sending more tasks his way. He will do this as long as necessary. This is what he owes Lan Xichen for those thirteen years of support.
“Zewu-jun is as you left him,” Lan Wangji finally says.
“Where is Wen Ning?” Wei Wuxian asks when no more words are forthcoming.
“He remained in Yiling.” Sizhui hesitates. “I will go back in a few weeks.”
“Oh?” Wei Wuxian sprawls out on one of the stone steps, and the other two sit near him. Not the finest etiquette, but no one else is expected to arrive today. “Are you that restless? I guess it makes sense. Hanguang-jun raised you to go where the chaos is.”
At some point (how? when?) Sizhui had became a full-fledged adult in the eyes of Gusu Lan. And, likewise, Lan Wangji stopped acting as his instructor. Sizhui is answerable to Lan Xichen, but he may go where he will as long as adheres to the standards of their sect.
There are no laws that compel Sizhui to explain himself to Wei Wuxian, but some things went deeper than rules.
“We have a bit of a project that’s still ongoing.”
That catches Wei Wuxian’s attention. “Go on. I love an ambiguous project.”
Every so often, Sizhui meets up with his cousin and they roam the land for months at a time. Sizhui and Wen Ning must make a striking impression everywhere they go; the Ghost General, and the kind, well-mannered man from Gusu Lan. Their activities are being converted into the stuff of legend, and sometimes wisps of it make their way back to the Cloud Recesses. Lan Wangji will listen to make sure Sizhui is safe. And then he will wonder which parts are fact and which parts are fiction.
Today he doesn’t have to wonder, because Sizhui is here to tell him everything.
During their latest odyssey, Sizhui and Wen Ning had assisted a minor branch of the Baling Ouyang sect. This clan generally kept to themselves and avoided squabbles as best they could, opting to busy themselves their family trade of cartography. However, they’d been plagued with a particular malicious spirit and Sizhui and Wen Ning had taken care of that problem.
“When we told them we were eventually going to go map the Burial Mounds, a few of them got very excited and offered to help us.”
Lan Wangji wonders if Sizhui’s tree is still standing, or if it has rotted away. The Burial Mounds loom large in his memory as a wild landscape of grief. He’s not sure it can ever be charted, mapped, and pinned down. All the same, Sizhui is making a valiant effort. He speaks about documenting each of the ancient remains they have come across, as well as performing the proper rites to sooth what remains of that spirit.
“Sounds like a lot of hard work.” Wei Wuxian’s eyes are luminous with compassion and pride. Lan Wangji marvels at the sight of Sizhui reflected in them.
“There are times when it’s not easy, but there’s something restful about it.” Sizhui is looking off into the distance, wistful but not particularly troubled. “Also the Baling Ouyang sect members have been a great help. The maiden Ouyang Qingzhao is developing a kind of spiritual map where it will give you a sense of the weather conditions at a particular area and-”
“Hold up.” Wei Wuxian sits up straight. “Stop right there. ‘The maiden Ouyang Qingzhao.’ Did I hear that right?”
“Yes, a young woman of that name accompanied us along with a number of other relatives.” Sizhui looks to Lan Wangji for assistance and receives none. “She was not the only one, as I said. There were others.”
“Sure, sure, but she’s the only one you’ve named so fair. This must be why you’re leaving us almost immediately.” Now Wei Wuxian is grinning. “Say, does Ouyang Zizhen know you’re going to run off with his fair cousin?”
“It’s not running off. We just agreed to set up a correspondence.”
Wei Wuxian’s laughter echoes throughout the mountains. A few birds fly away from their perches.
“That poor lady’s father. You’re going to subject him to marriage negotiations with Hanguang-jun of all people.”
Sizhui’s face is a deep red. Lan Wangji has never seen him blush this hard. “Please stop. This is all very new.”
“But it is … something?” Lan Wangji asks. This is as important to him as it is to Wei Wuxian.
“I…” Sizhui runs his fingers along a seam in the stone step. “It is something, yes.”
“And you and the young lady have both acknowledged it, without ambiguity?”
“Yes, Hanguang-jun.”
“Good.”
*
The day before his wedding, Sizhui requests a private dinner with Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian. He’s tentatively brandishing jars of liquor when he arrives, looking for all the world like he’s making a peace offering. If they were located in the Cloud Recesses, Lan Wangji would remind him of the rules. Since they are in the Baling Ouyang sect’s territory, he just raises an eyebrow and doesn’t press the issue. The alcohol is primarily meant for Wei Wuxian, anyway.
Indeed, when Wei Wuxian is a few cups in, his cheeks are flushed pink and his hair is in disarray even though they haven’t done anything rowdy. He’s been wistful over their increased proximity to Yunmeng Jiang lands, but he’s able to bury that under an outburst of excitement over tomorrow’s activities.
“I spent so much time looking for the best possible drums for tomorrow. Hanguang-jun helped me, too, even though he’s a busy, busy man. You’ll play the drums with me tomorrow, won’t you Hanguang-jun?”
“Mn.” Lan Wangji knows (and Wei Wuxian knows) that he will not. Tomorrow, he plans to hold up a lantern to light Sizhui’s path.
Sizhui has been eyeing the liquor with unveiled curiosity. Watching Lan Wangji out of the corner of his eye he pours himself a drink. He drinks it without seeking approval, and his face curdles before smoothing out into its usual polite state.
Wei Wuxian laughs.
“Do people lie when they talk about alcohol being delicious?”
Wei Wuxian laughs harder.
“Ahhh,” he sighs, rubbing at his eyes, “I shouldn’t make fun. The first time I snuck alcohol, I had to eat bits of cake in between every sip. You do get used to it though. Liquor can taste terrible but that’s part of what makes it so interesting.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Sizhui tries a bit more, and this time his face remains neutral. He knows what to expect.
Wei Wuxian and Sizhui carry the bulk of the conversation, while Lan Wangji abstains from drink and marvels that life has been kind of enough to deliver to this exact moment. Tomorrow, he will see Sizhui all in red for the first time. Wen colors.
Perhaps that thought reaches Sizhui somehow.
“Before arrangements were made – for this marriage, that is – I told Qingzhao everything about my past.” Sizhui rolls the now empty cup between his fingers. This must mean he’s a little inebriated. Lan disciples do not fidget. “I apologize for not seeking your permission, since I know it implicates people other than me.” He draws in a breath. “However telling her seemed like the correct thing to do.”
Lan Wangji has discovered that nothing really delineates the shift from childhood to adulthood, despite coming of age celebrations that attempt to mark that change. You just imbue a child with values, creeds, and a sense of security. You hope that they are eventually able to make wise decisions without consulting their parents.
“That’s fine,” he says, noting that Sizhui is still young enough to look reassured by that. “May I ask about your reasoning?”
“We’re starting our lives together,” he says, weighing each word with solemn care. “It seems inauspicious to hold on to such a large secret. It might also be an unkindness.”
“How did she take it?” Wei Wuxian has his head propped up on his hand. “Obviously not too bad since the wedding is still on and all.”
Sizhui puts the cup down on the table and folds his hands next to it. “She said the pigment formula for Qishan Wen red is actually quite different for the red meant for a bridegroom, therefore she didn’t mind.”
You had to know a great deal about pigments and paints if you were involved in map making. However, Lan Wangji also suspects their conversation had gone deeper than that joke about Wen red. Still he affords Lan Sizhui privacy in this matter.
“So much is changing tomorrow,” Sizhui says, abruptly pouring himself a second drink. This action surprises Lan Wangji almost as much as the prior confession. “I wanted to sit down with you both to see if you had any advice or counsel for me.”
Wei Wuxian laughs, although it’s a bit restrained compared to what came before. He sits up straight again. “Oh? What makes you think we are qualified to do that?”
“Because,” Sizhui says, glancing at each of them in turn, making sure to look them right in the eye, “you are married to each other.”
Among the Gusu Lan, Lan Wangji’s partnership with Wei Wuxian has always been something that’s permitted to exist as long as no one names it. Naming tends to confer legitimacy. This is something of a fallacy; Gusu Lan also has many rules that urge seeing the truth clearly, even if the truth is somehow extraordinary. The tension between these two poles of behavior often frays at the seams, but it’s still held all these years.
Something tight in Lan Wangji’s chest begins to loosen, something he hadn’t realized was even there.
It seems inauspicious to hold on to such a large secret. It might also be an unkindness.
“Yes,” Lan Wangji says, “we are married.”
He loses track of how long he and Sizhui look at each other. Sizhui’s earnest smile becomes brighter and brighter. Lan Wangji doesn’t know what his own face is doing. Wei Wuxian’s cough breaks the silence. He appears to be hiding a smile in his sleeve, even if he pretends like he’s doing something uncouth like wiping liquor away from the corners of his lips.
“Well,” Wei Wuxian says, presumably when he can trust himself, “nothing gets by you.”
“Is it rude to say I’m not sure it’s much of a secret?”
“Yes that’s very rude! I’m always doing my best to not disgrace Hanguang-jun!”
“You don’t disgrace me,” Lan Wangji has to interject.
“Ah well, ah well,” Wei Wuxian pats Sizhui on the head, “I guess the youths are allowed to be rude from time to time. Especially since we aren’t in the Cloud Recesses. Do you want more to drink? You hold your liquor better than your guardian here.”
“Just one more. He shouldn’t be ill the day of his own wedding.”
Wei Wuxian clicks his tongue as he pours some liquor for Sizhui, and Lan Wangji chooses to interpret that as I know, I know.
“As for advice,” Wei Wuxian says as Sizhui raises the cup to his lips. “Marriage isn’t just the start of your lives together. It’s also a part of everything that came before, for both of you. All the good and bad. You’ll have to remember that in moments when you don’t understand each other.”
Sizhui tilts his head, considering this. “Hmmm, so you’re saying … declaring a partnership is kind of like... those musical phrases that connect one melody to another. And how they bring everything together into a whole?”
“Did I? Maybe? Maybe I was! I felt very wise and official for a moment there. Let’s pretend I meant something smart like that.”
Both of Lan Wangji’s loved ones are verifiably drunk. Wei Wuxian isn’t too bad, even though he’s had far more than Sizhui. In truth, Sizhui’s behavior isn’t as awkward as Lan Wangji had feared. For the most part he seems to take increasingly long pauses between every other word. At one point he finds Wei Wuxian’s flute and makes a racket on it like the mischievous, small child he had once been. Apparently A-Yuan is still there, hidden beneath all those layers of propriety.
“Right, right,” Wei Wuxian says after wrestling Chenqing from Sizhui. “Time for you to get some rest.”
Shizui has his arms around each of their shoulders as they help steer him to bed. At one point Wei Wuxian whispers something to Shizui that has him laughing hard. Lan Wangji is worried he’ll trip and bring the three of them crashing down. Eventually, though, they manage to get Sizhui onto a pallet and he falls asleep instantly.
“What did you say to him, exactly?” Lan Wangji asks, once he’s alone with Wei Wuxian.
“Oh, that.” Wei Wuxian falls into their bed with a graceless thud. “I told him he’s free to have lots of kids if he wants to eventually, but also like … try to wait a while? For my sake? I’m still too young to be a grandfather.”
It’s one of those goofy, non sequiturs that always warm Lan Wangji from the inside out. He’s in the middle of undoing his clothing when he realizes something.
“You told him you are too young.”
“Yep. I sure did.” Wei Wuxian rolls onto his back. He flings an arm over his face as though he wants to shield his eyes from the sun. They only have one candle burning. “’Cause it’s true.”
“You didn’t tell him I am too young as well?”
Wei Wuxian uncovers his face and looks over. Something makes him grin. “Nah. You’re already grandfatherly. I think you were born grandfatherly.”
Lan Wangji lets his robes slip from his body. “Is that so?” He decides to act a bit like an old man and take his time folding his clothes, even though Wei Wuxian’s whining moves him more than he will ever say.
“Lan Zhan! Get over here. We’re married, after all. Didn’t we have a whole conversation about that? We’re married!” Wei Wuxian’s grin is so ridiculously happy it blunts all the edges of his words.
Indeed. They are married.
And, in the morning, there’s another marriage. Sizhui wakes up with a distinctly green tint to his skin, and gamely endures Wei Wuxian’s teasing. He even teases back.
“Did you cook this?” he asks, when Wei Wuxian brings him food to settle his stomach. “If so, I’m not sure it will help.”
“You’re so rude to your elders sometimes,” Wei Wuxian says, “what did you teach this child, Hanguang-jun?”
Sizhui is too polite to speak with a full mouth. He chews, swallows, and takes a sip of water. “Everything I know! Other than what you taught me.”
Soon after that, everything becomes riot of drumming and scattered lamplight. Sizhui rides a fine horse (even though he and Wei Wuxian had joked the previous night about sending him on Lil’ Apple.) Qingzhao laughs and cries and laughs when she see Sizhui for the first time. It’s so infectious that Sizhui starts doing the same. Lan Wangji is pretty sure he’s never made an expression like that in his life, but he understands that sentiment deep inside his heart.
Love has grown from the Burial Mounds in so many different ways. At first, Lan Wangji had found this strange and inexplicable. Now, watching Sizhui hold on to the hands of his new wife, he thinks he’s beginning to understand. It reminds him of the forests surrounding the Cloud Recesses. When his home had been burned down, so many trees had been a casualty of that act of war.
Somehow, though, the earth below remained resilient. That following spring, the Cloud Recesses had been blessed with hardy little saplings. They’d grown and grown until you could believe their leaves would reach the sun.