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The autumn season comes over the Cloud Recesses like a shawl slowly enveloping the world. The leaves of the trees gradually turn from green to vibrant colors of red and orange, and for a brief moment, the bare and austere residence of the Gusu Lan Sect teems with color.
Autumns mark seasons of change, of death and life, and twelve autumns have now come and gone. Lan Zhan counts the twelve years since his loss, twelve years since the death of Wei Ying and the fragile life of a three-year-old boy have become inextricably linked in Lan Zhan’s memory, the fallen leaves making way for new growth. For new life.
Lan Sizhui is fifteen now, the sudden development of his golden core quickly catapulting him to the top of his class. Lan Zhan watches over him, grateful and amazed at what this child — his child — has become. Lan Sizhui’s core burns bright with potential, but Lan Zhan, in the role of a parent cultivator, has taken great pains to conceal its true nature: a smoldering red-tinged core, reminiscent of the Wen’s sun, Sizhui’s first family.
On this day in the middle of autumn in the Cloud Recesses, Lan Zhan is supervising a class of diligent novice disciples when Lan Xichen appears in the doorway, a slight nod beckoning his brother out. Leaving instructions for the disciples to finish their accounts of the recent night hunt, Lan Zhan follows his brother outside and closes the door behind him, throwing Lan Xichen a questioning look. “Xiong-zhang?”
“Brother. A lone rogue cultivator has appeared at the gate,” Lan Xichen says slowly. “He has requested an audience with the Sect Leader.”
Lan Zhan raises an eyebrow, noting the uneasiness that was not usually present in his brother’s face. He crosses his arms, waiting for his brother to continue. If the meeting was for the Sect Leader, why call him out?
“Wangji,” Xichen continues, lowering his voice and stepping closer, his clear blue eyes steadily watching his brother. “He says he is a Wen.”
Lan Zhan quickens his pace along the corridor, heart pounding in his chest as he glances inside each of the classrooms, searching for Sizhui. After hastily promising that he would be at the meeting with the supposed Wen cultivator, he took off in the opposite direction. Xichen let him go, watching him worriedly.
Finally, at the end of the walkway, Lan Zhan peeks through an open crack in the doorway and sees the sword training room filled with disciples. They are seated in a circle as the lady instructor intones the description of several sword forms, watching a single disciple perform them in the middle of the room.
Lan Zhan exhales, relieved as he recognizes the cloud-patterned forehead ribbon on the demonstrating disciple. Sizhui is drenched in sweat as he moves his feet and sword in accordance with the spoken instructions, but his steps do not falter. Lan Zhan watches with pride as his fifteen-year-old son demonstrates the sword forms admirably, battling through his fatigue.
Satisfied that his son would be reasonably occupied for the rest of the afternoon, Lan Zhan composes himself and heads in the direction of his brother’s meeting room, fighting down the illogical fear and foreboding that rises up in his throat.
When he arrives at the Sect Leader’s private meeting room, his brother and uncle are already there, pouring tea for their guest. The Lans’ expressions are polite and cordial, but Lan Zhan can see a nervousness in his brother’s eyes. His brother is sitting directly across from the stranger, his uncle to the side, leaving a vacant place for Lan Zhan directly across from Lan Qiren.
“Ah, Wangji,” his brother says invitingly, and Lan Zhan hears the relief in his brother’s voice. “Come, meet our guest.” Lan Zhan makes his way to the table and bows respectfully to the supposed Wen cultivator, surreptitiously eyeing him and drawing his own conclusions.
The Wen cultivator looks to be around middle-age, with graying hairs evident in his simple hairstyle. Dressed in plain tan robes, a nondescript sword by his side, nothing about the stranger identifies him as a Wen. Prominent cheekbones and sunken eyes tell of years of hardship, coupled with the scars Lan Zhan sees on his wiry hands, hidden by long sleeves.
The stranger meets Lan Zhan’s eyes and returns his bow, and in that split-second Lan Zhan sees the flint and sorrow in the stranger’s eyes, a strange repentant turmoil that does nothing to allay the inexplainable fear building in his chest. Thoughts of Sizhui fill his mind, and he prays that his son remains occupied for the rest of the day. Safe.
“This cultivator is Wen Luo, Zewu-Jun. My humble thanks for your hospitality,” the cultivator says, bowing again to Lan Xichen. Xichen’s eyes dart over quickly to his brother, taking note of Lan Zhan’s fingers tightening on Bichen’s sheath. Beside him, Lan Qiren is watching the guest, stony face unreadable.
Plastering on a polite smile, Xichen acknowledges the greeting and pours the tea for all of them, the ensuing silence broken only by the clink of china.
“If you will forgive my impertinence, Senior Wen,” Xichen begins, as he sees the responsibility for conversation has clearly fallen to him. Lan Wangji is looking anywhere but at the visitor, studiously gazing at his untouched tea. Lan Qiren, on the other hand, has not said a word, keeping stern eyes trained on the Wen cultivator. Inwardly rolling his eyes at his family’s lack of manners, Xichen continues, “but we were not aware that any Wens had survived the…campaign.”
Lan Wangji subtly eyes his brother at that, hearing the blatant lie that his brother has just pronounced so smoothly and diplomatically. Xichen has fooled the world into thinking he is perfect, but Lan Zhan knows that his brother has always loved his family more than the rules. They are alike, in that way — a fact that has infuriated Lan Qiren to no end. The evidence is in the truth: a Wen survivor, a child now loved by his adopted father and uncle, and protected by harsh reality by the Lan name. The nephew that Xichen has just obscured in a half-lie of protection.
Wen Luo seems unperturbed, calmly drinking his tea and setting it down. “If you will allow me, Zewu-jun, I shall tell my story.” With a nod from the Sect Leader, Wen Luo begins.
“I was a teacher in the Wen Sect,” he says, voice haunted. “Like all the great sects, we have our own history, our own Wen principles, our own chronicles. The power of Wen cultivation was to defend the weak and to heal. Scrolls and scrolls were written on the Wen sect’s cultivation. We have paths written down, not intended for destruction, but for the maintenance of peace and the cultivation of prosperity. Or at least, we had them — before Wen Ruohan ordered them to be burnt and rewritten to suit his own wishes.”
Xichen remains silent, encouraging their guest to continue. “All doctors and teachers who dared continue in the old ways were killed.” Xichen flinches, and Lan Zhan lowers his eyes, offering a silent prayer for Wen Qing and Wen Ning, who had survived the purge of Wen Ruohan only to be murdered by cultivators who deemed themselves saviors. Wen Luo pauses, hand shaking as he sets down his cup. “I survived.”
The Lans watch as Wen Luo’s eyes grow more and more distant, staring blankly into the distance. “I was driven to the far reaches of the cultivation world, where no sects held territory. There, the spirits are untamed, the villages are few and far between, and corpses abound. I lived in seclusion for years, until rumors began to reach me of a Sunshot Campaign, led by the four sects against the tyranny of the Wen sect. I heard of the Yiling Patriarch —“ and here his eyes slide imperceptibly over in the direction of Lan Zhan “—and the Wen remnants, and I quickly left seclusion to make it here, to save the innocents of my sect. But I was too late,” he whispers, voice hollow. “Now, they are gone.”
Rising, Wen Luo prostrates himself upon the ground, bowing so deep his forehead touches the wooden floor, arms stretched out towards Lan Xichen. Alarmed, Xichen gets up, saying, “Senior Wen, there is no need —!”
“There is no apology in the cultivation world that will atone for what my sect has done,” Wen Luo says, cutting Xichen off. “We have killed, and murdered, all in the name of power — and we have been murdered in return.” There is immense sorrow in his voice, and even Lan Qiren’s eyes soften minutely at hearing Wen Luo’s words.
Xichen’s face twists at that, guilt in remembering the Lan sect’s neutral stance towards the Wen remnants, not actively helping the Jin clan enslave them but not lifting a finger to help them either. So much wrong done in the name of what was supposedly right. “Senior Wen —“
“Please,” Wen Luo continues, “allow me to seek redemption on behalf of my sect. I am but one cultivator, and the wounds I seek to heal are deep and ravaged, but I have sworn to give my life to redeem the souls and stories of my sect. I wish to travel to the villages we once ravaged, to cleanse and rebuild them all. I was a coward once, but no more.”
“Senior Wen, please,” Xichen pleads. “Rise, sit. Let us converse as equals. There is guilt to be shared in the aftermath of war.” Lan Zhan’s face remains impassive, suddenly lost in the memories of Wei Wuxian, the only one brave enough to walk into darkness for light. The one the cultivation world shunned, until it was too late. There was guilt to be shared, indeed. Every one of them was complicit, in the end. Wei Ying.
Wen Luo rises reluctantly, re-taking his place at the table and looking at the three Lans before him. “Forgive me, Zewu-Jun. I would like to make a request — there is something I need to begin this atonement.”
“Ask, Senior Wen,” Xichen says, noting the uncomfortable grim face of his brother. “If Gusu Lan is able to assist, we shall.”
“There is a child here in the Cloud Recesses. A Wen child.” Wen Luo says directly, his voice holding an undercurrent of steel. “He too must take on this burden, to right the wrongs of his ancestors. I wish to take him with me.”
Hearing the words he had somehow been expecting and dreading, Lan Zhan reels. Blood pounds in his ears as he considers what Wen Luo has just asked. He wishes to take my son. My son. Wei Ying’s A-Yuan. My Sizhui.
Xichen too is momentarily taken aback by Wen Luo’s request. “This child…”
“Do not bother denying it, Zewu-jun,” Wen Luo replies immediately, his earlier deference replaced by a strange wildness in his eyes. Like he has finally found what he has been searching for, Lan Zhan thinks uneasily. “I felt the activation of his Wen core just as easily as I have felt the extinguishing of so many others. He is young, and strong. A promising cultivator. He must be trained as a Wen.”
“His name is Lan Sizhui,” Lan Qiren finally speaks, and both Lan Xichen and Lan Zhan whip their heads towards him incredulously. “Grand Master—!” “Uncle—!”
Raising up a hand to silence his nephews, Lan Qiren keeps his stern eyes coolly on Wen Luo, who looks slightly satisfied at having his request confirmed. “The boy has been entered into the Lan family records,” Lan Qiren continues, glancing at a wide-eyed and worried Lan Zhan. “He is officially Lan Wangji’s son.”
Wen Luo looks over at Lan Zhan, surprised. Lan Zhan understands. There is a reason why there have been so many rumors around him and Sizhui — he is thirty years young, too young to have a thirteen-year-old son, unless he had given himself to youthful indiscretion. But he is thirty years old — old enough to have time and grief and guilt carve their marks into his body, old enough to have loved and lost, to be wounded and to heal again. Lan Zhan meets Wen Luo’s gaze, unblinking. Yes, he thinks silently. Sizhui is mine. Wen Luo must see something in his eyes, because he merely nods and turns back to addressing Lan Qiren.
Rising and brushing off his robes nonchalantly, Lan Qiren takes his leave. “As far as I am concerned, any matters regarding the child must be taken up with his father.” With those last words, Lan Qiren retreats, leaving his two stunned nephews in his wake. For all the animosity his uncle had shown at the beginning, Xichen thinks, Uncle now sees Sizhui as family. Shaking his head, Xichen turns to his brother. Lan Zhan’s face is unreadable, staring at his uncle’s retreating back, confused yet grateful at the unprecedented support that his normally-conventional uncle has just shown.
“Wangji,” Xichen says softly, bringing his brother’s attention back to the table. Is this now a negotiating table? Lan Zhan thinks wryly. For Sizhui?
“You have my humble thanks for adopting the boy, Hanguang-jun,” Wen Luo says, with the impatience of a man eager to receive what he has waited for. “But the child is now of age — he no longer needs your care. What he needs now is training in the Wen way. He must know of his heritage. He is a Wen, not a Lan — he must now be raised as a Wen. Surely you must understand that.”
“I shall decide what he needs, Senior Wen,” Lan Zhan says coolly, meeting Wen Luo’s eyes without flinching. “Sizhui is engaged in his classes and must not be disturbed. We will speak of this again at a later time.”
Standing abruptly and quickly bowing, Lan Zhan takes his leave, uncaring for the rudeness of his exit. Wen Luo watches him go with an inscrutable look in his eye, and Xichen is once again left to deal with the chaos in his brother’s wake.
“Lan Sizhui has been well taken care of, Senior Wen,” Xichen says quietly. “You need not worry for his wellbeing here in the Cloud Recesses.”
“Apologies again for my impertinence, Sect Leader Lan,” Wen Luo replies tiredly, “but a Wen cultivator requires certain…freedoms that the rigid structure of Lan rules does not provide.” There is no malice in his words, but Xichen can see that he clearly believes that Sizhui’s growth will be prevented if he continues training as a Lan.
There is no comment that Sizhui can make for that, well aware of the differences between sect cultivations. Smiling a cordial smile that he does not feel, he returns to the safety of Sect Leader duties. “I understand. My brother has expressed his desire to discuss this matter further with you at a later date. In the mean time, why don’t I show you to your rooms?”
Although he had confidently brushed off Wen Luo’s request at first, the Wen cultivator’s words had stirred up a chaos inside Lan Zhan. Wen Luo had uttered the echoes of Lan Zhan’s earliest anxieties and fears, the questions that forced his heart open even as he cradled his young — so young, too young for this pain — child to sleep, back bleeding with recent wounds.
How do I raise you, child of the Wens? How do I care for you, child of Wei Ying? How do I cultivate your strength, strengthen your weaknesses, weaken your fears (when I have so many of my own)?
How do I love you, child of my heart?
Memories of his past inadequacies as a parent stir up old guilt within Lan Zhan as he briskly makes his way to the Jingshi, where Sizhui always meets him at classes’ end for their shared meal. The doors to the Jingshi are already open when he steps on the verandah, and Sizhui is already inside, setting out their food on the low table.
Hearing his father’s footsteps, Sizhui turns toward him with a bright smile. “A-Die!”
Lan Zhan forces himself to answer with a smile of his own, a small sincere one only reserved for his family. He steps inside the Jingshi and closes the doors behind him, turning only to be surprised with his son suddenly barreling into his arms.
“I missed you,” Sizhui whispers, and Lan Zhan murmurs an affirming noise, returning his son’s embrace. His wounds have long since healed, but his son’s embraces are always tentative, gentle, as though afraid of hurting his A-Die. Wen Luo’s words still linger in his mind, causing him to tighten his arms around his son. Sizhui has grown — Lan Zhan’s arms can no longer envelop him fully, and this is yet another uneasiness that he must contend with: that perhaps his son is growing beyond his reach.
“Mn. Here. Always,” Lan Zhan replies after they have stood in silence for some time, relishing each other’s embrace. Held in this way, Sizhui can feel his father’s deep voice rumble in his chest, and nothing else has ever made him feel safer.
But when they sit down to eat, Sizhui can feel that something is wrong. His father is more quiet than usual, even for Hanguang-jun. With Sizhui, Hanguang-jun is always speaking, or at least prompting him to speak. There is always a murmur, an encouragement for Sizhui to go on, to tell his story, to explain himself. It is not something that Sizhui receives anywhere else in the Cloud Recesses.
And it is not something Sizhui receives today. They eat and finish their meal in silence, his father leaving his own meal untouched. Lan Zhan is lost in his own worries, looking in the distance even as his son is right in front of him. Sizhui is struck by how sad his father looks, as though haunted and grieving. He has not seen his father like this for many years.
The warning bell strikes for curfew, and Sizhui reluctantly gets up to leave. “Father?”
The sound of his small voice seems to strike like a bell, and Lan Zhan immediately focuses on him, minutely shaking his head as though to clear his thoughts. “Mn. Sizhui. I apologize. I have been…distracted.”
“That’s alright, A-Die,” Sizhui says understandingly, thrilled at even those few words from his father’s mouth. “You must have a lot on your mind.”
His father doesn’t say anything, merely gazing at him with eyes that convey love and warmth. But Sizhui is unprepared for the fear and sadness that he also sees, as though Hanguang-jun is afraid of something. But that’s impossible, he chides himself, Hanguang-jun isn’t afraid of anything!
Aware of the curfew bell, Lan Zhan takes a few steps toward his son and grasps his wrist tightly before pulling Sizhui into an embrace. Sizhui yelps good-naturedly, surprised, but eventually relaxes into the hug, closing his eyes and relishing the rare moment.
Lan Zhan’s embrace is desperate, clinging to his precious child as though he might slip through his fingers, dissolve away into memory. Images of Sizhui at different ages flash through his mind, Wen Luo’s earlier words coming back to taunt him. He holds Sizhui tighter, tighter, as though he can block out the world with his arms, the world that wants to judge, to assume, to take. He is so tired of losing those he loves.
For a moment, an irrational selfishness and fear comes over him. The second warning bell tolls, and he considers asking Sizhui to spend the night, to not return to the disciples’ dormitories, aware that these are merely a stone’s throw away from the guest quarters. In a crazed heartbeat, Lan Zhan considers the possibility of Wen Luo kidnapping his son and running off in the dead of night, while Hanguang-jun sleeps in the Jingshi, blissfully unaware. The fear grabs him by the throat and does not let him go. It tightens like a vise around his lungs, holds back his breath until it feels like his heart has stopped beating.
“Oof…Father?” Sizhui says shyly, simultaneously amused and delighted at how long his father has held the tight embrace. Unfortunately, they are in the Cloud Recesses. They have rules to follow—like curfew. “I have to go.”
Lan Zhan pulls back and looks at his son, and Sizhui has the horrifying thought that he has said something wrong. His father’s eyes cloud over, and his lower lip trembles. If I didn’t know better, Sizhui thinks, I would think Hanguang-jun is about to cry.
But of course, his father does not cry. “Mn.” Lan Zhan simply lets go, exhaling past his constricted lungs, his arms falling back to his sides, and he tries to ignore the doomed finality that seems to accompany the action.
Lan Zhan watches his son leave, watches as he navigates the paths from the Jingshi to the disciples’ dormitories. Just before he turns a corner that would take him out of sight, Sizhui pauses, turns around and sees his father watching him. Beaming, he waves a good night to his father that Lan Zhan returns, the soft smile on his face masking his real worry.
With that last goodbye, his son turns the corner, and Sizhui is lost to his sight.
He is a Wen, not a Lan — he must now be raised as a Wen.
The last vestiges of selfishness fill his heart to the brim as Lan Zhan turns his head up to gaze at the lonely moon, inwardly fiercely rebelling against the rules that tell him what he feels is forbidden.
“Wei Ying,” he whispers, “Would you have wanted him to be a Wen?”
But as it has been for twelve years, there is no answer. Lan Zhan is torn — Wei Ying had given up everything for the Wens, to protect A-Yuan’s family. Lan Zhan had merely found the child, hidden him, raised and loved him as his own, never allowing him to return to the memories that fever and trauma had burnt away.
But now that there was a chance, a chance for A-Yuan to return to his first family, now that Lan Zhan had loved and cared for him for twelve years — “am I wrong, Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan murmurs, closing his eyes, as anguished silent tears fall.
Wen or Lan…can he not be raised as mine?
The next morning, the strangeness of his father’s behavior the night before does not leave Sizhui’s mind. It bothers him all morning and afternoon throughout his classes, until Lan Jingyi finally confronts him during their last study hall.
“What’s wrong with you?” Jingyi hisses. “You’ve been distracted all day.”
Sizhui blinks, looking up from his scroll at his best friend sitting across from him. “Sorry. It’s just…Hanguang-jun was acting different yesterday.”
“How different can Hanguang-jun be? He’s always the same!” Jingyi says incredulously.
“Keep your voice down,” Sizhui admonishes, looking around furtively to see if any of their fellow disciples have noticed their conversation. They are not supposed to be talking during study hall.
Jingyi puts his brush down and crosses his arms in a huff. “Well then, what do you mean?”
Sizhui exhales, knowing that his friend’s stubborn nature will not possibly let this go. “Yesterday, at dinner. He was quiet—“ and Sizhui can barely suppress a giggle at how his friend rolls his eyes at this very obvious description, “—more quiet than usual,” he amends. “Trust me, Jingyi, something’s wrong.”
Jingyi seems to be thinking pensively, which in itself is a miracle for Sizhui to behold. “It might have to do with the guest who arrived yesterday,” he says slowly, piquing Sizhui’s interest. “Guest? Who?”
“I don’t know. I just heard from A-Xuan, who heard it from Senior Li, who got it from A-Tien, who heard from Senior Xing, who was on duty at the gates…”
“Jingyi.” Sizhui can barely suppress the urge to roll his eyes at his friend’s tendency to gossip. “The point?”
“A stranger arrived at the gates yesterday, and Senior Xing said that he asked for Sect Leader Lan Xichen personally. When he arrived, they took the guest to Sect Leader’s private meeting room. Guards who were on duty after that said that Grand Master Lan Qiren and then Hanguang-jun left abruptly after some time. That’s all I know,” Jingyi shrugged.
Sizhui mulls it over. “It makes sense,” he says slowly. “Hanguang-jun would have gone to the Jingshi after that meeting, and he was acting very strange.”
“What do you think happened?” Jingyi asks curiously.
“I don’t know,” Sizhui answers. “But Hanguang-jun looked…sad.”
“Sad? Why would Hanguang-jun look sad?”
“I don’t know,” Sizhui answers for the second time. An uncomfortable feeling tugs at the back of his mind, like a prick of memory. “But I’m going to cheer him up,” he resolves.
Jingyi is about to answer again when they get hushed by the stern older disciple overseeing them, and they both duck their heads and pore over their scrolls.
After study hall, Sizhui grabs his paints and parchment, heading to what he knows is his father’s favorite place in the Cloud Recesses. The rabbits greet him when he arrives, nuzzling his hands and climbing into his lap as he sits cross-legged among them. “Hello, little ones,” he murmurs.
His eyes rove over the warren, searching for two rabbits in particular.
He finds them a bit separated from the group, the two of them cuddled together in the crook of a tree root, and the sight of them makes him smile. Settling down quietly in front of them, careful not to disturb, he takes out his paints and begins.
Lan Zhan paces his room, restless. He cannot put off his discussion with Wen Luo forever, as Xichen had reminded him that morning. “The longer he stays here, the more troubled you will be,” Xichen had told him knowingly. “Brother. Speak with him.”
A knock sounds at the door, and Lan Zhan composes himself enough to open it. Wen Luo stands outside, resoluteness in his stance. “Hanguang-jun,” he bows.
Bowing in return, Lan Zhan steps aside for the man to enter, closing the doors of the Jingshi behind him and gesturing for his guest to sit at the table. Lan Zhan takes his place in front of him in silence, pouring the tea for them both.
Clearly nervous yet determined, Wen Luo takes it upon himself to shatter the silence of the Jingshi. “Hanguang-jun…”
“He cannot go with you. He will be staying here.”
Even Lan Zhan is surprised at how easily the words rush out from his own mouth, buoyed by a certainty that this is the only answer he will ever give. Doubts and fears aside, this is his heart. There can be no other way, no other way for the world to take his son from him. He sends a silent apology to Wei Ying, to Wen Qing and Wen Ning, and even to A-Yuan’s nameless parents.
Wen Luo does not look surprised at his sudden outburst. In fact, he looks like he understands. “I thought you would say so,” he says slowly. “Please, I was not entirely honest during our first meeting. There is something I have not told you.”
Lan Zhan merely looks at him, and Wen Luo continues. “It is true that I was a teacher. But what I did not tell you is that I was the personal tutor to the ruling Wen family,” he says, voice haunted. Lan Zhan’s eyes widen at this revelation.
“I taught the young Wen Xu and Wen Chao how to read and write, how to read the Wen chronicles, how to understand the principles and history of Wen cultivation. They were eager to learn, as children. Innocent youth who knew nothing of the world beyond their clan. They were good, helpful students.”
Lan Zhan bristles noticeably at this description, trying to ignore the phantom pain suddenly emanating from where his leg was broken by the hateful Wen Xu. And Wen Chao, who taunted all of them and imprisoned them in Qishan under the guise of Wen tutelage. Wen Chao, who sentenced Wei Ying to a night in the dungeons! Lan Zhan focuses on calming his breathing, looking away from Wen Luo.
His reactions do not go unnoticed by Wen Luo, who exhales heavily before he continues. “I apologize. I know that is not how you know them. But it was how I knew them — before their father, Wen Ruohan, became crazed and obsessed with the Yin Iron, drawing his two sons into his cursed plan. I was their tutor — I tried in vain to reason with him, plead with him, showed him the principles written in Wen scrolls that so clearly contradicted his actions, but it was in vain.”
Bringing the teacup down, Wen Luo’s hand shakes. “His anger burned against me, and he would have killed me if not for the intervention of Wen Xu and Wen Chao. Even if they would not listen to me, they asked their father to spare my life. They were still young then — manipulated by their father, they had no choice. The Yin Iron had poisoned their hearts and minds, and I was driven to exile before I could do anything to help them.”
“Hanguang-jun, I will do anything to redeem the spirits of my sect, of my family — of the two boys who fell into darkness when I was absent.” Lan Zhan gazes at Wen Luo, broken and mourning, and he cannot bring himself to hate this man who wants to take away his son. The haunting, the grief, the sorrow and anguish — Lan Zhan knows it all. They have all lost, in the end.
“There are no more Wen cultivators save for me and the child,” Wen Luo says sadly. “If they are not taught, our cultivation processes will be lost to oblivion when I die. An entire people and history — gone.”
“Lan Sizhui receives adequate training here in the Cloud Recesses,” Lan Zhan says, aware that he is being cold. Cruel. What are his wishes, compared to the stakes of the survival of a brutally-murdered sect? Something inside him makes him want to pull back, to retract, but his heart is too far gone.
Wen Luo gradually becomes more and more frustrated. “Whatever training he receives here is not appropriate for his Wen core, first cultivated by his parents.” He stands, pacing around the room, Lan Zhan following him with his eyes.
“Let me ask you, Hanguang-jun. For years, the child’s core remained inactive, did it not?”
Lan Zhan does not want to answer that, but he has to. He relents with a slight nod.
“None of your cultivation masters could detect it.” Another nod.
“It became activated only after a dangerous situation, an adrenaline rush, so to speak. A time and place for him to prove himself.” Lan Zhan remembers that night, and reluctantly nods again, standing to face Wen Luo.
The other man stops pacing and looks at him face-to-face. “The Wen do not cultivate in the way the Lan do, Hanguang-jun. You learn through restraint, through a constant conditioning of the self through the rules of Gusu Lan, through an almost-pious pursuit of perfection.”
“We Wen are the opposite. From an early age, children are trained through difficult situations, increasing in difficulty as they grow in strength. They are taught to test limits, to defy convention. They are taught in freedom. Or at least, they were.” Wen Luo trails off for a second, and Lan Zhan can see the ghosts of Wen Xu and Wen Chao in his eyes, the boys that he had taught and loved and failed to save, and reluctantly, his heart aches for him.
“Ask yourself, Hanguang-jun,” Wen Luo finally says softly, “whether or not your sect’s rules have stifled the cultivator that Wen Yuan is to become.”
Lan Zhan stills, unwilling to confront the question that Wen Luo has posed, a question that has been lurking in the back of his mind for twelve years. He had never wanted A-Yuan to change, to fit the cold rules, but his son did — he learned to walk the corridors quietly when he was accustomed to running, learned to cry silently during nightmares so as not to break the silence rule, learned to formally address his father even when all Lan Zhan wanted to hear was “A-Die.”
Every part of Lan Zhan rebels against it, but he knows that Wen Luo is right, at least partly. But he still will not — cannot — let Sizhui go. And so he gathers his own weapons and strikes back, ignoring the still small voice in his head that says he is being unreasonable, cruel, hateful — he cannot think of that now.
“He is not Wen Xu or Wen Chao,” Lan Zhan says quietly, knowing that he is striking at the most vulnerable part of the wounded man. “He is not your second chance.”
A beat passes, hurt anger rising in Wen Luo’s face before he answers. “Neither is he yours,” he snaps. “Is he not a reminder of your Yiling Laozu? Your Wei Wuxian, your soulmate? The stories say you defended him, even against your own sect’s elders. Is not the child he protected your last memory of him? Your last piece of a man who is dead and gone? You named him Sizhui — his very name bears the remnants of a ghost!”
Color drains from Lan Zhan’s face at hearing those words. Wen Luo similarly seems suddenly exhausted, leaning on a pillar for support. “So you see, Hanguang-jun,” he says tiredly, bloodshot eyes filling with unshed tears, staring at the floor. “We are not so different after all.”
Silence reigns in the Jingshi for a few seconds after that, each man lost in their own anguish. One in the present, one in the past — each desperately holding on.
“His name is A-Yuan…Wen Yuan,” Lan Zhan says finally, shattering the silence. Wen Luo raises his head to look at him silently, listening reluctantly.
“When the Yiling Patriarch — when Wei Ying…he was the only one left alive in the Burial Mounds.” Lan Zhan stumbles over the words, phantom fire and ash choking his lungs much like they did on the Burial Mounds that dreaded day. “Wei Wuxian hid him. I found him, brought him here. Paid the price.”
“He had a high fever, I had a bleeding back. My brother nursed us both back to health. On particularly terrible nights, he would cry and cry until he would be placed in my arms. I held him until he slept. He called out for Wen Qing, Wen Ning, Granny —“ and here Lan Zhan pauses for Wen Luo to bow his head in mourning.
“He remembered all of them still. But the fever took his memory, and left him with nightmares,” Lan Zhan continues softly. “I was there for each one. For twelve years, I have raised him. He is not a shadow — he is my son.”
“Hanguang-jun —“ Wen Luo moves to interrupt, but Lan Zhan speaks over him, gently but firmly, mindful of the other man’s grief but wishing to explain, sincerity infused in his words.
“He has two scars on his left knee from his first official night hunt, and he bears them with pride. He likes painting and reading the ancient stories, and the library is his favorite spot in the whole Cloud Recesses. He sneaks out leftovers from midday meal to feed the rabbits with, but his favorite is the black one with a white ear. He knows many in his generation but has only a few trusted friends. He doesn’t like onions in his food but he eats them anyway.”
Wen Luo remains silent, listening reluctantly. Lan Zhan soldiers on. “His favorite song on the guqin is a lullaby. He is insecure about his height compared to his friends, and unconsciously tiptoes next to them, even as he hits his own growth spurt. He is a friend to all animals, and names his favorite birds when they make their nests in spring. He has a favorite soup that only his uncle Xichen can make. He likes to sing to himself while doing his chores. He comes here for dinner every day, even when he could be eating with his friends. He relishes visiting villages more than sitting in cultivation conferences, although he has a talent for diplomacy. His fears surface from time to time, and when those nights come he returns here, where he cannot sleep until I play his lullaby. He is confident yet cautious, a model student and a creative thinker, adopted and loved.”
“So you see, Senior Wen,” Lan Zhan says, cool strength in his voice. “I can go on. I do not love him like I love a ghost. I love him for who he is — my son, my child of twelve years now until my dying breath. I know him. Do you?”
Before Wen Luo can answer, a sniffle breaks their conversation, the sign of a third presence. Fear and alarm widening his eyes, Lan Zhan swiftly walks to the Jingshi and pulls the doors open. No, please, no, let it not be…
The doors slide open to reveal Sizhui, standing alone, holding a piece of rolled parchment, tears streaming down his cheeks, gazing blankly at his father. Lan Zhan’s heart drops, wondering how much his son has heard, cursing himself for revealing so much.
“Sizhui,” he says softly, reaching out toward his son.
Sizhui takes a step back, out of reach, and it feels like a blade in Lan Zhan’s chest.
“What is it?” Wen Luo asks, coming up behind Lan Zhan and seeing Sizhui. “Ah. You must be Wen Yuan,” Wen Luo says, not unkindly, voice warm and welcoming. Bowing to Sizhui, he introduces himself. “I am Wen Luo.”
Upon seeing him, a wild frenzy enters Sizhui’s eyes as he looks back at his father. “A-Die? Is it true? Am I a Wen?”
Lan Zhan is struck dumb, and Wen Luo takes the opportunity. “Yes, child,” he says gently. “What you have heard is true.”
Sizhui’s face crumples, and he takes another step back, and another, and another, shaking his head and staring at his father. “No…no…I’m a Lan…A-Die, Father, please…tell him, I’m a Lan!”
When his father stays silent, only looking at him, Sizhui lets out a strangled sob and turns on his heel, running hard and fast away from the Jingshi.
“Sizhui! Wait —!” Lan Zhan finally finds his voice, but it is too late. His son is gone. He moves to follow, only to be stopped by Wen Luo’s hand on his wrist. “Let him go, Hanguang-jun,” Wen Luo says softly.
“No,” Lan Zhan says icily, shaking his wrist free. “Wen or Lan, he is my son.” With those words, he leaves Wen Luo behind.
Shaking his head, Wen Luo turns to close the doors of the Jingshi behind him, and sees the parchment that Sizhui left behind. Unrolling it, he holds it up in the dying light of the afternoon, struck by what he sees. The parchment holds a painting of two rabbits, the child huddled beside the parent, “Cheer up, A-Die!” scribbled in the margins.
Lan Zhan runs and runs after his son, uncaring for the gasps of younger disciples who see Hanguang-jun running in a hallway (!), knowing in his heart where Sizhui is headed. He arrives at the small clearing deep in the Gusu forest where his warren of rabbits resides, immediately spotting the telltale white ends of Sizhui’s robe behind the tree.
Slowly, slowly, he walks toward the tree, the rabbits scattering before him in all directions. As he walks, he can hear Sizhui’s sobs with ever step, and his heart breaks even further. I’m sorry, A-Yuan. I’m sorry.
Rounding the tree, Lan Zhan sits gingerly in front of the huddled child that is his son, eyes and cheeks red, robe sleeves stained with tears. Lan Zhan reaches out towards his son, but when Sizhui looks at him, he merely turns away, pivoting to the side so that he does not have to look directly at his father.
And for Lan Zhan, it hurts. Oh, how it hurts. He takes back his outstretched hand, feeling all the while like he is being stabbed in the chest.
He doesn’t know how long he waits there, listening to the silent sobs of his son, aching to envelop him in his arms, yet knowing that it would cause more harm. No matter. He will wait an eternity if he has to.
Minutes pass before Sizhui quiets down, inhaling and exhaling deeply to push past the fatigue of his tears. He remembers, and the memory of it all tears through him like a raging fire. The smell of smoke and ash. The feel of soil between his toes as he scampers between Fourth Uncle’s neatly made garden plots. Mud from the makeshift lotus pond coating his face, arms, legs. Aunt Qing. Uncle Ning. Granny.
And woven through the thread of all his memories is a tall man dressed in black and red, twirling a bamboo flute, promising to bury him in the sand and grow him brothers and sisters.
Xian-gege.
“Sizhui…”
His father’s voice cuts through the din of burning flashes of memory like Bichen, and the vision of Xian-gege dissolves to reveal a younger Hanguang-jun, clad in white, reaching for him in the trunk of a tree. Holding him close. Safe.
Sizhui turns to see his father now sitting in front of him on the forest floor, white robes soiled by the ground. His father is looking down, hands clenched together tightly in his lap. His whole body is tense, as though a single movement might break the fragile silence that reigns.
“Father…” Sizhui whispers, and he does not know what to feel. Anger and hurt, for being kept in the dark? Pain, for his loss? Relief, that Hanguang-jun saved him? All of these and none of these at all. He is suddenly so very tired.
Sizhui does not know what to feel. He only knows that he needs his father.
And so he crawls toward him, closing the distance of three feet to crawl into his father’s lap and curl up there like he has not done for many years.
Lan Zhan had been preparing to apologize, to beg, to plead for his son to listen, to forgive him, and so he is relieved beyond words when his fifteen-year-old child suddenly wants to be held. Lan Zhan holds him, envelops him, presses a firm kiss to his forehead and just lets him cry. Closes his eyes, and silently cries with him.
Sizhui grips the front of his father’s robes tightly, the tears and memories and pain coming and going in waves, and Lan Zhan holds him through it all. When he finally quiets down, Lan Zhan speaks.
“Forgive me, A-Yuan. I—I should have told you earlier. Not in that way.”
Sizhui looks up at his father, gazing down at him with mournful eyes. His father that had saved him, yes, but who had also kept his memories a secret. It is not hard to figure out what his father is apologizing for.
Sizhui wriggles out of his father’s embrace and sits across from him, mindful of the fact that his father cannot even meet his eyes. Lan Zhan misses the weight in his arms immediately. “I forgive you, A-Die,” Sizhui says sincerely, because he does. He loves his father too much not to.
“But I wish I had known,” Sizhui says wistfully. “I—I wish I had remembered. Before.”
Lan Zhan finally raises his head. Although he knows that he is forgiven, there are scars that remain, wounds that need to be healed. It is what he must do, and what he must bear witness to, as a father. As Sizhui's father.
“What do you remember?” he prompts, watching as Sizhui’s eyes mist over with longing.
"The Burial Mounds,” Sizhui says, speaking slowly. “The Wens…” he folds his tongue over the word like an unfamiliar morsel, like a past promise revived. “Aunt Qing. Uncle Ning. Granny…and someone I called Xian-gege.”
Lan Zhan takes his son’s hand in his own, his own pain and loss clawing at his heart. “They loved you very much,” he whispers.
“I—I’m a Wen, Father,” Sizhui says, incredulous at his own words. “What—what does this mean…now? What do we do?”
Lan Zhan sighs. By now, Sizhui’s classes have covered the Sunshot Campaign and the history of the conflict with the Wen sect. His son knows of the Wens as characters and enemies in history scrolls, villified and wiped out. He does not know them as family. It is another mistake that Lan Zhan will have to rectify, in a sect that once hated his son’s first family.
“Nothing changes,” Lan Zhan says determinedly. “Only I, your Uncle Xichen, and Grand Master Lan Qiren know. Beyond that, it is your choice.”
Sizhui remains quiet for a while. “The guest knows.”
Lan Zhan closes his eyes. “Yes.”
“Who is he? He said his name was...Wen Luo."
“Yes. He was—is—a teacher in the Wen sect.”
“A Wen?” Sizhui perks up. “Truly?”
“Mn.”
Lan Zhan does not want to expound, to go further and possibly lose his son, but he has kept enough from Sizhui. It is the least he can do, to let him know. He will not keep secrets from his son ever again. The hurt is too much to bear.
“He wants to train you in the Wen path,” Lan Zhan says quietly, trying to ignore the way that Sizhui’s eyes brighten. He tamps down the spikes of jealousy that immediately make themselves known, the small questions wondering if his son looked at Lan cultivation with those same bright eyes.
“He does?” Sizhui says, excitedly, but immediately sobering down as he remembers his history lessons. “Will it—will it be allowed?” Ah, there is the Lan in his son.
It takes all his strength to nod, but Lan Zhan does it anyway. “Mn. I will allow it.”
Sizhui takes a minute to think it over, trying to understand. “Wen cultivation…in the Cloud Recesses, Father?”
Ah. And in that question, Sizhui has struck at the heart of the matter. Lan Zhan simultaneously hates and loves how perceptive his son can be.
Sizhui watches in alarm as his father’s face twists as though in pain, the sadness overwhelming his eyes.
“No. He wants to take you with him, to help the villages that the sect army once burned down. You will train with him as you travel,” Lan Zhan chooses his words carefully, even as every one of them slits his throat on the way out of his mouth.
Sizhui is taken aback. “Take me away? But Father, I haven’t even finished my classes! And my friends…Jingyi! My home…the Jingshi, Uncle Xichen, and you…A-Die! Will you really let him take me away?” He is close to sobbing again, close to panicking. He thought—he thought he had a home in the Cloud Recesses, but now he is a Wen, and he must leave; but he is also a Lan, and he wants to stay.
Lan Zhan wordlessly opens his arms and hugs his child close again, trying to calm him down. “Shh. No, A-Yuan. I am not letting him take you away. No one will,” he promises fiercely. Sizhui calms his breathing at that and pulls back, still agitated. “But then…”
“I want it to be your choice,” Lan Zhan says emphatically, even as it pains him, pulls his heart out of his chest. “Whatever you decide.”
Sizhui bites his lip, the tension of the decisions pulling him apart. Lan Zhan can see his son’s turmoil, wishes that he can make the choice for him, but he cannot. This is his son’s path. He should have known that sooner — no child of Wei Ying’s would have ever been conventional.
“If—if I choose to go…” Sizhui begins, and Lan Zhan’s heart drops. “…will I not be a Lan anymore?” Worried eyes look up at Lan Zhan, searching his face for answers.
Lan Zhan exhales. Of all the uncertainties and fears he has faced for the past days, this is one thing of which he is sure. “Sizhui. I may have kept secrets from you, kept your past from you, but I have never lied to you.”
“Keeping secrets is technically a half-lie and is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses,” Sizhui says suddenly, dropping his voice to a passable imitation of Lan Qiren and smiling cheekily at his father. Lan Zhan simply stares at him, unable to cope with the sudden change of tone, suddenly assailed by memories of that same cheeky smile. In the forest, a wind picks up and gently caresses them both, playing with their robes. Lan Zhan exhales impatiently. Wei Ying, your child is impossible. Shameless.
“As I was saying,” Lan Zhan says firmly, “No, Sizhui. I have never lied to you. You are a Lan, and you always will be, even as you are a Wen.”
“But more than that,” Lan Zhan’s voice softens, and he brings up a hand to cup his son’s face, gently brushing away the tear tracks on his cheeks, looking Sizhui in the eye. “Wen or Lan, or simply A-Yuan, you are my son. That will not change.”
Sizhui simply smiles, content. Yes, this is the only thing of which he can be sure. He still does not know what to make of his memories, of the Wen cultivator, of the choice now before him — but he is sure of A-Die’s love, and maybe…maybe that is enough.
Turmoil still remains. Questions still remain unanswered. There is still so much he does not know, and he is still unsure of whether he wants to know them. But maybe he owes it to the people who loved him to try.
“Let’s go see him, Father,” Sizhui says, standing up and brushing the dirt from his robes, and Lan Zhan does the same. Quickly, Sizhui leads the way out of the clearing, walking briskly.
“Have you—have you decided? Already?” Lan Zhan asks tentatively, bewildered at how fast his son is walking away from him. He is already afraid. He thought he had accepted it, had made his peace with it for his son’s sake, but the thought of Sizhui leaving still makes his heart clench with fear.
Sizhui turns back to look at his father, surrounded by the rabbits in the clearing, looking the most lost he has ever seen Hanguang-jun look. Walking back slowly without answering, he takes his father’s hand gently and leads him out of the clearing.
Lan Zhan keeps his eyes on his son, aware that his question has just gone unanswered. He is just about to ask again when Xichen catches up to them on the paths.
“Wangji,” he says, cautiously looking over at Sizhui. “Our…guest is leaving.”
Eyes widening, Lan Zhan follows his brother to the gates, Sizhui following closely behind.
Wen Luo stands at the gates to the Cloud Recesses, gazing out into the mountains. Xichen dismisses the guards and Wen Luo turns to face the Lans, eyes lingering over Lan Sizhui.
Lan Zhan steps forward first, kneeling before the older cultivator, repentant. Behind him, Xichen and Sizhui both gasp silently at this humbled display. “Senior Wen, please. You do not have to leave on my account. My words were thoughtless and made to hurt. I have offended the first family of my son. Please, forgive me,” he bows, head touching the mossy stone.
The older man simply shakes his head and taps him on the shoulder, causing Lan Zhan to stand up. “Please stand, Hanguang-jun.” When they are seeing eye-to-eye, Wen Luo sighs. “You are forgiven. But now, please, forgive me, for presuming to take away the child you love.”
"I see now...he loves you as much as he is loved." Reaching into his sleeve, Wen Luo pulls out a piece of parchment and hands it to Lan Zhan. Behind them, Sizhui gives a small “Oh!” as his father unfurls the picture that he had painted and forgotten about. Lan Zhan holds the parchment in his hands gently, head turning to Sizhui questioningly as he reads the words in the margins, looking back to Wen Luo as he waits for an explanation.
“He called you A-Die,” Wen Luo whispers, eyes suddenly filled with unshed tears. “Did you know, Hanguang-jun, that Wen Ruohan was an absent father? That the only time he ever noticed his sons was to send them to kill, to murder, and to be killed in return? Wen Xu and Wen Chao never called him ‘A-Die’ — they never could.” Wen Luo closes his eyes in painful remembrance, and a few tears escape.
“I was the one they called 'A-Die." I was the one they called for, in the middle of the night, in the early days when they were wracked with guilt over what they had been ordered to do, and the souls they killed haunted their dreams. Like you, Hanguang-jun,” Wen Luo continues, looking over at Sizhui, “I knew how many scars they had from training, knew their favorite foods, knew their few friends, knew their talents. Wen Xu wanted to be a musician, not a warrior. Wen Chao wanted to be a scribe, not a murderer. But I was powerless to stop their blood father from taking them and molding them into killers for an artifact that would corrupt us all.” Wen Luo’s voice shakes, the guilt of decades in his words. “I left them to their fate, and I failed them,” he whispers, anguished.
“But we chosen fathers,” Wen Luo concludes softly, fingertips grazing across the larger painted rabbit in Lan Zhan’s hand. “We love beyond blood.” Gripping Lan Zhan’s wrist, Wen Luo makes a final plea. “Please…take care of him.”
Too stunned to speak beyond the lump in his throat, Lan Zhan merely nods, but it is enough for Wen Luo, who sees the sincerity in his eyes. Wen Luo closes his eyes, relieved, and lets go. “Thank you. I take my leave.”
Bowing to the three Lans, Wen Luo sets off down the path, but Sizhui’s voice makes him stop in his tracks.
“Senior Wen! Wait, please,” Sizhui says, taking his father’s hand and pulling him along as he runs over to Wen Luo.
The older cultivator stops and smiles at Sizhui, but his eyes are sad with longing. Sizhui decides then and there that there will be less sadness in the smiles of the people he loves.
“I will finish my Lan disciple classes soon,” Sizhui says. “When I do…I—I would like to learn more about Wen cultivation. I would like to help you in the villages, but I would also like to return here in the Cloud Recesses.”
Wen Luo’s eyes widen, looking back and forth between Lan Zhan and Sizhui. “You would?” he whispers tentatively, unbelieving. “You would?” Lan Zhan asks softly.
Sizhui merely nods at both eagerly, smiling. Wen Luo smiles back, tears welling up in his eyes. Lan Zhan gazes at his son fondly, relieved.
“Well then…” Wen Luo rummages around in his satchel, pulling out a few scrolls. “I have written down some of what I know from memory,” he says, “you may study these, if…if your father allows.” It is only when Lan Zhan nods sincerely that Wen Luo hands over the scrolls to Sizhui, who accepts them reverently.
“Thank you, Senior Wen,” Sizhui says, bowing in gratitude.
“Thank you, Lan Sizhui,” Wen Luo answers, smiling in relief. “You have brought this old man much joy.”
“Come again,” Lan Zhan says, drawing the attention of them both. Wen Luo merely looks at him, surprised. “Come again and visit. Sizhui will need more training,” he explains, putting a hand on his child’s shoulder. Amused at his father’s choice of words, Sizhui takes it upon himself to translate. “He wants you to train me as a Wen,” he explains, looking at Wen Luo expectantly.
“Yes, I understand,” Wen Luo says seriously, looking at Lan Zhan in the eye. “Are you sure, Hanguang-jun?”
“Mn.”
“Very well,” Wen Luo says. “I will return someday. Study well, Lan Sizhui,” he orders, pleased at the eager smile and nod he receives from the young disciple.
“May I?” Wen Luo gestures at Sizhui, looking at Lan Zhan, and Lan Zhan merely nods. Curious, Sizhui watches as Wen Luo steps towards him and holds his wrist lightly. Wen Luo closes his eyes in concentration and opens them seconds later, mouth open in amazement.
“Incredible,” he says in awe. Lan Zhan watches him questioningly, wondering what the Wen cultivator could have seen in his son’s core. He takes his son’s other wrist and checks for himself.
His son’s core, once activated, had glowed with a tinge of red, burning with power like the lava fields that once surrounded the Nightless City. But now, Lan Zhan is in awe to find that his son’s core now glows white-hot, the Lan core colors now entwined with Wen fire, blue flames of spiritual energy alive with strength.
Sizhui is now looking back and forth between the two men holding his wrist, confused. “Um…Senior Wen? Hanguang-jun?”
Neither of them explain, merely smiling at Sizhui, each in their own way.
“Well, it seems as though I must return soon,” Wen Luo says knowingly. “You will become a great cultivator, Lan Sizhui.”
“Y-you can call me Wen Yuan, Senior Wen,” Sizhui says shyly, testing out his new (old) name for the first time. “I don’t mind.”
Wen Luo merely nods, delighted. “Well, Wen Yuan,” he says, looking to Lan Zhan as he puts a hand on Sizhui’s shoulder.
“I will return for our lessons. In the meantime…listen to your father.”
“Mn.”