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The Gusu Lan sect cultivates through music, channeling their spiritual energy through their instruments to resonate with their surroundings. Through this, they can direct the energy outwards to manipulate the world around them, or direct it inward to a person’s soul, to soothe or to harm.
They can also communicate with the dead.
Lan Wangji has played Inquiry thousands of times. It is the first language one learns when cultivating through music and the most widely used. There are ways to pinpoint certain spirits to ask a question, ways to hold them there until they respond, ways to force them to answer, ways to prevent them from lying. The effectiveness of the language depends on one’s skill. And Lan Wangji is a master.
And yet Wei Wuxian does not answer.
He plays Inquiry until his fingers bleed, until the calluses on his fingers crack and tear under the silk strings. He pours all of his spiritual power into each note, calling for Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying—and when that yields no results, he plays the question: Where is Wei Ying?
He draws spirits from far and wide, each clamouring for his attention, offering up stories and rumours and hearsay: Yiling-laozu is wandering the Burial Mounds, the Nightless City, Lotus Pier, Yiling. He follows each one to every corner of the land and sends out the call.
Wei Wuxian does not answer.
–
Some say Wei Wuxian flew too close to the sun and burned for it.
Others say Wei Wuxian tried to play god with the lives of others and was punished.
They call him a monster, a heretic.
They say he deserved his end, torn apart by the very monsters he created until nothing of him remained but stories.
Good riddance.
He’ll be dragged into the depths of the Underworld and punished for all eternity for his sins.
No one will mourn him.
But they are wrong.
Wei Wuxian had been a boy who loved freely, who had been quick to smile and quick to anger, who had sought nothing more than justice and peace for those who couldn’t protect themselves. He had been clever, too clever, too quick-witted, full of new ideas and thirst for knowledge.
And Lan Wangji mourns.
–
One day, after years and years of searching, the spirits take pity on him.
There is a way, they tell him, to the Underworld.
If Wei Wuxian is dead, he will be there.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Where do I go?
The spirits flicker and dance across the strings.
We’ll show you.
-
In his travels, Lan Wangji has heard of the Underworld in many forms.
He hears stories of the Eighteen Levels, of Yanluo Wang and the gruesome tortures awaiting damned souls as punishment for their sins. Then there are stories of the Ten Courts through which dead souls pass, one at a time, until they are reincarnated back into the world of the living. There are other stories, of rivers made of the souls of the dead, of ferocious beasts and ghostly guards, and of jealous gods.
“Wangji, this is madness,” Lan Qiren says angrily, when he tells them of his plan. “I forbid it.”
“This is very dangerous,” Lan Xichen agrees. “Please reconsider, Wangji.”
There is understanding in his eyes, a sad resignation that sends a sharp knife through Lan Wangji’s heart. They love him and fear for him and believe his judgement to be clouded by blind devotion. But they do not know Wei Wuxian like he does. They do not understand how his entire being, his very soul calls out to Wei Wuxian—to that beautiful boy bathed in moonlight on the rooftops of the Cloud Recesses he’d failed to save.
So he leaves, Bichen in hand, Wangji strapped across his back, following the spirits down into the chasm between the world of the living and the beyond.
-
They take him to the river, where a ghostly figure shrouded in black waits at the shore. One of the spirits hovers by his shoulder, whispering in his ear.
That is the Ferryman. He will take you across if you pay him.
He produces a silver coin and the Ferryman takes it; when their hands brush, a bone-deep chill runs up the length of Lan Wangji’s arm. He is careful not to come into contact with him again as he moves past him onto the boat. The spirits hover by the river bank.
We cannot come with you, they say. We cannot pay the fare. You must go alone.
“Thank you,” he says, and means it.
They dance about like fireflies in the darkness, glowing brighter and warmer than before as he bows to them.
Please take care of him.
Please take care of Wei-gongzi.
Tell him thank you. For everything.
And sorry, for not being able to help.
Lan Wangji bows again, deeper this time, his heart heavy.
“I will do my best to bring him home,” he says.
-
A three-headed dog snaps and snarls at them as they pass through the Gates. The Ferryman does not acknowledge it, even as they get close enough that its putrid breath makes Lan Wangji’s stomach turn. His fingers clench about Bichen when the Hound’s beady eyes find him, the lone living soul shining warm and bright in the darkness. It roars; the sound churns the river and rattles Lan Wangji to the bone.
He glances at the Ferryman, who continues along, unfazed.
The Hound is a guard. It is only doing its duty.
He sets aside Bichen and instead unwraps Wangji, laying it across his lap on the boat. The first note of Rest rings out through the darkness; the Hound goes quiet, its barks subsiding into heavy breaths as Lan Wangji continues to play. The song settles over them like a heavy blanket and he pours his spiritual energy into each note until the Hound’s eyes drift closed.
The Ferryman takes them onwards.
-
The passage of time slowly starts losing its meaning the further they travel. The Ferryman continues silently, steadily, a timeless, ghostly spectre.
Lan Wangji realises the waters around them are not empty, as he had first believed, when slimy hands start grasping at the edges of the boat, rocking it back and forth as if to dislodge its cargo. He catches a glimpse of pale, translucent faces floating just beneath the surface, twisted in agony, anger, fear.
He keeps playing feverishly to ward away the chill of death creeping over his skin and the fear clawing up from inside his throat. He plays until his fingers crack and bleed, new wounds spilling over old, staining silk strings and dark lacquer. He pours everything he has into playing Rest, to soothe the anger and resentment that chokes the river.
He doesn’t dare play Inquiry.
-
By the time they reach the shore, his fingers are curled in on themselves, his joints stiff and aching and covered in blood. His lips are dry and cracked from dehydration, his tongue like sand, and each breath crackles in his lungs like tongues of fire.
The Ferryman makes no move to help as he forces himself to stand, every part of his body screaming in protest. He draws upon years and years of discipline to keep himself upright, to move one foot in front of the other until he feels solid rock beneath his feet. Only then does he crumble.
He lays on the cold, rocky shore, Bichen by his side, Wangji just within reach, as he watches the Ferryman glide away. Darkness clouds his vision in flickering patches. He is so tired.
Lan Zhan? Lan Zhan! Where are you?
He reaches for Wangji.
Wei Ying. I’m here.
He closes his eyes.
-
Fingers card through his hair, teasing out knots and soothing the ache away with gentle motions. He is dimly aware that his head is pillowed on something soft; the soul-crushing weariness is gone, replaced instead by a tingling warmth that rushes through his veins and fills his lungs. The air is filled with the scent of flowers.
“You shouldn’t be here,” a familiar voice says. “You shouldn’t have come.”
His heart leaps into his throat. He knows this voice.
A rush of longing so intense floods his senses, burning behind his closed eyelids, trickling down his throat, twisting and churning in his stomach. He gasps, chokes on the sob that wrenches from his throat and his fingers scrabble at the ground, trying to push himself into a sitting position, to see—
A hand covers his eyes and holds him in place.
“Don’t.” He lays back down. “You mustn’t open your eyes.”
“Wei Ying,” he says, his voice hoarse and raspy from disuse. “Is that you?”
Wei Wuxian chuckles. “Yes, it’s me Lan Zhan. You stupid, stubborn fool.”
Lan Wangji raises his hand, grasping blindly at the air until another hand intercepts it. He clutches it like a lifeline, running his thumb over each knuckle, each finger, over the familiar calluses honed by years of training; he presses it to his mouth reverently.
“Wei Ying.” His name falls like a litany from his lips. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop. “Wei Ying. Wei Ying. Wei Ying.”
“I’m here,” Wei Wuxian assures him. A thumb brushes over his cheek. “I’m here, Lan Zhan.”
“I lost you,” Lan Wangji says. The words are thick in his throat. “I couldn’t…couldn’t protect you. And then you were gone.”
“I know.”
“I looked everywhere for you.”
“I know.”
“You never answered.”
“I couldn’t.” Wei Wuxian exhales shakily. “I’m sorry.”
Lan Wangji clutches at his arm.
“Come back,” he says, pleading. “Come back with me. Please.”
How many times has he asked, when Wei Wuxian was still alive? How many times has he made this plea in his heart, when Wei Wuxian was gone? He’s lost count over the years. And each time, even in his dreams, he is rebuffed; each time, he wakes up alone. He doesn’t know if he’ll survive it this time.
“You’re one persistent fool,” Wei Wuxian says. His laughter sounds like a sob. “How can I say no to you now, when you’ve come all this way?”
-
“There are rules,” Wei Wuxian explains as he helps Lan Wangji to his feet. “Conditions.”
He must not touch Wei Wuxian.
He must not speak to him.
He must not look back.
“What happens if I do?” he asks, staring determinedly at the approaching Ferryman.
Wei Wuxian chuckles, but there is little humour in his voice.
“Just don’t do it,” he says. “You’re good at obeying the rules. No touching, no talking, no looking. Not until we’ve both reached the surface.”
Lan Wangji smiles despite himself.
-
It’s harder than he’d expected.
Not the journey, not this time. The knowledge that Wei Wuxian is sitting behind him in the boat, just out of reach, is enough to lift his spirits. But in turn, the temptation to turn around, to talk, to touch him, just to make sure he’s still there, is a visceral ache he feels in his soul.
What if, somewhere along the way, he loses him again?
What if the gods decide they’d made a mistake and take him away again?
What if this was a lie, to get him to return to the world of the living?
He clenches his fist, twists it in the fabric of his robes, closes his eyes. He is one of the Twin Jades of Gusu Lan, renowned for his discipline, his determination, his unwavering faith. And he has nothing if not complete faith in Wei Wuxian.
So he sits, and waits.
-
The spirits meet him on the other side of the river, fluttering about with excitement when they realise who is behind him.
He motions for them to be silent as he leaves the boat, but his heart is pounding in his chest. They are close. He starts walking.
After a while, he realises the only footsteps he hears are his own.
The thought strikes fear into his heart like a bolt of lightning and he has to stop and breathe. The spirits around clamour around him, their movements jerky and anxious as they flit back and forth. He grits his teeth, steels his heart, and keeps walking.
He’s still here, he tells himself. He’s still here. He’ll still be here.
Just a little longer.
He sees a light up ahead and relief floods through him.
Just a little longer.
He picks up his pace until it matches his heartbeat, until he’s almost flying.
The light grows brighter, hotter. It pierces his eyes as he steps over the threshold and into the sun.
They’ve made it.
He turns around, Wei Wuxian’s name on his lips, one hand already reaching out to grab him—
Wei Wuxian gives him a watery smile from the mouth of the cave—
—and fades from sight.
-
In a little village on the outskirts of Gusu, a boy by the name of Mo Xuanyu wakes up in a pool of blood.