Archive of Our Own

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvellous to be understood.

// Mary Oliver, “Mysteries, Yes”

1. 

Once they hit the highway, Song Lan’s phone starts ringing.

Frankly he’s surprised it’s taken this long, since they’d packed up and left without a word of warning to anyone except their landlord and several of their classmates in passing, who’d only hugged them and made them promise to keep them updated in the group chat about life and the possibility of meeting up for drinks in the future.

The buzzing is near constant – Xingchen has already tossed his own phone into the backseat, buried underneath several of their bags.

It had been Xingchen’s request that they leave immediately after their exams, and with as little fuss as possible. “We’ll see everyone soon enough,” he’d said reasonably. “I hate goodbyes, is all.”

Song Lan hadn’t minded in the slightest.

He himself has always been terrible at endings.

2.

When he checks his phone next, there are dozens of calls and texts from friends wondering where they’ve gone, what they’re up to, why on earth they’ve vanished. He ignores them and clicks instead into his family group chat; scrolls past the congratulatory texts about finishing exams; sees how they’ve progressed to messages of varying alarm as to his whereabouts, and dials his uncle’s phone number.

“Glad to hear you’re alive,” Second Uncle says dryly when he picks up.

“Sorry,” Song Lan replies. “I didn’t mean to make you all worry.”

“So,” Second Uncle says, a little more relaxed now. “Where are you, exactly?”

“On the road. It was pretty last-minute, but Xingchen and I are going to drive home, so I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

Second Uncle is quiet for a moment. “Alright,” he says finally. “Is there anything we can do to help? Your apartment in Gusu?”

“We sorted everything before we left,” Song Lan reassures him.

“Is there,” Second Uncle asks with only a slight hesitation, “a reason why you’ve decided to do this?”

Song Lan shrugs from where he’s leaning against the car. In the distance, he can see the beginnings of the mountain range silhouetted against the sky. “Not really. Just a graduation thing, I guess. It was Xingchen’s idea.”

“Was it indeed,” Second Uncle says softly. “I see. Will you be driving through the Five Territories?”

“Yeah,” Song Lan says, surprised. “How did you know-“

“Xingchen must be very sure, then,” Second Uncle murmurs. “That it’s him.”

Song Lan freezes. Xingchen is just by the side of the road, shielding his eyes from the Sun as he gazes into the distance. T-shirt soft and blowing in the summer wind. “I don’t know,” he replies, a distant ache in his chest.

“Xiao Lan,” Second Uncle says gently, and Song Lan presses his lips together at the sudden surge of emotion he feels at the nickname. But all Second Uncle says is, “Drive safely. And look after yourselves.”

3.

Of course, Song Lan had heard of Baoshan Sanren, but he had no idea who her son was. He’d been the only one.

“That’s him,” the girl beside him had whispered during their first lecture. The hall had been bustling with the nervous energy of a new day. Song Lan had mostly been preoccupied with whether or not he’d properly filled out his timetable, but he’d turned to look in the direction that the girl was nodding.

“Who’s who?” he’d asked.

The young man she’d indicated was tall and slim and pale, in a way that reminded Song Lan of a new tree, with delicate features to match. The girl continued explaining, “He’s Baoshan Sanren’s youngest son and pupil. It’s rumoured that he’s going to be the next Sorcerer.”

This surprised Song Lan. He’d been told stories that a Sorcerer’s heir was chosen by the Gods; that they couldn’t be taught and couldn’t be predicted until they revealed themselves by some means unknown to the rest of the world. “How can people tell?”

The girl had shrugged. “No idea. Pretty cool, though.”

Song Lan looked curiously at Baoshan Sanren’s son, sitting across the aisle and several rows in front. Dressed in a bright, loose hoodie and jeans, he looked just like every other student in the hall. Song Lan wondered what it must be like to be the heir of one of the only living Sorcerers.

Then, he glanced around and noticed that every pair of eyes in their near radius was staring too, and winced.

“Yeah,” he’d echoed. “Cool.”

(Later on, at a mixer that he hadn’t been enjoying in the slightest, he’d bumped into Xingchen hovering near a rather distasteful statue. They’d struck up a conversation about their classes and their hobbies and their shared opinion of the shockingly awful music being played, and Song Lan had discovered that Xingchen’s infamous reputation as the next possible Sorcerer was almost the least interesting thing about him.)

4.

The Cloud Maze of Gusu is only several hours’ drive away from the university. Song Lan switches with Xingchen and takes the wheel. He doesn’t drive as smoothly as Xingchen, but it’s made up for by the fact that Xingchen is the world’s worst navigator.

After their third wrong turn, Song Lan shakes his head in mock despair. “Send my final goodbyes,” he says dramatically. “We’re never going to make it home.”

Xingchen slaps him lightly with the map but he’s laughing.

Song Lan’s phone goes off with another ping! It does make him feel a little guilty, leaving all their friends without a word of explanation or farewell; as if they’re ungrateful for years of companionship, late nights, badly cooked meals, shared despair over abysmal course material, long nights of laughter and loyalty. There’s nothing at all stopping him from picking up his phone and calling one of them or sending a text in return.

Nothing except for this sacred little bubble of silence that he and Xingchen have made for themselves these past few hours. Them and the road and nobody else.

Thinking of it that way does sound a little childish in his head, but next to him in the passenger seat, Xingchen grins, loose-limbed. It blossoms a brilliant summer blue and Song Lan feels his guilt melt away in the sunshine.

5.

The magic in the Cloud Maze works like this:

A silence so absolute that it covers the sound of every footstep. Long, narrow wooden walkways, shallow arching bridges, low-hanging branches of weeping willows, thick white cloud that permeates every space. Through it, other people appear only as shadows, meditating or wandering their own way through the Maze. And music; music that comes from nowhere but the mist and fog; music that echoes around them, sonorous and dissonant.

Song Lan reaches out tentatively and trails his hand through the nearest wisp of cloud. For a moment, nothing, then out pours a low, pure note which resonates so deep that it rattles his bones. Adds to the strange harmonies hanging in the air. Beside him, Xingchen has both hands outstretched and buried up to the wrists in white, and music is decanting from the clouds like rich wine, dizzying and sweet.

The sight sets Song Lan’s wrists and elbows twinging with an odd sort of longing. A pain that is, like the music, both dizzying and sweet.

Is this, Song Lan wonders distantly, what magic feels like?

Xingchen’s face is turned towards the sky, open and bright like a major chord. The yearning travels from Song Lan’s hands, up his arms and into his chest, where is curls like a twist of cloud. An utterly familiar feeling.

Magic, Song Lan learns, feels far too much like wanting.

6.

They run into Lan Xichen on the way out of the Maze, who smiles warmly at them. “I hear you’ve caused a bit of a fuss on campus,” he says.

“It wasn’t our intention,” Xingchen replies, a hint of embarrassment leaking into his voice.

Lan Xichen waves a hand. “Sometimes, a bit of trouble can be a good thing,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “And did you enjoy the Maze?”

Xingchen nods fervently, but Song Lan hesitates before answering. “It was amazing,” he replies when he notices Lan Xichen looking at him. “I found it very…” Unsettling seems like an incredibly rude word, but there isn’t another way to describe the sudden odd feeling he’d gotten when touching the clouds and hearing their haunting harmonies.

Lan Xichen seems to understand. “It can be disconcerting, no?” he asks. “Especially your first time.”

Relieved, Song Lan nods. “I don’t wish to offend…”

“Not in the slightest,” Lan Xichen replies, and folds his hands behind his back. “It’s very old magic. Old music. Full of memories. That can certainly be unnerving – although if you can understand them, you must have a good ear.”

“He likes music a lot,” Xingchen tells Lan Xichen when Song Lan says nothing.

“I remember,” Lan Xichen returns genially. “I seem to recall borrowing several Debussy records from you at various points over the years.”

Song Lan smiles. “I’m not sure that I did understand,” he says truthfully. The music that had been wafting through the Maze was unformed, without melody or rhythm, but still undeniably had a life of its own. “I did find it unsettling,” he says finally. “But also very beautiful.”

Lan Xichen smiles too, at that. “Will you be visiting Lanling next?” he asks.

“Yes,” Xingchen replies.

“Well, it will be a great loss to have you leave us,” Xichen tells them. “Please come back any time.”

They make their way down a winding path back towards the car in silence. The trees rustle around them, the birds sing. Slowly, as always, the sounds of the world return. The music of the Cloud Maze dissipates, like smoke in the sunlight, until Song Lan is left with nothing but a dream-like memory.

7.

“How did he know we were going to Lanling next?” Song Lan wonders.

Xingchen breathes in deep before answering. “I told Wei Ying where we’re going. He probably told Wangji, who told his brother.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t seem the type to gossip with his brother about other people’s affairs, but Song Lan lets the topic go. Exhales it on a long breath and watches it tumble out of the wound-down window.

8.

They lose track of time.

The day moves past them slowly as they make their way through the countryside. Xingchen, utterly fearless in the face of carsickness, reads aloud from a beaten-up paperback that’s stuffed into his bag. Song Lan pulls over several times so that they can take photographs of the long, sweeping landscape. He sends a few of them off to his classmates, his tutorial group, his music society friends that he’d been supposed to meet at the jazz bar for their weekly catchup.

While Xingchen is in the bathroom, he receives a multitude of return messages with far too many exclamation marks and emojis. One text all in capital letters from Wei Wuxian reading SO YOU ARE ALIVE XICHEN-GE TOLD US HE SAW YOU WHAT IS UP WITH THE DISAPPEARING ACT DAOZHANG. He’s not sure if it’s this past day on the road, but the message makes him smile.

When the Sun starts to set, they stop again. Neither of them take out their phones but they do climb up the slight hill on the side of the road to watch the colours fill the sky. Deep ruby and fire-bright orange spill over the horizon line and bleed across the pastel yellow and fading blue. It makes Song Lan feel comfortingly small.

“Thank you,” Xingchen says quietly. “For coming with me.”

The things we do for love, Song Lan wants to say in return, the lingering music of the clouds swirling in his mind before returning to a place beyond his reach. Instead, his reaches across and touches Xingchen’s sleeve gently, and that’s enough.

9.

“We’re going to lost again,” Xingchen warns as Song Lan hands him the map the next morning.

“You in a rush?” Song Lan asks, and Xingchen responds promptly by unfolding the map upside down.

10.

They reach Lanling and it goes like this:

An enormous gate, locked, bars their entrance into the greenhouses.

When the guards there hear that Xingchen is Baoshan Sanren’s son, they fall over themselves to welcome him in.

Song Lan doesn’t turn as they drive through, but hears the loud thunk as the gate closes behind them.

Xingchen is as courteous as ever, but his pursed lips show that he doesn’t approve of the situation.

When Song Lan sees the greenhouses themselves, neither does he.

“They’re hideous,” he says, stunned at their sheer size. The glass structures are lined in neat rows as far as the eye can see, geometrical and gargantuan. Inside, rows and rows of flowers are growing in structured boxes, like caged animals. Song Lan hasn’t grown up around sorcery like Xingchen, but even he can see how trapping an ancient and wild magic is both cruel and dangerous. He imagines it, confined and pressed up against the glass, and feels a shattered sigh in his throat.

11.

In fact, it’s not just that Song Lan has heard of Baoshan Sanren. In fact, he’s met her once, when he’d been a child.

She’d come to town and First Aunt had been the one to greet her. Song Lan and his cousins had been dressed well and brought to meet her. Her face, Song Lan remembers, was kind. Kind and lovely and she’d smiled and shaken his hand. There’d been something warm in her handshake that filled him with wonder. It was like glimpsing a sunray from behind a turbid sky, or hearing Mozart for the first time, or snow melting, or flowers overflowing in your hands.

Even now, that feeling of wonder is what Song Lan remembers most vividly about touching the magic that lives in Baoshan Sanren.

He looks at Xingchen now and it sparks to life in his chest.

Even though stories say it can’t be anticipated, deep down in his heart, Song Lan knows that they are drawing nearer to the day when Xingchen will be chosen as Baoshan Sanren’s successor.

They say that the Sorcerers are hand-picked by the Gods, and that they possess hearts and souls that only the Gods can craft. Xingchen is such a one.

He always has been.

12.

It’s all quiet in the greenhouse. The walls are thick enough that they block out any sound of wind or water. Xingchen stands, still as stone, between two rows of blooming peonies. “It feels a little like home,” he says. “So did the Cloud Maze. The magic is stronger than other places in the world.”

“What does it feel like to you?” Song Lan asks curiously.

“It’s like,” Xingchen says slowly, “the flowers are speaking.”

Song Lan thinks he’s slowly becoming acquainted with the ways of magic, but that is an image too odd for him. “I hope they’re not plotting our demise,” he says, gripping the strap of his backpack tighter and wondering if he could use it to fight off an impending peony attack.

“Can you please stop watching horror movies with Mingjue?” Xingchen laughs.

“How else am I going to be ready for when the flowers fight back?” Song Lan demands, edging his way around a white blossom that has leaned a little out of its row.

Xingchen runs his finger across a petal, fat and soft. “I think the flower rebellion would be more subtle than a physical fight,” he says mildly.

“I’m reassured,” Song Lan deadpans, but they’re both grinning.

13.

“The flowers supposed to have exceptional healing properties,” Xingchen explains. “But all of Lanling is also just exceptionally connected with the magic of the earth – even more than the other territories. Shifu told me that the magic here isn’t like in Gusu or Qishan or Qinghe.” He crouches down; cups both his hands gracefully around the closest flower and closes his eyes. “You have to coax it out.”

As Song Lan watches, Xingchen brings the peony closer and closer to his face and inhales. As he does, all the flowers around them seem to rustle in an invisible breeze. Xingchen’s face lights up like a candle in the night, and it’s dazzling. For a moment, his expression melts into something hazy, his hands slip on the peony head. His eyes like dark stars, glow.

Song Lan’s breath catches in his throat and for once, he doesn’t try not to stare.

Xingchen blinks; everything fades.

“You try,” he says to Song Lan. “Look, hold the flower like this –“

“I don’t think,” Song Lan says, an unknown queasy feeling churning up his stomach. Nausea washes over him and he tries to force it away from his face, because he doesn’t want to offend the idea of magic, to offend Xingchen, when it’s all Xingchen’s grown up with and going to embody in the future. Xingchen’s long fingers brush over his and he pulls his own hands back roughly. “Xingchen, I can’t, I’m not…”

Xingchen looks steadily at him. “Neither am I.”

Yet, Song Lan’s mind supplies.

14.

“Anyone can sense magic,” Xingchen had once told him. “You just have to be practiced.”

Song Lan hadn’t believed it then, and he doesn’t quite believe it now. But Xingchen is reaching again for his hands, and earnest expression on his face. “Trust me,” is what he says.

And Song Lan thinks that’s rather unfair – but then, everything about Xingchen is rather unfair.

So he lets Xingchen takes his hands again and place them gently on one of the pink peonies. “Be gentle,” Xingchen instructs. “Imagine the roots, down into the earth.” Song Lan obeys, following the path of the flower from petal to stem to the soil beneath. “Good,” Xingchen says. “Now, find the very deepest part of the earth that holds the flower.” Song Lan thinks of the cool, deep places of the dirt; the water that trickles through the cracks, the same places that grows the dandelion and the oak.

“Now,” Xingchen says softly. “Breathe in.”

Song Lan takes a deep breath.

There’s a spark that lights in the dark hard-packed earth that travels with him, up through the long roots of the flower, through the stem towards the light and from the velvet-soft petals, into his hands and nose and mouth. An old, tender feeling that lodges in his chest and untangles the knot that is there; that spreads into his fingers and down into his stomach. Eases the strange seasick feeling he’d been having before. Quiets his mind.

“Oh,” he whispers, and when he opens his eyes, Xingchen is smiling again, like a flower towards the Sun.

15.

They drive out with only a perfunctory word to the guards, declining Jin Guangshan’s offer of tea or a tour. Song Lan thinks of the bright flowers, of the sparkle that he’d felt which came from somewhere far deeper than the greenhouse floor.

“Is it dangerous?” he asks. “To shut the flowers in like that? To lock up the magic?”

Xingchen’s voice is thoughtful when he answers. “I’m not sure. Shifu doesn’t like it, and I suppose she has the right to say something, but she prefers to let things run their natural course. Magic has a way of finding its way back to the earth, in the end.”

As ominous as that sounds, Song Lan actually finds it somewhat comforting.

16.

They stop for the night at a motel just outside of town. Their room is decorated in dull colours with two utilitarian-looking single beds, but the window lets a twinkling dusky light in and there’s a rather romantic pot of yellow flowers in the windowsill.

Xingchen emerges from the bathroom, hair damp, dressed in sweatpants and a loose shirt that dips below his collarbones. Song Lan lays his book down gently in his lap and looks.

Looks at Xingchen’s shoulder, the slope of his neck, the outline of his face in the waning light, at his slender wrists, the way his fringe falls, slightly lopsided.

His eyes, when he turns to meet Song Lan’s gaze. “What?” he asks, with a small smile.

Song Lan sees the counter in the back of his mind, ticking down to their arrival at the Mountain. When it hits zero, Xingchen will have a destiny to embrace. Song Lan hasn’t heard much about what it’s like when a Sorcerer receives their powers from their predecessor, but he imagines it’s a wonder to behold.

Perhaps it’s why Xingchen asked him to come along in the first place – to witness his inheritance of powers.

Song Lan has until then to look at him; to admire the gentle strength of his hands, his graceful movements, the way his voice softens when he speaks, the way he smiles. Song Lan has until then, and no longer, to cherish the part of Xingchen that belongs to him and him only.

To hold him longer would only be selfish.

Song Lan hates the idea of being selfish, but he hates the idea of letting go of Xingchen even more.

17.

“Sorcerers,” Second Aunt had told him, “are not like the rest of us. They’re human, of course, but they’re part God too, and part earth and part sky and part wind and part water. Dragon’s fire and phoenix ash and moondust.”

It had been winter break during the second year of university, and Song Lan had gone home to see his cousin’s new baby. It had snowed and he’d found Second Aunt (a new grandmother) seated by the window, watching as it stuck to the ground and buried the earth softly.

Song Lan wasn’t sure why he’d asked, and it was the only time he ever did. Second Aunt and Uncle seemed to know a lot more about Baoshan Sanren than anyone else, anyway. “So the Gods choose who inherits the powers next?” he asked. “How do we know who it’s going to be?”

Second Aunt shook her head. “We don’t. Did you not just hear yourself say that the Gods choose? Are we Gods?”

Song Lan had thought of Xingchen then, his grace, his goodness. Was it asking for trouble to think that the Gods were fools if They didn’t choose him? “It must be a great honour.”

“Of course,” Second Aunt told him. “And a great responsibility.”

“Oh?” Song Lan asked.

Second Aunt had batted him on the head with a light hand. “What did you think; that being the Sorcerer meant running amok under the moonlight, casting spells left and right? It is a hard road that one must walk alone. Once you become the Sorcerer, you no longer belong to yourself. There is a higher calling.”

Song Lan blinked. “Oh,” he’d said, which was all he could think of.

Second Aunt must have seen something on his face that day, because her expression cracked a little and she gave him a small smile. “Is there a reason you’re asking me about Baoshan Sanren?”

“No,” Song Lan said instinctively. Then, remembering that it was wrong to lie, said, “A lot of people say that Xingchen’s going to inherit her powers. I was just…wondering.”

Second Aunt only said, “Well, you can keep asking if you wish.”

“Um,” Song Lan had said, “if Xingchen becomes the Sorcerer. That means he’ll never be able to use his degree? He’ll never be able to travel or write or follow his own dreams? He-“ Here, he’d hesitated, but it was the thing he most wanted to know. “He’ll never be able to fall in love?”

“I have never heard of such a thing,” Second Aunt said gently. “It would, I think, be seen as a great shirking of responsibility. A Sorcerer’s duty is tied to the whole world. One person cannot be bigger than the whole world – which is exactly what love is.”

Song Lan swallowed hard. “I see.”

Second Aunt looked at him for a long moment, then took another sip of her tea. “Many people say that Xingchen will be the next Sorcerer?” she asked mildly and Song Lan, unable to speak, had nodded. “Well,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “Many people are not Gods.”

18.

“You seem quiet,” Xingchen says the next morning as they throw their bags into the back seat.

“I’m alright,” Song Lan says mildly, and Xingchen leaves it at that.

There’s silence in the car as they drive. Song Lan turns on the radio and lets Chopin flood through the cracks.

19.

Baoshan Sanren has an acquaintance in Qinghe that she’s asked Xingchen to pay a visit. Song Lan takes the time to make his own social call.

When Mingjue opens the door, a strange sense of relief courses through Song Lan like a wave crashing against the cliffs. “Hi,” he says. “Sorry I didn’t phone ahead.”

“You left without a word; why wouldn’t you arrive that way too,” Mingjue pointed out but there was no heat in his words. “Where’s Xingchen?”

“Visiting a friend of Baoshan Sanren’s,” Song Lan replies as he removes his boots and lines them up on Mingjue’s shoe rack. “He said he could come by later, but I told him that he didn’t need to.”

Mingjue gives him a sweeping glance at that. Song Lan sometimes wonders exactly how much Mingjue sees of people that he doesn’t let on. He suspects it’s rather a lot.

Whatever Mingjue sees now, he says nothing. Only gives Song Lan a gruff smile and asks, “Want a drink?”

20.

The drink is possibly not the best idea because the magic of Qinghe’s Stone Forest is only revealed at night, which means that Song Lan has a fair amount of alcohol buzzing in his veins when he shows up at their agreed meeting spot.

Xingchen looks at him with raised eyebrows. “So how’s Mingjue?” he asks, and Song Lan shrugs.

“Same as usual. Didn’t talk much.”

Xingchen gives him a smile that seems lopsided, and doesn’t press further. Only leads the way onto the winding path down into the valley.

Jagged shafts of stone jut out from the ground, as tall and thick as trees. They’ve timed their arrival well with the cycle of the moon. It shines down, full and swollen, almost at its full height. “Just a few minutes,” Xingchen murmurs.

“You’re going to be really good at it,” Song Lan blurts out, tongue loosened by the drink.

“At?” Xingchen asks, turning with surprise towards him.

“Sorcery. Magic. All this stuff.” Song Lan gestures around him. Xingchen’s face is utterly unreadable, and possibly slightly blurry. Shining silver like the moon. “You’re just – you’re going to be so good at it.” The moon is inching her way over them now, and the first drops of light at beginning to collect on the stones around them. “You’re going to be good, because you are good.” Song Lan is close enough to touch Xingchen, but he knows that isn’t for him to do. “Sometimes, I wish you were less so. It would make everything so much easier.”

Qinghe’s magic manifests like this:

In just the right position, the moon stays for a few minutes every night. Aligned just so, the light refracts and shatters off the trees of stone; bounces from surface to surface and forms spheres of light that float around him, like fireflies that glitter with inhuman loveliness.

Song Lan gasps aloud at the raw beauty of it. He reaches out a hand for the nearest light, and as his fingers pass within, he feels a strange and searing heat through him from head to toe.

Mysteries marvellous indeed.

Distracted by lights from the moon and the stones, Song Lan looks from Xingchen and doesn’t see the expression of complete and absolute shock on his face.

21.

A headache pounds against the inside of his skull the next morning when he wakes, but unfortunately, the amnesiac effect of alcohol hasn’t kicked in.

Song Lan considers burying himself underneath his blankets, or maybe under fifty feet of dirt, and never coming out again. But in the end, he squares his shoulders. Xingchen is still Xingchen, after all.

“Last night,” he says as they pull away from Qinghe with Xingchen behind the wheel.

“Yes?” Xingchen asks cautiously.

Song Lan deliberates what he wants to say next. There are so many different factors to consider; too many different futures to contemplate. But his heart knows what it wants. Forces its way out of his throat before he can push it back down.

Love, he knows, is rising. Like a moon.

“I meant what I said.”

He sees Xingchen swallow, his fingers tighten on the wheel. “Even…even the part about how it would be easier if I didn’t make a good Sorcerer?”

Selfish, the voice in Song Lan’s head says, but another that sounds remarkably like Second Aunt reminds him that it’s wrong to lie. “Yes,” he says, nearly a whisper.

Xingchen doesn’t say anything in reply and for once, Song Lan has no idea what he’s thinking.

22.

Before they’d left, back at the start, Song Lan had asked Xingchen to give him an idea of the magic in each of the Five Territories. Qishan had been the one that Xingchen had had the most difficulty explaining.

“A lot of the magic has been burnt away. Warped over time, I suppose.”

“That can happen?” Song Lan had asked.

“Yeah,” Xingchen said uneasily. “Shifu never talks much about it, but I know it can happen if you use magic the wrong way. I think the Wens did, and something went wrong. Now most of it’s gone.”

“Is it dangerous?” Song Lan asked.

“I don’t think so,” Xingchen had replied. “But it just might be a bit…unpleasant.”

“What was the magic there like, originally?”

Xingchen sighed. “You know how Yunmeng has the dragons?” Song Lan nodded. “In Qishan, they used to be the caretakers of the phoenixes.”

“Wow,” Song Lan said, stunned. “I didn’t know they even existed.”

“They existed,” Xingchen said quietly. “They were supposed to be the most beautiful creatures that ever lived.”

“And now?” Song Lan asked.

“Now,” Xingchen replied, “there’s only one.”

23.

He can feel it as soon as they enter Qishan.

It’s a sick feeling, like eating too much and then running too fast all at once. It creeps over his skin and crawls down his throat into his stomach and makes him want to go to sleep and not dream.

Xingchen is pale and silent as he drives. Song Lan wonders if it’s much worse for him.

The land around them is flat and barren, with houses appearing only here and there. Even the sky is a murky hue, somewhere between grey and blue. Once, only once, Song Lan almost asks Xingchen to turn back. But then he remembers the whisper in his mind – selfish.

He steels his resolve. If this is what Xingchen needs in order to prepare for becoming the next Sorcerer, then Song Lan will do it.

(Song Lan will do anything, if it’s what Xingchen needs.)

24.

The phoenix egg is at the centre of an old dilapidated museum that looks as if it could collapse at any minute.

“It won’t,” Xingchen assures him. “And even if it did, it would be alright. Phoenix eggs are pretty hardy.”

It’s amazing, it really is. Song Lan has lived with Xiao Xingchen for four years, and has never understood the full capacity of his knowledge. He’d always thought Xingchen’s brain was full of economics graphs and philosophical essays. Instead, there’s an entire portion of it dedicated to facts such as phoenix eggs are pretty hardy.

It’s larger than a chicken’s egg but smaller than a dragon’s one. Coloured golden, asymmetrical, nestled into a small stand. Nothing else in the room.

“What if someone tries to steal it?” Song Lan wants to know.

“I don’t want to find out,” Xingchen replies and Song Lan fervently agrees.

25.

They don’t stay long to look at the phoenix egg although Xingchen does let his hand hover briefly over it before pulling away.

“You’re not going to touch it?” Song Lan asks, surprised.

Xingchen gives him a look. “It’s a museum,” he says pointedly and Song Lan snorts.

“Surely that’s not an issue for you.”

Xingchen bites his lip and turns away.

26.

When they exit Qishan and turn on the road to Yunmeng, the dark, ill feeling falls away from Song Lan like shedding a skin.

The harsh lines and ragged plains smooth, giving way to long blue landscape, fields and rivers that wind around them, coming down to rest from the mountains. Song Lan takes the wheel and drives fast and flat, taking them around bends and over bumps with a reckless abandon that he’s sure his family would be horrified to see.

By the time they reach a town, they’ve slowed considerably, both of them slightly giddy from the speed. “And you didn’t even need me to navigate,” Xingchen points out.

“I’m better off without,” Song Lan retorts. “Otherwise I’d still be lost in the wilderness.”

Their motel has a rooftop and they clamber up to gaze out over the view of the lake. As the Sun sets, it sets the line of sky over the mountains aflame. Stars and lanterns are popping into view, and the chatter from the residents below drifts up to them slowly.

Here, in the valley of lakes, surrounded by tranquil waters and the bustle of ordinary life, Song Lan finds that he’s ready to talk about the very thing he’s been avoiding for so long.

27.

“Tell me what will happen when we reach the Mountain,” he says.

Xingchen freezes in the corner of his eye and turns, slowly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Song Lan says, “when Baoshan Sanren’s powers pass to you. What will happen?”

“Zichen,” Xingchen says in a low voice, which sends a shiver up his spine. “Why are you asking me this?”

“I-“ Song Lan breaks off. Perhaps Xingchen thinks it’s none of his business. “Is it private? I just…I want to be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

Struck by an almost unbearable ache, Song Lan gives in to the urge to touch. His finger brushes over Xingchen’s face before he drops his hand abruptly. “To let go,” he says quietly.

28. Interlude

It’s true, really, that a Sorcerer must learn the magic of all Five Territories. He or she has responsibilities to understand, to assist, to guide, to nourish, to tend.

And truthfully, that’s possibly part of the reason that Xingchen had wanted to do it – to see what that life might have been like.

But Song Lan sits there and looks at him, with such sad eyes, full of kindness and warmth and –

And something else, some other feeling that Xingchen understands too. Something that pulls in the chest, tingles in the fingertips, warms him from top to toe, tastes sweet on the tongue, leaves him breathless, aches, aches, aches –

It’s too much to lie anymore.

29.

“I don’t want you to let go,” Xingchen says, and Song Lan feels his heart tug painfully in his chest.

“You and I both know,” he whispers, “that I have to. You have to-“

“I don’t want to,” Xingchen says, loudly, to make up for Song Lan’s murmurs.

Song Lan blinks, stunned. “You-you don’t want to be the next Sorcerer? I always thought that you…”

“I don’t know about that,” Xingchen interrupts. “I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted that. I don’t know.” Song Lan stares at him. “But,” Xingchen continues, “there’s something I know that I do want. Someone.”

Song Lan feels his eyes fill with tears. “Xingchen,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest to stop it from breaking. “That’s unfair, it’s unfair to-“

Xingchen pulls something white from his pocket, a feather maybe, or a cloth. No, it’s an envelope, folded and crumpled. He thrusts it at Song Lan with an equally heartbroken expression. Song Lan takes it. Opens it carefully.

Inside is a single sheet of paper, thick, soft, creamy, with several lines of calligraphic handwriting.

Xingchen, it reads. I’ve read the stars tonight. It isn’t you. Come home and we will talk more. Shifu.

It isn’t you.

Song Lan feels the world tip. His heart thunders in his chest; his ears roar with a dizzy hum. He lowers the piece of paper blankly and looks up. “It isn’t you?”

Mutely, Xingchen shakes his head.

So Xingchen is not Baoshan Sanren’s successor after all.

Song Lan turns the envelope over and checks the date. Calculates backwards, past Qishan, past Qinghe, past Lanling, past Gusu, back to the date when Xingchen had tapped him on the shoulder one nondescript evening and asked if he wanted to go on a road trip. “Y-you’ve known? This whole time?”

Xingchen stares down at his shoes. “Yes.”

Song Lan can’t quite figure out what’s happening. If it’s hurt that he feels, or relief or terror or sadness or joy, or some combination of them all. He looks at Xingchen’s bowed head. “Are you alright?”

Xingchen glances up, his eyes surprised. He appears, Song Lan thinks, very young. “Me?”

The way he looks at Song Lan, with trepidation and apology and gratitude and guilt, melts away everything else. “Who else?” he asks, which makes Xingchen smile against all odds.

“It’s not the end of the world,” he replies, matching Song Lan’s lightness.

30.

Later that evening, Song Lan glances out of the corner of his eye and sees Xingchen running his fingers absentmindedly over Baoshan Sanren’s note.

It’s the end of something.

31.

“I didn’t tell you,” Xingchen says when they’re tucked away in their motel room on the side of a mountain somewhere between Qishan and Yunmeng, “because I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

Song Lan hears Xingchen’s sigh. “Of letting go.”

32.

He wakes the next morning when the sunlight is only a fresh pale thing. Feels the bloom of something new.

When Xingchen rises, he gives a tremulous smile, and Song Lan feels the urge to pull him close, to have him near.

It takes him a moment to realise that for the first time, he’s allowed.

33.

Being allowed something is not the answer to having it.

Finding the courage is, Song Lan realises quickly, an almost impossibly difficult thing.

34.

What happens next is possibly the one thing that Song Lan should have predicted when they first set out.

The car breaks down.

“I think,” Xingchen says, staring down into the engine completely nonplussed, “this means I can belittle your car as much as I want from now on.”

Song Lan snorts, shooting a text to his family group chat. Broken down. Who knows how to fix a car? Someone sends back a series of hysterical-laugh emojis, which makes him both roll his eyes and smile. “Lay off my car.”

“It just broke down with no warning,” Xingchen points out. “In the middle of nowhere.”

One of Song Lan’s cousins texts, Have you confessed yet? Now’s the time!

His older sister chimes in. Broken down in the countryside is very romantic, Zichen!

His uncle adds a sticker of a dog blowing pink bubbles in the shape of hearts.

Song Lan locks his phone.

35.

Suddenly, Xingchen grabs his arm and pulls him in a little closer. Song Lan promptly loses all the air in his lungs. “Smile,” is all Xingchen says before he’s aiming his phone screen at them both. Song Lan tries to obey but he’s not sure he made it in time.

“Show,” he requests, and Xingchen displays the photograph. It’s blurry and blue, with the sky velvety behind them and the edges of the car outlined messily as they lean against it. Their own faces are close together, peering out of the photograph. Picture-Xingchen beams bright while Picture-Song Lan is offering a half smile. His eyes are open though, so he supposes that’s all he can hope for. “Trying to commemorate this wonderful moment?” he asks.

Xingchen is tapping away. “I promised to send photos from our road trip.”

“And this is the one you choose?”

“I like this photo.”

Song Lan hides his smile, even though Xingchen is looking away from him. “Me too,” he replies quietly.

36.

His phone rings, which is a first in a long time.

“Hello?” he says without looking at the Caller ID.

“You guys have broken down?” Wei Wuxian’s voice says loudly into his ear.

“Ouch,” Song Lan says, pulling the phone away. “I already forgot how loud you are.”

“Where are you?”

“How do you-”

“Shishu posted a photo into our family group chat,” Wei Wuxian says and Song Lan scowls in Xingchen’s direction, who shrugs sheepishly.

“Yes,” Song Lan says into the phone. “We’ve broken down.”

“Where?” Wei Wuxian insists.

“Don’t know exactly,” Song Lan shrugs. “On the Lian Hua Highway somewhere. We-“

“You’re in Yunmeng!” Wei Wuxian shouts, and Song Lan winces again.

“You’re going on speaker,” he informs, then lays his phone next to him. “This is your fault,” he tells Xingchen.

“Send your location to me,” Wei Wuxian is saying.

“Why?” Song Lan asks.

“Just do it,” Wei Wuxian insists. “You might be close to us. We can send someone to get you or to help or we can…” There’s a scuffling noise and then some voices in the background that sound a lot like yelling. “Yeah,” Wei Wuxian says, a little quieter. “Definitely send your location to me. Honestly, why didn’t you do that in the first place?” And then he hangs up.

Song Lan stares at the phone. Then, he turns to Xingchen. “Lucky you two aren’t blood relatives,” he says, “because he’s insane.”

“You’re the one who invited him in that first day when he introduced himself to us,” Xingchen retorts, but he’s grinning. Song Lan has a suspicion that Xingchen is a lot fonder of Wei Wuxian than he lets on. “You like him too,” Xingchen says, as if he knows what Song Lan is thinking. “I know you do.”

Song Lan huffs but doesn’t object.

37.

Wei Wuxian arrives, pulling up a short distance away in a black vehicle so polished and sleek that it makes Song Lan pat his own car comfortingly. “You have character,” he murmurs to it, and Xingchen snorts.

“Shishu,” Wei Wuxian calls, waving enthusiastically. “We came to rescue you.”

“We?” Xingchen wonders, just as Jiang Cheng climbs out of the driver’s side.

They make bows of greeting as the two approach, which Jiang Cheng reciprocates while Wei Wuxian elects to throw his arms around Xingchen in greeting. “Wei Wuxian,” Jiang Cheng scolds, but Xingchen laughs and hugs back.

“Well, this is a surprise,” he says. “Thank you for coming, but I’m not sure what good it’ll do – the car seems pretty out of order.”

“A-Cheng can look at it!” Wei Wuxian says cheerfully, then looks towards Song Lan.

“Don’t even think about hugging me,” Song Lan warns, putting out a hand, and Wei Wuxian pouts.

“Daozhang, you’re no fun at all.”

“I’ll have a look at your car engine, if that’s alright with you,” Jiang Cheng says, completely ignoring his brother.

“Of course,” Song Lan says, shrugging himself off the car. “Like Xingchen said; it looks pretty bad.”

Looking completely like he knows what he’s doing, Jiang Cheng retrieves an enormous box, takes out a tool that Song Lan can’t begin to describe, lifts the hood of the car and gets to work.

At one point, he calls over for someone to lend him a hand, and Xingchen puts a hand on Song Lan’s arm. “I’ll go,” he says. To Wei Wuxian, “He hates getting his hands dirty, he’s a city kid.”

Song Lan doesn’t even bother protesting. Wei Wuxian looks over at him with raised eyebrows and waits until Xingchen is out of earshot before saying, “So my eyes and ears may be deceiving me, but I think I just saw shishu flirting.”

“No,” Song Lan says. “He was just kidding; Xingchen’s always like that.”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t comment further. Only says, “How’s the road trip been so far?”

Song Lan knows that Wei Wuxian is privy to much more of Xingchen’s private life than most others, but he’s not sure if anyone else knows that Xingchen’s not going to succeed Baoshan Sanren. So he just says, “We’ve had a great time. Until breaking down, I suppose.” He nudges Wei Wuxian lightly. “We really owe you one.”

Wei Wuxian waves a hand. “I owe you more than one, daozhang, you know that.”

Song Lan smiles. “How long are you going to keep calling me that?” Jiang Cheng leans over the engine of the car as Xingchen hands him a tool and says something to make them both laugh. “I hope you and Wanyin didn’t go to too much trouble. I was a little surprised to see him with you.”

“Oh, A-Cheng loves cars,” Wei Wuxian tells them. “He spent a summer building an engine in our garage. Anyway, we were together and close by. It was no trouble – and A-Cheng worships the two of you.”

“Oh, dear,” Song Lan replies. “You’re going to disabuse him of that notion soon, I hope?”

“You can do it yourself,” Wei Wuxian says cheerfully. “Since I hope we’ll be seeing much more of you and shishu together.”

He phrases this last part like a question, and gives Song Lan a significant look. Song Lan purses his lips and sighs. “You’re worse than my family, you really are.”

38.

They insist on bringing Song Lan and Xingchen back to Lotus Pier for the night. “You want to see the dragon eggs, right?” Wei Wuxian asks as he and Jiang Cheng wave away protests. “So come with us home, stay the night and tomorrow evening you’ll be able to see it nice and clearly from the edge of the lake.”

Song Lan asks, in a fit of curiosity, whether they can see the actual dragons.

Jiang Cheng, his face full of genuine apology, replies, “I’m afraid that the dragons aren’t here in the summer. The keepers take them up into the mountains-“

His explanation is cut off by Wei Wuxian, who complains that he wishes they weren’t called keepers because that implied that the dragons were pets of some kind, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Jiang Cheng scowls at the interruption but sort of looks like he agrees.

“I’m glad the Twin Prides of Yunmeng are so conscientious about magic,” Xingchen says, only half-teasing. “And about life in general.”

Both of them blush at that, which makes Song Lan grin.

39.

The next afternoon, Jiang Cheng gives them a map and directs them to the Jiangs’ private pavilion on the side of the lake. “It shouldn’t take you too long to drive there,” he tells them. “And the car engine is definitely good enough.”

“You aren’t coming?” Song Lan asks, surprised.

“We’ve seen it lots of times before,” Wei Wuxian replies with only the slightest mischief in his eye. “And I’m sure you and shishu will have a lovely time on your own.”

“Time to go,” Xingchen says, with the closest thing that he can muster to a glare. Song Lan looks between the two for a moment before he’s towed off towards the car.

“Your nephew’s more trouble than he’s worth,” he announces as Xingchen starts the engine.

“I’m rather inclined to agree,” Xingchen replies.

40.

They say that the sight of the falling dragon eggs is one of the most beautiful things to be seen on earth.

On one night of the waning moon, they plummet out of the sky like falling stars, and land in the lakes of Yunmeng. Like silver streaks across a black sky, tumbling from the heavenly vault. Come the morning, boats will be sent out across the lake to find the eggs and keep them until they hatch.

One a month, Wei Wuxian had told Song Lan. Maybe two or three if you’re lucky.

But you will see it, Jiang Cheng had assured them. Just be patient.

Patient is something that Song Lan has always been. Only now is it starting to splinter. It breaks along the edges and out pours something that Song Lan has never allowed himself. He knows now, he thinks he understands, that a feeling is a live thing, pulsing and soft and bright. It stretches and changes with time. It grows flowers and thorns in him that prick him until he smiles, or rail him with beauty until the tears come.

And in the end, refuses to remain silent.

His feeling for Xingchen is a wild thing, too dangerous to put a name to.

But it isn’t something that likes to be patient.

Leaning against the car as the stars appear, Song Lan decides.

“It’s you, you know,” he says quietly, but not quietly enough not to be heard. “Always has been.”

Xingchen takes a short, quick breath. “Me?”

Song Lan nods. “You.”

And he turns, finally, to look at Xingchen who is already there as if he’s been waiting for Song Lan to turn around all this time. Which perhaps he has. Slowly, so slowly, he reaches out and takes Xingchen’s hand. Tugs him closer, closer, until they’re almost eye to eye. Nose to nose. Mouth to mouth. Heart to heart.

“Tell me,” Xingchen whispers hoarsely. “Is this it? What you want?”

Song Lan’s throat aches. His heart, cut open and ragged and yearning, rises up into his mouth. It tastes like honey and spice, like Schubert and silk and sunsets. Yes, it whispers, but the answer catches between his teeth, too desperate to be out in the open air.

Instead, Song Lan closes the distance between their lips tenderly so that Xingchen can taste the answer for himself.

41.

They say that the sight of the falling dragon eggs is one of the most beautiful things to be seen on earth.

But this night, Song Lan doesn’t see it because he’s grasping instead at something much closer and more precious to him.

42.

As they drive away from Lotus Pier having made their farewells, Song Lan keeps one hand on the wheel of the car and with the other, twines his fingers through Xingchen’s.

Is this what magic feels like? he wonders and can’t keep the smile off his face.

43.

The Mountain looms before them, and as they draw close, Xingchen asks for them to swap places.

“Why?” Song Lan asks, obligingly climbing out of the driver’s seat.

“The road’s confusing,” is all Xingchen says, and proceeds to navigate the most intricate web of pathways that Song Lan has ever seen.

“You’re telling me,” Song Lan says, aggrieved. “That you can remember how to get through this, but you can’t hold a map the right way up?”

All Xingchen does is smile, but it’s enough that Song Lan stops complaining to watch. The morning bathes them in a delicious light and for a moment, for a last moment, it’s just them. Just the two of them in the whole world, speeding along a quiet road into a pale sky.

Mine, Song Lan’s mind whispers, freely and without selfishness, and even after this past few weeks, it’s the most wondrous thing he’s ever experienced.

44.

The Mountain is remarkably normal.

“Why, what were you expecting?” Xingchen asks, amused. “Caves full of magical potions? Wardrobes leading to magical lands? A talking tree?”

“No,” Song Lan says defensively, although he had in fact expected at least one cave.

Instead the only difference is a subtle one. It’s in the air, in the grass, in the stained-glass windows. Something is heavier or maybe lighter. “Told you,” Xingchen says when Song Lan tries to articulate it and fails.

45.

Xingchen settles him in a room, and not several hours later, Baoshan Sanren asks to see him.

“Me?” Song Lan asks, half honoured and half petrified. He follows the young woman that’s brought him the message out of his room and down the sweeping staircase of the house, through the garden and underneath an archway in the hedge to a smaller courtyard with a fountain bubbling in the middle, and a huge oak tree just off to the side.

Underneath it, a small woman is standing.

“Baoshan Sanren Shifu,” Song Lan says, bowing respectfully. She laughs, and it’s as warm and lovely as he remembers.

“I remember you, Song Zichen,” she says, her voice musical. Even now, he’s unable to tell how old she is. “But I confess I’ve wanted very much to meet you again in these past few years.”

“My honour,” Song Lan says with his head still dipped.

She draws nearer. “Come and sit here,” she says, and he goes. Follows the trail of her pale robe on the grass. Sits beside her on an ornate bench. Above, the birds sing.

“I trust Xingchen has told you of his news – he is not, in fact, my heir.”

“He has,” Song Lan replies. Her eyes are dark like his, but full of colours too.

“What he will not have told you is what I have not told him,” she says. “Which is that I am glad.”

Despite himself, Song Lan feels rather offended. “You don’t think he would have done a good job?”

She laughs again, and folds her hands in her lap. “I’m sure he would have made a remarkable Sorcerer. But it isn’t what would have made him happy.”

“Shifu,” Song Lan begins hesitantly, then stops.

“Ask,” she says encouragingly. “Contrary to popular belief, I cannot read minds.”

He grins at that. “It’s about Xingchen. About what other people said.”

“Many people believed it would be him who inherited my powers,” she finishes for him. “Yes. Xingchen is a very talented young man, and my youngest. I don’t know how the rumours started, but I suppose it was natural for people to suspect I was adopting children in search of my successor.”

“But,” Song Lan says slowly, “you adopted Xingchen because-“

“He was a child with no mother or father,” she says gently. “No place in the world, no home. Xingchen was an orphan, with nothing. I know how that is. I adopted him because he needed it.” She looks at him. “As I do with all my children.”

Song Lan looks back at her, and his respect for her grows. “So it’s another misconception,” he says, “that a Sorcerer has to be lonely.”

Baoshan Sanren smiles at him. “It is fortunate for you both,” she says, “that you will never have to know.”

46.

“You love Xingchen,” he says.

“Of course,” she replies.

“But now that he knows he isn’t your successor,” Song Lan continues, “he’s probably going to leave.” Baoshan Sanren gives him a look, clearer than any other. “You knew that was going to happen.”

“I allowed the rumours about Xingchen to continue because they were not harmful. It was always going to come to this. Either he was going to inherit my powers, or he was not. And he did not.” She sighs, not unhappily, and adjusts her robe before continuing. “There are infinite possibilities in this life. Now, Xingchen has one less. And he must continue to count them less and less, until he finds the one that makes him truly happy. Although I believe you may be able to help with that,” she adds, almost fondly, and Song Lan feels his cheeks flush.

He clears his throat.

“Zichen,” she calls him, like Xingchen does. “The truth is that this will always be his home, but it is my place. Not his. He must find his own.”

“Yes,” Song Lan says, nodding.

“And it is no easy feat,” Baoshan Sanren says. “To find where you belong, or who you belong with. But it begins in the heart.” She places a hand over his, and he’s flooded with something bright and beautiful. “As you yourself well know.”

47.

He finds Xingchen beyond the hedge, bending over the roses.

Second Aunt’s words float through his mind. One person cannot be bigger than the whole world – which is exactly what love is.

“Hey,” Xingchen says, catching sight of him, and Song Lan reaches for him; kisses him in the sunlight in his mother’s garden, uncaring of who watches.

Xingchen huffs in surprise, but recovers in time to pull him closer. Winds his hands around Song Lan’s neck, sighs into the kiss like he’s a compass needle swinging to north.

“Hey yourself,” Song Lan murmurs once they’ve parted. “Nice roses.”

“My favourite part of the garden,” Xingchen confesses like it’s a secret.

Song Lan shields his face against the light and gazes upwards. The gardens sprawl lush and emerald, the sandstone house honey-coloured and vivid and warm. “You grew up in such a beautiful place.”

“I know,” Xingchen says, but he sounds troubled. There’s a shadow over his face when Song Lan looks back at him. “But I don’t know if I’m going to stay here. Back when I thought-“ He breaks off, and Song Lan fills it in mentally for him. Back when I thought I was going to become the Sorcerer. “I thought I’d be here forever,” Xingchen continues. “But now…”

Song Lan presses his lips onto the side of Xingchen’s neck, where it meets his shoulder. “Now you can go anywhere you like.”

“But I don’t-“ Xingchen breaks off, distressed. “I don’t really-“

“Hey,” Song Lan interrupts. “It’s alright.” He trails his hand down Xingchen’s arm. Tangles their fingers together again, and squeezes. “There’s a whole world out there. And we can go anywhere in it.”

Xingchen hears it, hears the we, and the smile that spreads across his face is brighter than any magic in the world. “I don’t really know where I want to go,” he says, with more ease this time.

“That’s fine,” Song Lan says, swinging their joined hands lazily. “We can find our way together.”

Xingchen puts his other hand over their joined ones, eyes serious. “I have an abysmal sense of direction.”

Song Lan beams, sunlight filtering across his eyes. He’s heard the music of the clouds, breathed magic that lives in the deepest earth, watched the moonlight of the stone forest, seen a phoenix egg and nearly a dragon one too. He’s touched magic at nearly every part. Baoshan Sanren’s hand had covered his own, and now, he holds Xingchen’s instead.

In this moment, he thanks the Gods.

“I really mean it,” Xingchen says. “I’ll probably get us lost.”

“Well,” Song Lan says with all his heart. “I look forward to it.”

End.