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She defends Wei Wuxian, and she bears the whip. She says, “This is Lan Yuan. He is mine,” and bears the shame. She continues unmarried, and she bears the whispers.
Her sect taught her obedience was key, and to bow her head and follow the rules. To do her duty. Obedience or death.
She is Lan Wangji, and her Sect has never taught to bear the consequences for her actions; it is a skill she learned on her own, and it is one that follows her all her life.
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Lan women are privileged, her uncle tells her as soon as she is old enough to understand. You are allowed to learn the ways and customs of men. You may practice cultivation. You may learn the way of the sword, the way of the bow, the way of any weapon.
You may fight, he tells her.
(What he does not tell her: You are allowed to learn the ways and customs of men, so long as you obey them when they demand. You may practice cultivation, so long as you remain on the “right” path. You may learn the way of the sword, the way of the bow, the way of any weapon, so long as you watch from the sidelines.
You may be apart of the Lan Sect, so long as you obey.)
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And here’s the thing: Wangji is good at obeying. She is good at everything, really. She is a master at the sword and bow, passable in a number of other weapons; her cultivation is practically unmatched; her guqin plays note sweet enough to bring even the bitterest of men to tears; her calligraphy is neat and perfect.
She is beautiful. She is strong. She is fast.
And like all things, obeying just comes natural.
She learns to follow all two thousand rules carved on the Wall of Discipline to perfection, and if she happens to accidentally break one, she punishes herself without being told. She can recite each rule and its corresponding number from memory. She listens to her elders, she is respectful, she is dutiful.
She is perfect, the Clan murmurs with awe.
She is perfect, until she’s not.
She is perfect, until a spitfire of a woman whirs into her life, with bright eyes and an even brighter smile, who calls Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan! and leaves Wangji fond and angry and indignant and embarrassed and desperately wanting more.
“Wei Wuxian ruined you,” her uncle will whisper, and if Wangji were capable, she would laugh.
Wei Wuxian did no such thing. Wei Wuxian taught me to live, to enjoy, to feel. She brought the breath back to my lungs when I had not even know it missing. She was the brightest star in the night sky. She was beautiful.
No, Uncle; Wei Wuxian never ruined me. She only taught me to live.
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Her mother did not obey, Wangji understands as she grows older, and it killed her.
Her mother, from the few memories Wangji has of her, had a nice smile and snorted when she laughed. She liked to tease Wangji, and hug her tight, and teach her how to tend to her gentians. She never mentioned her husband, or the Sect, or why she was in Seclusion.
She seemed like a wonderful woman, and Wangji was just getting to know her when suddenly, she was dead.
(Suicide, she overhears her uncle say to her brother one night, and Wangji does not know what that is, for she is but a child; she looks it up the next day, and does not understand why her mother would do such a thing.
Years from then, Wangji will lie on a porcelain pillow with a back soaked in blood and the news of Wei Wuxian is dead. I’m sorry, Wangji, echoing through her mind, and she finally understands.
It is the curse of the Lan women, after all.)
She was too spirited, too forceful, her uncle will say, lip curled with disgust. She did a wrong, and she refused to repent, to feel remorse, and so she was punished.
She was punished, and so she died.
It is not Wei Wuxian who teaches her to rebel; rather, that honour goes to her mother, for it is she that Wangji dares break her first rule for as she kneels in front of her small cottage day in and day out, despite her uncle’s threats of discipline.
(Later, she is punished for excess grief, and it is the first time Wangji dare question the integrity of a rule.)
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“Repent,” Qingheng-Jun had begged his wife. “The elders are willing to make an exception—all you must do is repent!”
“No,” Madame Lan had replied, “I will not. Why should I, when I have done nothing wrong? He attacked me, and I defended myself. I feel no remorse for protecting myself, and I will not repent. I prefer to rot.”
“Repent,” Lan Qiren says to his niece. “Your punishment will be greatly reduced. You need not go through this, Wangji. All you must do it repent!”
“No,” Lan Wangji replies without fear. I will never apologize for defending the one I love.
(Who is she more like, Lan Qiren despairs, her foolish father or her remorseless mother?)
As the whip falls on her back, Wangji supposes it does not matter.
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She goes to Yiling because she does not—cannot—believe that her light is gone.
Wei Ying can’t be dead, her mind cries, it’s not possible! It’s not possible!
She searches for hours, and all she has to show for it is a stained red ribbon and the tears on her cheeks.
And then she finds a fevered child sleeping in a tree, and suddenly Wangji has something to live for.
(“Hey, Lan Zhan. Promise me something, okay? I can only ask you, because I know you are good and just, and you will keep your promise. Can you do that for me?”
“Mn.”
“If something ever happens to me—“
“Wei Ying.”
“—No, listen. If something ever happens to me, Lan Zhan, can you take care of A-Yuan? He’s so small… he doesn’t deserve to be held accountable for the sins of the Wen leaders, but the other Sects won’t see it that way. Do you promise to take care of him?”
“Nothing will happen, Wei Ying.”
“Please, Lan Zhan. Promise me.”
“…I promise that as long as I live, I will protect A-Yuan.”
“Ha! I knew you were good, Lan Zhan. The greatest and most righteous person I know. The world truly does not deserve you.”)
She brings A-Yuan home with her, for they both need medical attention. She tells no one of his origins, save her brother, and she only tells him A-Yuan is a Wen and nothing else.
The elders and her uncle demand to know who he is, where he came from. The loud noises make A-Yuan whimper. Her brother takes her aside, and offers to claim him as his own; Wangji refuses. Her Sect may not have taught her how to bear the consequences of her actions, but the thirty-three wounds on her back are good enough teachers. She will not save her reputation at the expense of her brother’s.
It is with this thought in mind, and the words I promise that as long as I live, I will protect A-Yuan that Wangji says, "This is Lan Yuan. He is mine.”
An illegitimate child, her Sect—and the rest of the world—whisper, how shameful! Truly, Hanguang-Xianzi has fallen from grace, hm?
Let them talk, Wangji tells her brother. Their opinions do not matter to me. Why should they, when this is the same world that casts the kindest woman Wangji has ever known as a villain?
Let them talk, brother. They will see soon enough.
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They call her mad, when they think she is not listening. The mad, emotional woman who threw all logic out the window when she dared follow the witch of a woman Wei Wuxian, and look what happened! Disgraced and scarred as she is, with a kid on top of it all!
But what did they expect? Madame Lan had been just as mad. It is the curse of the Lan women. A shame, such a shame…
(Never do they wonder if there is a reason why the Lan women tend to go mad.)
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“It will do you some good,” her uncle says.
“It will give you time to reflect upon your actions,” the elders say.
“It will give you time to heal,” her brother says.
Wangji says nothing at all, and accepts her punishment with a grace she does not feel. For three years, she is confined secluded to the Jingshi (once her mother’s prison, now Wangji’s own) with only a handful of visitors.
Her uncle, who only visits her once.
Her brother, who tries to visit her at least once every two weeks, but comes as often as he can.
And A-Yuan, who is allowed to visit whenever he has free time.
(“I will go willingly,” she tells her brother once she is able, the wounds a line of fire on her back, “but I have a condition.”
“I will hear you,” he says. I will hear you, make an effort to understand you, when no one else will, is what he means, and if there is one thing Wangji regrets, it is the stress she has caused her brother.
“A-Yuan will not be kept from me.”
Her brother hesitates.
“I will not let him grow up like us,” Wangji says, and she knows she has won.
(Two small figures, huddled in the snow, kneeling before a door, waiting, waiting, always waiting. The younger shivers, and the elder pulls her to his side, so she may retain some meagre warmth.
It is cold and miserable, but they dare not leave and squander this once-in-a-month chance to see their mother.
After, the younger falls ill with a terrible cold. She misses the next visitation. The one after that does not happen, for the mother has died.
The mother has died, and the two children barely have even a handful of memories to remember her by.
That is the legacy of Madame Lan, and Wangji will not let it be her own.)
“I will speak with the elders,” her brother says, and Wangji think she can feel her mother smiling down on them.)
So for three years, Wangji does not leave the Jingshi. She sleeps. She wakes up. She meditates. She plays guqin. She reads all kinds of books, but mainly poetry. She writes. She entertains A-Yuan, when he is there. She tends to her rabbits. She holds conversations with her brother. Sometimes she eats, sometimes she does not.
She heals, but it does not always feel like it.
(She grows thinner; she cannot bring herself to eat too often, the once-comforting taste of congee now ash on her tongue, the words it’s far too bland, Lan Zhan! Neee~, don’t you guys have anything exciting to eat here? making her feel sick.
It is A-Yuan who helps her most—the sweet child with such gentle concern as he presses a sweet bun to her lips.
(“Here, Xian-jiejie! Have a sip!”
“Ah~ Good, it’s good! You do know what filial piety means, huh?”)
A-Yuan knows what it is like to go hungry, so for him, Wangji makes sure to nibble on the sweet bun.)
She does not know if she is grateful for the Seclusion, or resentful—sometimes she wakes up feeling restful and not-quite at peace, but something close to it. Her wounds do not ache, and A-Yuan will accompany her brother to visit her. On those days, she thinks she can go on.
(On other days, she wakes up with a hole in her chest and tears on her cheek. Her hearts drums to the name Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying, and all she can think about are the words get lost! Her scars ache and pull and sometimes they bleed.
On those days, she tells her brother to keep A-Yuan away.
On those days, she wonders if she can go on.)
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Often times, she finds herself wondering if she would like to have another child. Sizhui is more than enough, her son in all the ways that matter, but Wangji has missed his most crucial years of development.
She wonders what it would be like to raise a babe.
She touches her stomach.
Wei Ying, she knows, had been very vocal in her desire to have children. She told Wangji, with her grin bright enough to rival the son, that she wanted to have her own family one day.
(“Mine died when I was very young,” she had told Wangji. “And then I was alone for a long time. Uncle Jiang eventually found me and took me in, and I have a new family, which is very nice! But still… it’s not the same. Not quite. I want to have my very own family someday, Lan Zhan. A loving, very handsome—“ her grin turned salacious, “—husband, and lot’s of children to spoil!”
She sighed. “Doesn’t that sound just wonderful, Lan Zhan?”
Yes, Wangji thinks, and she can almost imagine it.)
But it was never in the cards, for Wangji. There is only one person she has every imagined being intimate with, and the thought of someone else touching her is repulsive.
No, a big family was always Wei Ying’s dream, not Wangji’s. But as she stares down at A-Yuan earnest little face, she think she is alright with that.
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She leaves Seclusion three years later to a world both changed and exactly the same, and she wonders if she is disappointed.
Her brother and her son welcome her with open arms.
Her Sect welcomes her well enough.
The elders do not welcome her at all, and scrutinize her every move.
(Hopefully the three year Seclusion succeeded in cleansing her of the last of the Yiling Matriarch’s influence, they think.
They are wrong.)
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It is close to eight years after she adopted A-Yuan that Wangji is almost pushed to her breaking point.
For twenty-eight years, she remains unmarried. She does not even entertain the thought, dismissing it and her suitors without care. Rule #54 of the Wall of Discipline says one must not break their vows, and on the day Wangji fell in love with Wei Wuxian, she had vowed she would marry no other.
And Wei Wuxian is dead, so she remains virtuous and pure and—unmarried.
It had not mattered, when she was younger—it is not unusual for women who cultivate to marry a bit later, and considering Wangji’s status as the second most powerful cultivator in the world (or is it first now that her brother has assumed the role of Sect Leader?) no one expected her to get married before twenty-one.
But she is twenty-eight, and she is still not married. And the elders find this unacceptable.
Wangji knows this; she just did not expect them to dare bring it up.
“We have arranged you a marriage,” Lan Qiren tells her. Before them, the elders watch on, prepared to reprimand her—or, more likely, her brother, who has always been so protective—if necessary.
Lan Xichen sputters, and begins to ask questions. To whom? Why? Is it not a bit premature? Wangji is still raising her child, surely it can wait—?
“Wangji is twenty-eight now,” her granduncle says with just the slightest of a sneer in his voice, “it is high time she do her duty and marry. We have been kind enough to give her eight years to raise her—“ his lip curls up, “—child and find a suitable match, but she has rejected every suit. Soon, she will be too old.”
It is high time she do her duty. Duty. D u t y.
(“Hey, Lan Zhan, why are you always so proper? It must be exhausting, following all those rules all the time, never having fun!”
“…It is my duty as a Lan to uphold our virtues."
“Duty-shmuty. Let me tell you something, hm? Your first duty, above all else, is to yourself. Never compromise who you are, Lan Zhan. If your familial duty makes you feel uncomfortable, or bad, or threatens your values, you remember that you owe them nothing. The only person you owe is yourself, and you owe yourself the right to be yourself. Makes sense?”
“…En.”)
Your first duty, above all else, is to yourself.
Wangji stares directly into her granduncle's eyes, and says with a voice as unshakable as a mountain, “No.”
“…Excuse me?”
“I will not marry.”
The elders titter, angry. Her uncle stares at her, aghast. Her brother stares at her, something like pride and concern in his gaze. Her granduncle stares at her, and there is a molten anger in his gaze.
“You will,” he says, dangerously calm.
“I will not,” she replies, just as calm.
“Lan Wangji!” He stands, and the other elders follow, a show of support. Wangji cares not; with her brother at her back and Wei Ying’s unusually serious voice reminding her of who she is, she has all the support she needs.
“This is your duty! You will do this, or you will leave this Sect!”
Her uncle says, “Wangji, please,” and even Xichen tries to interject, but Wangji’s strong voice cuts through the chaos.
“So be it.”
She lifts a hand, and pulls on the string of her headband, and it unravels in a flourish of white. Wangji holds it loosely in front of her, and the room is silent.
“Lan Wangji,” her granduncle warns, and Wangji let’s the ribbon slip through her fingers.
So be it.
She exits to the sound of stunned, furious silence in her wake.
(An hour later, her brother finds her in the Jingshi, and quietly hands her back her ribbon. The elders are not foolish; Wangji is the most powerful cultivator in the world, and they cannot afford to lose her. Without comment, Wangji ties it back around her forehead, and while the matter is never brought up again, Wangji has never forgotten it.
She knows the elders haven’t, either.)
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She finds she cannot stay in Gusu any longer. Her home has become suffocating and stagnant, and Wangji has become restless. Too many eyes scrutinizing her too closely, looking for flaws. She cannot stand it any longer, so she entrusts her darling Sizhui, now fourteen years of age, to her brother, and sets off.
She wanders the world, the Lonely Ghost, never straying, never staying. She chases after chaos with a desperation unmatched, following it from Gusu to Leling to Meishan.
She dares not go too far, because she remembers that she has someone waiting for her at home, but she thinks one day, one day.
One day.
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Lan women are privileged, Wangji knows, but knowing and understanding are two very different things.
She thinks she understands when she is a child and her uncle teaches her so, but she does not.
She thinks she understands when she learns her mother is a glorified prisoner, but she does not.
She thinks she understands when guest disciples arrive in Gusu and she learns many of her female martial sisters are engaged and expected to give up cultivation for their husbands, but she does not.
She thinks she understands when Wen Chao leers at her and threatens her home if she does not fall in line, but she does not.
(It is only when she is travelling the world, chasing after chaos and meeting woman after woman, each tale more harrowing than the last. Rape, murder, abuse, unwanted children. Sold off, thrown away, branded.
Our stories are silenced, a woman with hair as white as Wangji’s robes tells her, and we are cast aside and forgotten. No one wants to hear the testimony of the whores and the abused, of the ugly and the poor. We are muted, because they do not want to look at us.
She looks into Wangji’s eyes. But you, Hanguang-Jun… You are said to be the most righteous of us all, and I think the rumours are true. If there will be anyone who will listen to us, it is you. So please, Lan Wangji—hear our story, and keep it close to your chest, so we might never be forgotten. Because if you won’t remember us, who will?
It is then, and only then, that Wangji understands what it means to be a woman who is not a Lan.
She is called Hanguang-Jun by the Cultivation World, but by those on the dark side of society, they call her the Listener, for she will always take time to hear the stories of those willing to share.)
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The day is coming soon.
Sizhui is almost fully grown, at seventeen years of age. Wangji feels a burst of warmth in her heart every time she looks at him; truly, she thinks without doubt, Sizhui is her greatest pride. So kind, so gentle, yet so strong. He will be amazing, Wangji knows.
Still, her son has not even gone on his first unsupervised nighthunt with a partner, let alone on a solo one, and so she will remain until she is certain he can brave the world on his own.
Until she is no longer needed.
There is trouble brewing in a small village in Moling, and Xichen sends Sizhui and Lan Jingyi, a bright boy who often reminds Wangji of Wei Ying, to investigate.
Wangji stays up that night, drinking tea and playing the guqin and telling herself that Sizhui will be just fine.
A Gusu flare goes up, and suddenly Wangji is not so sure.
She arrives in time to subdue a malicious arm and save her son and Lan Jingyi.
“Report,” she says, and Sizhui dutifully tells her of arriving to the Mo Village, of Madame Mo and her son’s distasteful behaviour, their subsequent deaths, and a very strange young woman by the name of Mo Xuanyu.
“Her behaviour was odd,” Sizhui said, looking a bit uncomfortable to be talking about someone in this manner. “Everyone said she was mad, and she certainly acted like it at times, laughing loudly and teasing and saying bizarre things. But other times… she would go serious, no trace of the previous madness, and she was very knowledgeable for someone who grew up outside a Sect.”
Perhaps not crazy then, not that it mattered. The young maiden had fled first chance she got, and who knows where she had gone.
Still. Wangji can’t shake the feeling that something is off.
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She saves the woman.
Demonic Cultivator or no, Wangji has not earned her title of Light Bearer by standing by and letting powerful men do as they please.
“Fight hard, but be careful,” she tells her juniors after Jiang Wanyin has left. “There is darkness in the air; do not push yourself, and call if you need help.”
They bow and run off, and Wangji is left alone.
Just as she makes to leave, she gives a nod to the young woman—Mo Xuanyu, if she recalls correctly. The woman looks surprised, perhaps not used to be given respect—or even acknowledgement, if what Sizhui had said is true—before hastily bowing.
Wangji turns away, but her heart is oddly light.
She has done the right thing.
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The notes are crude and off-pitch, echoing through the forest.
They make Wangij’s heart stop.
Wangxian.
She flies through the treetops, faster and faster; the last time she had bothered to fly so fast, she had been bringing A-Yuan home from the Burial Mounds.
She arrives to find chaos, as is her usual style.
Her eyes sweep over the mayhem and zero in on a red and black covered back—the Young Maiden Mo, who’s arms are up and frantically playing a song that was lost long ago, using it to tame the fearsome Ghost General.
For a moment, all Wangji can feel is a terrible, burning anger.
How dare Wei Ying share this song with another?!
So caught up in her playing, Mo Xuanyu did not notice Wangji behind her.
Wangxian is an expression of Wangji at her most vulnerable, and yet now someone else dares use it for such a crude reason?! And taught by Wei Ying, no less!
She grabs her wrist—stop it stop it it’s not yours to play—and the woman looks up into Wangji’s eyes, and oh.
Wariness and fear, but there is recognition there too.
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“So, you’re back. Wei Wuxian…"
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Wei Ying hides behind Wangji.
“Well, Second Maiden Lan? Are you going against me? Step aside.”
Step aside.
(“Step aside,” Wen Chao had said. “Or Gusu will pay for it.” Wang Lingjiao giggled, a sadistic light in her eyes. Behind Wangji, the young Jin woman whimpered. If Wangji were to move, this woman would die.
Protect the weak, A-Zhan. Lan women are privileged.
She does not move.)
She does not move now, either.
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“Nee, it’s not fair for you to go after me, Sect Leader! I don’t chase everything that looks good. Like that big cow in the village, it’s way too fat. That’s not my type. And you, you aren’t either!”
“…Then what kind of people is your type?”
“Why, people like Hanguang-Xianzi of course! I like her very much!”
“What?!”
“Shameless!”
“What is wrong with you—“
“Mark your words,” Wangji says, and there is promise in her golden eyes. She looks to Jiang Wanyin. “Then I will take this person to Gusu with me.”
(Come back to Gusu with me, Wei Ying—)
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“No! I won’t go! I won’t go in! You can’t make me!”
“Young Maiden Mo, please—“
“No!”
“Young Maiden Mo, her Ladyship is doing this for your sake. Had she not, you would not have escaped Sect Leader Jiang. Please keep that in mind.”
“Do not bother,” Wangji says. She knows Wei Ying too well to fall for her tricks. “Let her cry. When she is done, bring her.”
“Yes, Hanguang-Jun.”
Yes, Wangji thinks as Wei Ying’s donkey forces her towards Wangji. Everything will be alright now.
You are here, my love. And I will not make the same mistakes again.
The Listener is done listening. It’s time to tell her own story.