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It is not that Lan Xichen takes pride in his swordsmanship. Pride is forbidden, and it is not an emotion Xichen particularly enjoys in relation to himself.
He is a good swordsman, and it is not pride to know this. But he is not good in the way that Mingjue is, with broad swings powerful enough to sever a ballista bolt in half as it flies, nor does he have Wangji’s relentless assault that finds its way past any defenses. He is good in such a way that he can hold Shuoyue aloft and know with confidence he will not hurt anyone when he wields her.
This is a skill Xichen has trained since the beginning. He could not bear the feelings of guilt that met him when he injured one of his disciple-brothers with a wooden sword at seven, and he swore he would never injure an opponent in combat again, not a human, not a person. He has become quite adept at disarming and subduing without gross injury.
So it is not a wounded pride, per se, when he cleans and polishes the blade of Shuoyue, a blade with which, until today, he has never once drawn blood.
He didn’t want to hurt the Wen soldier. He’d managed his way through three battles so far doing nothing but hand seals and protection arrays, disarming his enemies or sending them flying out of reach. He understands that this is war, that people have to be hurt in order to make the world better, safer. But if he can minimize it — if he can hurt as few people as possible to make this end — then at least he knows he has done everything he can.
He didn’t want to hurt the Wen soldier. But when he swung for Wangji’s exposed back, his brother’s attention focused on channeling energy through his qin , Xichen had struck without thinking. He severed the soldier’s sword hand clean at the wrist, misjudging the distance he would cross in the time his sword came down.
He didn’t want to hurt the Wen soldier. It didn’t matter. Blood sprayed from his wrist where Shuoyue struck him, painting the back of his brother’s white robes red like he was the one who had been struck. By now, Xichen has learned the taste of blood on the air, acrid and metallic, settling on his tongue every time he breathes. He’s scrubbed Liebing so often since this conflict started that he’s had to repair the paint and finish more times than not. It did not prepare him for the way the droplets would scatter from a falling man’s arm onto the hem of his robes, staining his boots so badly he doesn’t think he would have ever been able to clean them.
He burns them. He burns them, and borrows a spare pair of black shoes from the QingheNie sect, and sits on his bedroll watching the fire and polishing his sword over and over again, scrubbing at the blade as if that can undo the pain he’s caused, as if it could resurrect the dead.
It is not pride that keeps the stone-dust cloth rubbing circles across Shuoyue ’s blade, just like it was not pride that made Lan Xichen a good swordsman who never hurt an opponent; not pride, but guilt, and fear, and devotion to a life of good without harm. Shuoyue is a spiritual tool, not some lifeless piece of metal, and Xichen has used it now to cause pain and death, and he does not know how to ask forgiveness for this. To be made an unwilling, unwitting tool in the hands of a violent man is a fate Xichen dreams of only in nightmares.
The tent-flap curtain sweeps aside, and the night wind brings Lan Wangji through the door, carrying a platter with a tea set. As always, his eyes meet Xichen’s, sweet and strong as honey, and he bows slightly before setting the platter and tea on the low table at the center of the tent.
“Xia Longhuan says xiongzhang has not taken an evening meal,” Wangji says. He pours tea first for Xichen, then for himself, and sits expectantly at the table.
Xichen does not sheathe Shuoyue. He’s not certain he’s finished cleaning it. But he sets it aside to join his brother, ankles crossed, raising the cup to his mouth behind a hand. “I was not hungry. Food is not easy to acquire here, and it would be wrong to waste it.”
Wangji eyes him suspiciously but says nothing, taking a sip of the tea in silence as if waiting for Xichen’s resolve to crumble under the weight of his stare. When that strategy proves ineffectual, he says, “ Xiongzhang saved Wangji’s life today.”
“Not true,” Xichen says quickly. No, all he did was cause injury and pain. He will not allow it to be twisted into something else. “Wangji did not need Xichen’s help.”
“Hmm. No. Wangji would have been injured, maybe killed.” Wangji sets his cup down, harder than he needs to. “Wangji is still learning how to focus on his surroundings in melee. The soldier xiongzhang stopped took advantage of that. Xiongzhang has quick instincts. This brother is fortunate.”
“I am glad Wangji feels protected. I must apologize for not being quicker. No one needed to be harmed, and yet…” Xichen trails off. He fights back the urge to grab his sword from the bedroll and begin cleaning it again, as if that could wipe the desecration from the blade with nothing but his stone powder and the edge oil Mingjue gave him years ago.
“Does
xiongzhang
feel this whole war is unnecessary?” Wangji’s voice is level, calm. “Does he think there is a diplomatic solution?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. Any hope for diplomacy died when sect leader Wen began invading other territories and killing their disciples.” The tea grows cold in Xichen’s left hand. He balls his robes up in his right. “But a cruel man will make others do his bidding regardless of their wills, and those are the ones who ought to be treated mercifully.”
“And if Wangji killed a man, to keep him from killing you,” Wangji says, “would you cite me punishment for unnecessary violence?”
“Of course not!” Xichen meets his brother’s eyes, sees the confusion, anger, frustration pooling behind them. “Of course not, Wangji, of course I wouldn’t. You do what must be done. I would never ask you to commit violence for me, but to defend one’s family is a noble goal.”
“But if you do it, it’s wrong.”
“It’s. Different,” Xichen starts, but Wangji’s glare keeps him from finishing. He swallows and tries again. “I think I could have done it without killing. If I could have, I ought to. If I ought to, and I did not—”
“But you do not know. You had a second to decide and you made a choice to protect your family. You are cruel to yourself, and cruelty is forbidden.” Wangji pours himself more tea. “I thank heaven for my brother, who would hurt someone to save me, even when it is so painful for him.”
“I thank the heavens for my brother who would comfort me for something as foolish as killing during wartime,” Xichen says, carefully untangling his hand from his robes. “This elder brother does not deserve such kindness.”
“ Xiongzhang is a kind man.” Wangji’s eyes are fixed on his tea. “If there were more kind men, this war would not be necessary.”
“May we all be kind men, then,” Xichen says, and raises his cup in a salute, “and willing to protect each other.”
“May we all be kind men,” Wangji agrees. “Kind, but willing to do what we must.”