Work Text:
On his first night hunt, Lan Wangji saw a tree struck by lightning. It didn’t split, or crack. Not after the initial explosion of wood and boiling sap, at least. It stood tall all through the long night. But it burned. Orange flame flickered from a crevasse torn through protective layers of bark and the hard won growth of years. Hypnotic. Dangerous. All-consuming.
Bichen couldn’t put it out. Every effort fell to ruin, and by the time the hunt ended, three days later, the tree had burnt to a crumbling ashy shell.
In the wake of his disappearance, with his flute and his new kind of cultivation, Wei Ying reminds him of that tree. Something burns inside him, red and gleaming and hungry. Devouring. Wangji watches the flames lick higher. Reach deeper. Sear away laughter and kindness and heart.
He is stronger now, and Wei Ying is-- Wei Ying is more important than a tree. He cannot simply stand aside and wait.
“Come back to Gusu,” he asks, thinking of icy springs and cooling fog.
“Let me help you,” he insists, an offering of water cupped between his palms.
Wei Ying turns away. It’s difficult to tell if he even knows he’s burning.