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Around half past five in the morning, Jiang Cheng wakes up brimming with annoyance. A couple of wrens have decided quite joyously to begin their morning concert perched right outside the window to his room. Had it been any other morning, the pleasant song would have been secretly enjoyed, but as it is, he looks up at the ceiling, eyes burning from exhaustion. Lotus Pier aflame isn’t a rare subject of his nightmares, but the memory isn’t usually such a vicious hound at his heels. When other days he’d wake with regret and longing, this time he tossed and turned all night, haunted by loss.
Falling back asleep doesn’t seem like a viable option anytime soon. There’s still several hours until he is needed. The Chief Cultivator arranged for another meeting to be held later in the day, sometime after noon. Jiang Cheng suspects this might just be due to Wei Wuxian’s aversion to mornings. Often one should look toward Wei Wuxian when looking for a reason why Lan Wangji does things. That’s how it is nowadays. Alas, as much as Jiang Cheng would like (and actually need) to rest, his brain is considerably more awake than his body.
Coming back to Gusu for the Discussion Conference of this year is strangely pleasant. The nostalgia hits harder, now that things finally feel like they’ve settled down. Jin Ling is managing his duties as Sect Leader quite well, though Jiang Cheng keeps worrying anyway. Then there’s Wei Wuxian, who very conspicuously left some robes and trinkets in his old room at Lotus Pier, “in case I’m in the area and need to spend a night somewhere. You wouldn’t make me pay for an inn, would you, Jiang Cheng?” It’s a thinly veiled excuse from the Yiling Patriarch, but after all the suffering and the misery, Jiang Cheng lets it pass. He is glad to have his brother back and that’s that.
He puts on part of his robes, not yet ready for the day ahead, but enough to save some face should he bump into someone. Chances are, the Lan sect disciples are already out and about, seeing to their duties. With this in mind, Jiang Cheng exits the guest quarters assigned to him. He has no real destination in mind, only the faint desire for a secluded spot to meditate in.
The morning air is crisp, the sky - clear, tinted faintly pink. He breathes in until his lungs are full, focusing only on the motions themselves. Images of his parents’ corpses flash through his mind, and now they are joined by a bloodied Yanli, all three in a pile, barely recognizable if not for the utmost terror which overwhelms Jiang Cheng when he sees them and knows them-
He breathes out.
The birdsong follows him as he advances further into the Cloud Recesses. Having spent months here in his childhood, he knows the place well enough to avoid the populated areas. It doesn’t compare to strolling down a pier back at home, but perhaps the different setting helps him more this time around. Buildings become scarcer, nature becomes louder - soon, thick evergreens are within sight, leading further into the mountain. Jiang Cheng picks out one of the dirt paths, mindful of his surroundings. It is indeed easy to forget about any sort of nightmare when nature rises alongside the sun.
Minutes pass by in this manner, until he chances upon a fallen tree and sits down on its trunk. His body feels heavy, but a different kind, something closer to the tiredness after a good training session. He closes his eyes briefly. Shijie comes to mind yet again, only this time she is full of joy, proud of him for - for what, Jiang Cheng doesn’t remember, but the details don’t matter anymore. Suffice to recall Jiang Yanli’s kind smile as it was once upon a time, and maybe end up smiling himself.
“Sect leader Jiang?”
Jiang Cheng startles quite violently, standing up at once. His hand flies to his side but finds nothing—he’s left the sword back in his room. His eyes dart to the intruder and the alarm dies down. It’s Nie Huaisang standing a dozen meters away. He is similarly underdressed, with his hair undone, only a geometrically patterned outer robe holding together the remnants of his otherwise undignified appearance.
“Ah, ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Nie Huaisang says. He’s holding a stack of books in his arms, with an arrangement of trinkets balancing quite precariously on top of them.
Noticing the impending disaster, Jiang Cheng sighs and approaches the other sect leader. He takes some of the items: a particularly intricate oil lamp made out of jade, an inkwell, some loose papers full of scribbles.
“What are you doing out here at this hour?” Jiang Cheng asks.
The words come out more harshly than intended. Nie Huaisang seems to come to himself and stand more formally. He looks like he’s the one caught unaware, face flushing slightly and eyes looking everywhere except to Jiang Cheng.
“Nothing of importance, nothing of importance. I was just going back, any-haa,” he yawns suddenly. His entire face is reddening from embarrassment, which he tries to hide by lifting the stack of books closer to his face.
Jiang Cheng stares at him, intrigued despite his best efforts. If there is someone out there who dislikes mornings more than Wei Wuxian, that must be Nie Huaisang (or, at least the Nie Huaisang he used to know when they were young.) Jiang Cheng can only think of one explanation and it is quite a frivolous one.
“Did you even sleep last night?”
Nie Huaisang looks at him scandalized, though his eyes crinkle with mirth.
“And attend the meeting today without a rested mind? Disgraceful!”
Privately, Jiang Cheng thinks it would be rather difficult for this enigmatic man to be anything other than graceful. The years have been kinder to Nie Huaisang than to Jiang Cheng. The seeds of artistry he sowed back when they were children are blooming now, appearing quite distinct in the way he holds himself, in his controlled nonchalance. There is still curiosity in his eyes even now, after everything, and that alone makes Jiang Cheng relax.
Even back then, he preferred Nie Huaisang’s more introspective mischievousness to Wei Wuxian’s louder (and thus in more danger of being discovered and punished) parties. This moment feels nostalgic in a good way, like they are both young again and less burdened by the world. It makes Jiang Cheng sit back down. He nods to the spot next to him in invitation, which Nie Huaisang accepts with a smile.
They sit in silence for a while, the birds once again taking the foreground in this scenery. Jiang Cheng studies the oil lamp in his hands carefully. It is unblemished, with the head of a dragon adorning one of its ends. He turns it around, observing the details of the carving. It is clearly made with love, looking more like a piece of art to be displayed than an item to be used. The artist’s signature is stamped on the bottom, reading quite unexpectedly So-and-so of Yunmeng.
“I don’t think I’ve heard of this artist before,” Jiang Cheng says.
“I would be surprised if you did, Jiang-xiong…” Nie Huaisang looks toward him from the corner of his eyes, smiling a bit.
“Hey, I don’t like the implications of your tone!”
“I meant merely that it is an old item, bought years ago from an unremarkable merchant. I was passing through the edge of Yunmeng with my—” Huaisang’s speech stutters for a moment, but he recovers “—my brother, and it caught my eye. I do not think the artist is alive anymore.”
“You didn’t have to say it like that,” Jiang Cheng mutters, though the mention of Chifeng-zun sobers him up.
Nie Huaisang chuckles. Without his fan in the way, his amusement is almost infectious. There is no barrier between them—not even the orderly dress-up that is expected of them when they appear in public. With his hair flowing free, face unguarded and smiling pleasantly, he compels Jiang Cheng to share in on the good mood.
“It’s so easy to tease you, I can’t help it!”
Jiang Cheng shakes his head. He looks at his old friend, hoping to catch another glimpse of the Nie Huaisang kept under lock and key. It has been more than a year since the Nie sect leader revealed the strings he was pulling, but it is still hard to reconcile the image of the Head-shaker with the knowledgeable master of subterfuge he actually is. It is not so much surprise at finding Nie Huaisang excelling at politics so peculiarly, as it is admiration toward the patience and the emotional control he mastered over time. Knowing full well his history of impulsivity, Jiang Cheng knows he wouldn’t have had the strength to accomplish such a feat as well as Nie Huaisang.
“I got caught up in some poetry last night,” Nie Huaisang says suddenly. “Couldn’t put down the books.”
“Did you… did you spend the night out here?” Jiang Cheng is fairly sure it gets too cold at night for it to be comfortable.
“No! Goodness, no,” Huaisang laughs. “I came here just to watch the sun rising.”
“Did you find a good spot?”
Nie Huaisang sighs wistfully. “I did. It was beautiful.”
Jiang Cheng nods, but remains silent, not trusting himself to speak anymore. A strange tranquility hangs in the air - one he could easily disrupt, what with his tendency to gravitate toward acerbity. If he looks at Nie Huaisang, he might still say something he would regret in a different manner, so he looks down, this time paying more attention to the sheets of paper collected from the other man.
“Ah, don’t read that, please!”
He complies, though already he managed to read a few lines of fine poetry. Could it be Nie Huaisang’s own writing?
“It’s not ready to be seen,” Nie Huaisang says sagely. He takes the drafts back from Jiang Cheng and skims over them with fondness.
“I’ll wait,” Jiang Cheng states simply.
Nie Huaisang gives him such a grateful smile that Jiang Cheng has to look away for a few moments, face burning.
They linger for perhaps another incense stick’s time. It’s peaceful, more peaceful than Jiang Cheng would have expected if he had known he would have company. When it’s nearing breakfast, he proposes they return. Another day of responsibilities awaits, but he feels invigorated head to toe.
On the way back, Nie Huaisang asks, “Why were you out here?”
Jiang Cheng opens his mouth to answer, but stops, mind drawing a blank. He has to think for several seconds to remember the nightmare which drove him out in the first place. Warmth blossoms in his chest at the realization.
“I was listening to the birds,” he answers.
Perhaps not the whole truth, but this topic, he knows, will make Nie Huaisang more than agreeable to monologuing. And honestly? He wants to prolong this conversation for as long as he can.
As if on cue, the Nie sect leader replies enthusiastically:
“Oh, they have the loveliest winter wrens in this area! Actually, earlier today I saw…”
Jiang Cheng smiles.
*
Days later, back home in Lotus Pier, Jiang Cheng is in the middle of sorting the scrolls from the conference when he finds a mismatched piece of paper among some of his notes. It almost escapes his notice, but the beautiful handwriting catches his eye and he stops, bringing it closer for inspection.
The mountain-light suddenly fails in the west,
In the east from the lake the slow moon rises.
I loosen my hair to enjoy the evening coolness
And open my window and lie down in peace.
The wind brings me odours of lotuses,
And bamboo-leaves drip with the music of dew....
I would take up my lute and I would play,
But, alas, who here would understand?
And so I think of you, old friend,
O, troubler of my midnight dreams!
Jiang Cheng has tea, has dinner, has tea again, paces down his favorite pier —and still he barely trusts himself enough to compose a coherent reply. Hopefully, the Nie sect leader wouldn’t be opposed to meeting again in the near future.