Chapter Text
Hanguang-jun:
I hope this letter finds you well. The book you have requested is rather heavy; I hope that your eagle will not suffer any injuries from the long flight and added weight. Please bear in mind that the contents and practices of this book are based on the climate and soil of Qishan, therefore necessary changes might have to be made either to the steps provided or to the conditions of your environment.
If possible, I would like to order the usual as well. Thank you.
Wen Qing
Qishan Wen Sect Leader
When Lan Wangji shifts his attention over, Mengze has already picked apart the knotted linen to reveal the book in question. Her golden eyes are quietly inquisitive, tilted head wondering “What do you think?” And his answer lies in his fingertips that brush the tome’s spine, feel its creases and cracks, in his scrutiny of the methodical drawings of flora and fauna, words printed in different styles of script signifying generations after generations of discovery. But it mostly, to Mengze at least, lies in the way his eyes meet hers again and, softly nodding, he answers.
With that she swoops out the window, almost silent save for the soft pleased trills she lets out. In the back she is claiming her reward, some mice led astray, and at the front Lan Wangji returns to his writing desk. Left hand holding back his right sleeve, he pours a little water onto the ink stone and with firm circular motions, grinds down the ink stick. The ink thickens, black as Mengze’s feathers, and with a dip of his brush he begins to scribe the knowledge of the Wens.
He only lets his brush rest when the sun sets. From a distance he can hear Mengze returning for the night, his signal to strengthen the wards. The hills glow blue then, slight enough not to disturb all that lives on and in it. There’s the soft hum of its re-enforcement, and then the house falls silent once again.
He blows out the candles and turns in for the night.
Except, he doesn’t. Not by choice but by circumstance- he feels the wards’ sharp tug of warning on his wrists within an hour of him shutting his eyes. In a split second he is up and alert, hand on Bichen, gauging the intrusion based on how the wards react. Strangely, the wards are not reacting swiftly and from its languid motion, akin to the ebb and flow of the ocean, it seems to even be coveting the intrusion.
An injured individual.
There is blood, so much of it, yet the amount of pain it is mingled with is disproportionately untraceable. And they are coupled with the heavy thrum of steady power, its nature deft like a dancer, somewhere between the firm and the flowing.
A cultivator.
Mengze is up too, ready to be sent at a moment’s notice, but Lan Wangji raises his hand to halt her. In the same breath he withdraws his wards, lets them rush back in and then, just before they return to him, burst up into the air like firecrackers. The blue of his signal momentarily brightens up the sky, before dissolving into a steady guide to his cottage.
There, he waits, Bichen still in hand.
Lan Wangji would expect a man dressed in robes nearly ribboned, hanging off his battered frame by pure luck, to walk in...much less jauntily. It is not that there is pep in his step, but it’s the way he walks in like nothing is amiss. He looks over to the counter, past it to the board behind that would inscribe a day’s worth of work now erased clean. He heads to the shelves that cover the walls, looks at the rows upon rows of glass jars and other containers. His fingers reach out to touch, but Bichen is faster. In the silence of the night the swift unsheathing of Bichen rings, cool metal brushing the tips of his fingers, and the man’s hand drops back to his side.
No matter, the man’s smile seems to say as their eyes meet.
“Say, would you be the second child of the Lans, also known as the incomparable Hanguang-jun?”
“Who are you?”
The man’s smile widens.
“Why, I’m Wei Wuxian, of course.”
Wei Wuxian is a rogue cultivator of sorts, he announced. He hails from the Yunmeng Jiang sect but clearly he is not their descendant, only lucky enough to be raised like one. He speaks of the lakes in Yunmeng, the quiet growth of the lotus leaves above its waters in the beginning of the fourth month, the avid bloom of its flowers in the middle of the sixth month. He likens its colour to the robes of the maidens, the blush on their faces, goes as far as grinning when he describes it.
“Lan-xiong, if you ever want to find a good Yunmeng beauty, I’m at your disposal!”
Lan Wangji chooses not to reply, simply wiping the last of the man’s blood from his calves. His self-introduction was truthfully quite unnecessary- Wei Wuxian’s name had already preceded his being before Lan Wangji’s solitude. There are some fantastical tales, other derisive myth-busters; still, there is not a person who does not speak his name without some form of awe. Surely he must know of his far-reaching reputation, but regardless it is not Lan Wangji’s place to comment on that.
Under the dim candle light he sees how youth wasted on the young. When he places the salve on Wei Wuxian’s wounds the littered myriad of scars, varying in age and depth, are hard to miss. Some are thin white lines, nearly fading into the soft of his stomach, but others are pink, almost tender looking, like hasty calligraphy was done on his back. How long has he been living like that?
Perhaps the careful application was telling, or maybe the small pockets of hesitation when he works on yet another part of his body gave clues, but Wei Wuxian looks down and traces a newly healed gash on his chest with this index finger idly, following from just shy of his left collarbone to the middle as he speaks again.
“I’ve only been rouge cultivating since spring actually, but I can’t remember where most of these scars come from.”
He punctuates his sentence with a chuckle, like it’s cursory. As if the state of his body is not something worthy of attention or care, like it is not his physical carriage through life. Criticism is on the tip of his tongue, yet he swallows it down at the last moment. The sanctity of one’s body is a Gusu Lan sect teaching carved into his mind, but as someone who is not representing them now, he has no right to impart such ideology to others. Besides, there is no point in engaging a stranger in anything more than pleasantries.
His sentiment is not shared, clearly, because Wei Wuxian chooses this moment to break the silence.
“So tell me, why did the second child of the Lans, known for his dedication to obligation and responsibility, decide to leave the Cloud Recesses and set up shop here?”
There is a twinkle in his eye, as if he knows something about Lan Wangji that he himself does not know. His hand falters for a moment, mid-bandaging the other’s arm, but composure returns as fast as the chill ran down his spine as the truth soothes- Wei Wuxian is not and should not be privy to such information; he is in no position to.
He bandages the last of Wei Wuxian’s wounds and leaves a set of inner robes on the makeshift bed, satisfied with his work. There are eyes burning on his back when he stands up to place an outer set on the nearby table, but he pays them no mind.
“Good night, Wei Wuxian,” is Lan Wangji’s eventual reply as he faces him, voice soft yet firm. With a flick of his wrist, the flame of the candles extinguish and the cottage sinks back into pleasant darkness, as though nothing had happened, as if nothing had changed.
Back in his own room, Lan Wangji shuts his eyes and wills himself to sleep.
The air in the forest is always clean and heavy but it is sharply so at dawn. It pricks at the back of Lan Wangji’s throat, drifts down cold into his lungs, but his body is no stranger to a phenomenon that happens near-daily. Today his steps are light like a curious child’s, robes billowing from his speed as he heads towards a pre-selected clearing. The sun is barely out and where he stands is the only opening amidst the thick foliage that allows for light to peek through. Hands raised, he closes his eyes and lets the heavy thrum of his spiritual energy flow from his chest to the tips of his fingers, feel it escape in steady waves into his surroundings. And slowly, so very slowly, he notices the change in temperature around him, growing warmer and warmer like the first definite day of summer.
When he opens his eyes he is greeted by a dome-shaped ward that shields the entire sunlit section, slightly shimmering in the weak morning light. Triumph lurks in the corners of his mouth, but they do not escape, not when there is more to be done. The hoe hits the soil once again, loosening it, and the familiar routine of planting new seeds sets into his muscles again.
By the time Lan Wangji is done sowing the seeds of his plum blossoms, the sun has already risen fully and in the full glory of her light he takes a step back to inspect his work. The faint iridescence of his wards has died down to near-invisibility and when errant wind sweeps across the forest, rustling the leaf litter amassed on its ground, the shielded section remains untouched. The beginnings of autumn are friends to cicadas and the forest is testament to that; their stridulations are the hymns that mark dusk and dawn. Yet now even as their songs fade their physical presence in the air is noticeable, and their purported absence in the protective bubble is clear as day. Maybe, he thinks, maybe he’s actually crafted this well.
He hurries back up the mountain, no time to relish in his success in lieu of his visitor, only for it to be proven unnecessary when he comes back to an empty house. The makeshift bed is made neatly, bandages and robes left by the table gone, virtually no signs of Wei Wuxian’s past presence save a note on his counter, scrawled “Thank you for the hospitality! I will repay when I can. Respectfully, Wei Wuxian.”
There is a moment where he considers throwing it away, but the note finds itself tucked under his inkstone as he continues with the rest of his day.
Dear Wangji,
How have you been? It has been a month since our last correspondence; I hope you are doing well. Forgive me for not visiting recently, the new batch of students arrived at the start of autumn and as you know, the first few months are the most difficult.
Shufu has asked after you too, though he does not want me to tell you that. I do not intend to make you feel guilty, but I do hope you understand when I say that your absence is deeply felt. Shufu might not be one to speak of emotions plainly, but some things need not words to express.
Your choices are always honourable, but there is no shame in returning as well, whenever you want. The Cloud Recesses always has a place for you.
Respectfully yours,
Lan Xichen
The letter comes with a basket of bayberries, now in season at Cloud Recesses. He keeps the letter under the bed, conscious of the growing stack, and washes some of the bayberries. Mengze perches on his shoulder, expectant.
“I have never seen any eagle crave fruit like you do,” Lan Wangji remarks as he feeds her one. She answers by gently head butting his hand, as if telling him I’m no ordinary eagle either , and that he agrees to. Whenever he receives letters from home she stays for a while longer, watchful gaze trying to ascertain his emotions. No matter how he acts Mengze is always more tender, sometimes even more affectionate. I’m here for you , her little actions say, and Lan Wangji can only hope that his own words and body language speak gratitude loud enough.
When Wenqing arrives at the foot of the mountain Lan Wangji is already there, waiting. She sends her men out to run errands, informing them to head up to Lan Wangji’s residence thereafter. Wenqing is silent as she always is on the route up to his cottage, but when Lan Wangji takes a turn early she does not hesitate to speak.
“New path today?”
“There is something I wish to consult you about.”
He leads her to the plum blossoms, watches her approach the horizontal stretches cautiously; she might not be able to see the wards but she can feel them.
“They only serve to regulate temperature and wildlife. Human entry is freely permitted.”
Wenqing turns around.
“Temperature regulation?”
Lan Wangji nods.
“It took me some time to find a way to fix the temperature within the protected constraints for long periods of time.”
The creating and perfecting of the wards had been a months-long process. Not knowing how or who to share it with, Lan Wangji had never spoken of it to anyone before this moment. It was his way of adding dimensions to his current skills and to try out what he did not have the opportunity to previously, but as he ventured into such untreaded territories the nagging feeling of failure always sat on his shoulders. With no one to set the standards, how was he to know how to judge his creation? Nonetheless after the morning of the plum blossoms-planting he would check in on it daily, but came to the realisation that no matter the result reassurance never came. He knew that he needed the objective opinion of another, someone who understood plants and climate, and who better than Wenqing? Knowledgeable she is no doubt, yet now, placing it in front of her open for judgement felt like entering a duel without a sword- vulnerable, defenceless.
“The climate of Gusu, unlike Qishan, does not permit the healthy growth of plum blossoms. I would like to inconvenience you to examine the saplings’ condition, if possible.”
Wenqing, always dignified, always an expression of schooled neutrality, obliges. There’s a moment when she enters the bubble where she halts, possibly gauging its temperature and maybe even his craftsmanship. No doubt her quiet evaluation of his work continued even after she visibly redirects her attention to the plants, crouching down for a better look.
“They seem to be doing fine currently. When they’re fully grown you can probably lower the wards unless you’d like them to flower sooner,” she states as she stands up again after a while. “Plum blossoms flower in winter, so a mountainous region like yours would see them flourish. Qishan’s winters are not quite cold enough for them to blossom beautifully, so it’s likely that your trees will turn out better than ours.” There’s a faint smile on her lips.
“I dare not claim so,” Lan Wangji states as they continue their journey up to his estate, but with her affirmation the tension in his shoulders slowly dissipate.
When they arrive at the storefront it is business first. The earthy, warm grounds of the Nightless City has never seen snow just as this mountain has never felt the boiling heat of mid-summer; with such vast differences in environment Wenqing had then sought him out for the purchasing of medicinal ingredients that she cannot grow. With her business came the steady onslaught of others; many of the apothecaries in the Nightless City and around it started purchasing from him too. Logic went that if it’s good enough for the Qishan Wen sect leader, it’s definitely good enough for me.
Through transactions and pleasantries they have come to form a friendship of sorts; the grounds of mutual respect and admiration for each other’s workmanship and outlook has led them to having tea together after each fortnightly goods collection.
“How is your betrothal going?” Lan Wangji asks as he refills her cup. The last time they had met she had brought up the matter in passing, speaking of it quickly and vaguely. Not out of aloofness, he believes, from the way her fingers had gripped the cup white. Today, upon mentioning the topic, her fingers drum against the wooden table, rhythmic yet restless.
“The Jiang family did accept it, but there’s still much to do before any procession happens.”
“I did not know you were getting engaged to Jiang Wanyin.”
She blinks at him, raised teacup lowered.
“I’m not. I’m getting engaged to their daughter, Jiang Yanli.”
“Oh, my apologies for assuming.”
Wenqing simply waves her hand.
“The Jiang family has been having some trouble with Wei Wuxian and his careless gallivanting, so I suppose when they’re done settling that the betrothal will then officially go through.” She speaks of it like an after-thought but it sticks to the forefront of Lan Wangji’s mind.
“What about Wei Wuxian?”
“About half a year ago he had suddenly announced that, rather than staying with the Yunmeng Jiang sect, that he was going to cultivate rogue.” Wenqing tells Lan Wangji about the understandable displeasure of the Jiang family, resulting in the family being split down the middle in terms of beliefs in future undertakings. Sect Leader Jiang Fengmian and Jiang Yanli had stated that Yunmeng would always be open for Wei Wuxian whenever he wanted to come back, but Madam Yu and Jiang Wanyin were adamant on him either returning or leaving for good. “Our residence is not an inn that he can choose to come and go freely as he pleases!” Madam Yu had said.
“What are your thoughts?” Lan Wangji asks.
“Not my position to speak on this,” Wenqing shrugs. “But Wei Wuxian...I know he doesn’t mean harm but his way of trying to correct things his way without consideration of others can be quite detrimental.”
Blasé is the way she speaks but the uncomfortable nostalgia of her words bristle unwittingly. He drains the rest of his cup, responseless.
Serendipitous weeks pass and undisturbed life continues until the last days of autumn arrive. When he comes back from his morning harvest he hears Mengze’s loud hoots and, as he approaches, the sound of a man’s stifled laughter.
“What a good girl! Now you better hush or else-”
Lan Wangji finds none other than Wei Wuxian squatting in his backyard, trying to get his eagle to do tricks for fish. The words in the other man’s throat dies abruptly, but he chooses to break into a smile anyway. He throws the remaining fish to the ground as he stands up, much to Mengze’s voracious delight.
“Hey, Lan-xiong! Good to see you!”
“What are you doing here?” The words come out ruder than he expects but Wei Wuxian is undeterred.
“In my note I promised to pay you back, so I’m here to fulfill my promise!”
“There is no need for that.”
Lan Wangji is prepared to take his leave but the other man is faster. Slinging an arm around his shoulder, Wei Wuxian presses himself close and furrows his eyebrows in mock despair, exclaiming.
“Lan-xiong, you wound me! How can you to tell someone who’s climbed all the way up this steep mountain to deliver you nice things to leave? Besides, who am I supposed to give these to then?” Indeed in his hands is a beautifully wrapped package with the lotus flower insignia pressed on its front, labelled “osmanthus cakes”.
“I even made sure that they were vegetarian just in case you still are.” Wei Wuxian states earnestly. “The old lady who made this wasn’t very happy about that though. If you must, take it for her at least.”
It takes much tolerance for Lan Wangji not to shrug his arm off but he figures it would be wiser and easier to simply accept the gift. So he takes the gift, much to the other’s delight, bows in thanks and wants to walk off when, yet again, Wei Wuxian holds him back, hand grabbing onto his bicep.
“Since I’ve come all the way up here for you, wouldn’t it be impolite of you not to invite me to your place?” He stretches, chest out and hand going to his own lower back, loudly groaning. “This weary body would definitely appreciate some hot tea.”
Lan Wangji can understand why it can be hard to say no to someone like Wei Wuxian. He playfully uses his words to put you in a corner, makes you feel obliged to take the route he gives you, one he presents as the only viable option out. And Lan Wangji may know all this, but what good is this information if he has no solution to it? In the end all he does is throw out a word of “Shameless!” under his breath while leaving the door to his house open after him. Trailing behind him is the sound of Wei Wuxian’s laughter, light as a feather, filling every crevice in the four walls of his residence, ringing in Lan Wangji’s ears even after he leaves.
When winter hits the chill reaches beyond Lan Wangji’s physicality. The wards that keep the mountain safe waver as they try to keep the beings that lurk at its edges at bay. They too know that winter is the soft of a human’s belly, making them easy to strike and plain in sight when the nights are long and the days are short. As the sun goes down Lan Wangji puts on an extra layer, preparing for the inevitable night hunt. He can hear his heart beating in his ears; it’s been a while. It’s been a long, long while.
The woods are always deceptively quiet at night. In the dark where sight fails you, the importance of sound and smell are elevated. The white forest floor, covered in a thick layer of snow, help to cushion the sound of his footsteps and illuminate his path as he treks the periphery of the forest, but he anticipates that the flurry of snowfall may impede him later on.
The stench hits him first.
The smell of decomposing flesh is a uniquely horrid one. It clings to the air, inside your nostrils, on your clothes, and it is a smell that Lan Wangji cannot mistake for another. Yet the smell wafts around him despite the lack of wind, carrying undertones of mildew as if it had been stuck in an enclosed place for a long time. No, this is not a corpse; this has to be a malevolent spirit!
As he reaches his conclusion a cackle sounds in the distance, high and shrill. Within a split second Bichen rushes forth into the darkness and when it comes back its blade is covered with the remnants of evil but the cackling does not stop. Instead it grows louder, closer, and Lan Wangji realises it is not one spirit but a whole herd of them closing in on him, like a pack of wolves on its prey.
Momentarily a vision of Bichen dropping to the ground, snow stained red flashes across his eyes, but when he blinks it is gone. The pounding in his ears grow louder and faster but there is no time to focus on that, not when the stench is overpowering and the voices are a frenzy, moving from ear to ear. Bichen back in his hand, Lan Wangji swings fast with little resistance, blade slicing through the spirits clean. Waves of blue light ripple like an aftershock amidst the forest and as they hit the disembodied figures of black the sounds of cackling turn into shrieks, blood-curdling and pained. But the fight is barely over- after this first attack the bright night sky had quickly been replaced by the dome of black before him. Does attacking them make them regenerate? But what else can I do? Again and again he slashes desperately, trying to see bright of the moon but again and again, within seconds, the sliver of light is diminished. Their noises have reached a fever pitch, disorienting at this point, and it takes all but the entirety of his mental power to focus. He centres all his attention to his hand, gripping Bichen as he creates force field after force field of strikes. The metallic tang in his mouth grows sharper but the darkness before him seems to barely dent. If he can just pull through a little longer-
Abruptly the vision of red floods beneath his eyelids again, the sight of Bichen in his loose grip on the floor. He swears he can hear the sound of his brother’s voice yelling his name, feel the weight of his tongue in his mouth as he tries to answer yet no words come out-
“Lan Zhan!”
The familiar holler snaps him out of his reverie but amidst the clamour he cannot be sure if he is hallucinating. Only when the bolts of red, sparking at its ends, form a web to envelope the spirits is he certain that oh, there must be someone else here. With his continued attacks the surroundings are an interwoven mesh of fluid blue and red, the stubborn darkness slowly ebbs. As more and more light enters his field of vision, the awareness of his bone-deep ache of exhaustion creeps in too. The tremble in his arms and legs are unmistakable and he knows that when this is over it would take him all his remaining energy to walk back up the mountain.
“Lan-xiong!”
The moment the spirits have fully diminished the air feels lighter and cleaner, and in the distance he sees a cloaked figure run towards him. Without looking Lan Wangji would already have known that it could be none other than Wei Wuxian, voice bright and distinct. He hurtles over, swift as if the previous fight did nothing for him. Maybe it didn’t.
“Lan-xiong, your arm!”
The urgency in the other’s voice has Lan Wangji looking down to realise that a gash runs from his palm down his forearm. The snow beneath his feet is dark, bloodied, and the vision that snuck beneath his eyes previously threatens to front again but he wills it back again. Not now , he tells himself as he rips a strip off his inner robes, making a quick bandage. Wei Wuxian checks him for other injuries, hands touching him as if they were old friends. He would push him off, tell him to worry about his own self, but fatigue has him conserving his energy for the task at hand.
“Lan-xiong, let me help you back.”
And Lan Wangji doesn’t even say no, just lets the other man sling his arm around his shoulder and lead him up. Amidst the chill of the night Wei Wuxian’s body heat is comforting and it is hard not to press closer into him. For the sake of warming himself up, he thinks, even as he reluctantly parts when they stumble into his house. Wei Wuxian moves with practised ease to light the room up, finding a bucket for water and clean cloth as if it might be his own abode.
“I can do it myself,” Lan Wangji echoes emptily after the other man’s disappearing figure but his wavering voice does not even fool himself and, as expected, an unruly snort of disbelief sounds from the back of his house. When he comes back Wei Wuxian’s mouth is a grim line, wringing the damp cloth before reaching for Lan Wangji’s clothes when Lan Wangji moves away abruptly.
“Let me do this myself.”
“You-“ Wei Wuxian is protesting but Lan Wangji’s fingers are faster. The layers are shed quickly, pooling at his waist much to the other man’s exasperation.
“Come on, we’re both men. What is there to be shy about? Just take it all off!”
But of course he does not. Silence falls as both of them glare at each other, unwilling to relent. Time crawls by as if witnessing this exchange with bated breath too, but eventually Wei Wuxian breaks eye contact, sighing heavily.
“Alright, do what you want. I’ll help you clean the top half.”
And so he does. Lan Wangji finds out that night that Wei Wuxian’s hands can be unbearably gentle as he cleans off the blood that has somehow found itself on his chest. The room is deathly quiet save the sounds of water dripping from the periodic wringing of the towel and Lan Wangji notes that this is the first time he has seen Wei Wuxian stay so silent. His knitted brows are testament to the concentration he is giving to the task, making sure to clean around the wounds and apply less pressure on the grazed areas.
“Does it hurt?” Wei Wuxian asks as he reaches his right arm. It’s as though the skin there has split from pressure, the unsightly gash spanning from mid-palm to missing his vital points by a hair’s breadth. Lan Wangji shakes his head- the pain is more bearable than it looks, but even if it did hurt there would be nothing the other could do for him anyway.
Wei Wuxian gets up to change the water but comes back with a mortar and pestle in tow as well, the former filled with herbs.
“Where did you get these?”
“Store front, don’t tell me you don’t use your own herbs on yourself?”
“My worry is that you do not know what to use.”
To that Wei Wuxian laughs.
“Hey, I might not be learned in the art of medicine like you are but I know that Wen Qing swears by dried purple gromwell’s roots for deep wounds, and she’s never wrong.”
Indeed the mortar is filled with said herb and a little water. Lan Wangji watches as the other man rolls his sleeves up haphazardly to make way for better grinding and under the yellow light and its shadows the flex of his muscle as he works the root into a paste is accentuated with every stroke. The sound of stone scraping against stone tells how infrequent his hands touch these utensils but what he lacks in practice and skill he makes up for in strength and perseverance as he toils on until it reaches paste consistency. The final product is somewhat rough, but who is he to complain when another has to do his work for him?
Under Wei Wuxian’s careful ministrations a job rather acceptable is done. Lan Wangji lets out a hum of approval after inspecting it.
“You can leave the room now.”
His request is met with an eye-roll and a loudly muttered “what a conservative person”, but the other man walks back to the storefront nonetheless, leaving Lan Wangji alone.
As he takes off the rest of his clothes he idly thinks about how vastly different Wei Wuxian is from any known family’s cultivator. One could say he was unique, others could say he was trying too hard not to follow the grain. And Lan Wangji believes, as he finishes dressing himself once again, that maybe it is better not to dwell too much on it.
“What brings you here again?” Lan Wangji says as he watches Wei Wuxian stir the boiling pot. All he can offer is porridge and dishes, he previously stated rather apologetically, but the other man says that is more than enough. He’s had worse for meals, he states, smiling.
“Ah...actually I came here to see if you had anything to treat banded krait venom but I found my answer when you kicked me out of the room. You’ve got an impressive amount of antidotes with good instructions, by the way.” Wei Wuxian speaks casually of his predicament, blase like getting bitten by something as lethal as a banded krait is part of his daily routine. Lan Wangji cannot even begin to be mad about the rummaging of his supplies when the alarm bells are sounding off in his head.
“You got bitten by a banded krait?!”
“Oh no worries, I slowed down the circulation of my blood so that it wouldn’t reach my heart that fast.”
One hand ladling his porridge and the other waving off Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian rummages through his jars of preserved vegetables to find something he likes before walking back over. The urge to say something about the strength of a banded krait’s venom or the danger of night hunting when there’s such venom flowing through your blood is right there, but he bites it down- there is nothing he can say that Wei Wuxian doesn’t already know. There is nothing he can say to change the situation either, just watches as Wei Wuxian gulps down the porridge like he’s drinking water, Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow. There’s an itch he feels like he cannot scratch nestling right under his skin, keeping him too warm for comfort.
“Thank you, by the way.” Lan Wangji says as he brings Wei Wuxian to the guest room.
“What is with you and formality? We’re friends now, no need for all this thanking.” Wei Wuxian pats him on his good shoulder, eyes crescent moons, and in that moment something shifts in place. For a moment Lan Wangji considers that perhaps there is basis to the brashness and carelessness of this man; perhaps youth is not wasted but still thrumming in his veins. Recklessness not out of prideful, self-perceived invincibility but out of unbridled curiosity and child-like wonder. Good-natured naivete with less ignorance.
“Good night, Lan Zhan.” As always, Wei Wuxian smiles like the rising sun.
“Good night, Wei Ying.” When the lights go out Lan Wangji smiles too, back turned.
When Lan Wangji returns from his morning harvest Wei Wuxian is already awake and eating breakfast. He pats the opposite of the table, already set, mouth full of food gesticulating to tell Lan Wangji to have breakfast with him. The morning sun, fully bloomed, is beautiful and as its rays spill into the house they hit Wei Wuxian’s hair and eyes, softening their edges a glowing amber. Now, said eyes look straight ahead at him, peering in.
“No speaking while eating,” the words are on the tip of his tongue, but etiquette must have been lost in delivery because his words are instead translated to averting his eyes as he sits down. Lunch is a quiet affair- Lan Wangji realises that Wei Wuxian talks the least while eating, letting the familiar sounds of wood on porcelain speak for his appetite. Unconsciously he, too, finds himself reaching for the dishes more than he usually does. The pickled mustard stems are gone as fast as they come and the soup bowl is drained clean.
“So, I have been thinking for a while, why would the responsible and respectable Lan Wangji choose to become a recluse on this mountain?“ Wei Wuxian starts again as he begins changing the dressing on Lan Wangji’s forearm wound. He sits himself opposite Lan Wangji, placing the injured arm on his crossed leg.
“Why did you choose to leave Lotus Pier then?”
Wei Wuxian shrugs.
“Wasn’t good to stay. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumours.”
“Wasn’t good for who?”
“For the Jiang family and for me,” Wei Wuxian says plainly as he tosses the old bandages aside. “Despite how they act it’s evident that the rumours bogged them down for years. I didn’t want to be a burden anymore.”
By rumours Wei Wuxian must mean the ones about his preferential treatment by Jiang Fengmian, the ones that have persisted through the years. Some say it’s because of Jiang Wanyin’s likeness to his mother, a wife he could not grow to love, some say it’s simply because none of his children had Wei Wuxian’s capabilities. Regardless of its shape and form the rumours had always been hard to listen to, and Lan Wangji can only imagine how much harder they must be to swallow as members of the Jiang family.
“I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for? It’s not like you spread any of these rumours. Besides, not being tied down to the family name means I actually get to do whatever I want for the first time in years.” Today’s gromwell root paste is less course already, applying smoother on his wound. Still, the sting of a healing gash is one that never goes away.
“So, now that I have shared my story it’s time for you to share yours, Lan Zhan.”
Well. He stays quiet for a while and Wei Wuxian doesn’t push him either, just continues treating his wound.
“I left to heal after an accident with my golden core.” When he finally speaks the words come out quickly like they know there’s no space to think, no space to regret. But still once they come out it hurts to know they can never be retracted.
As Wei Wuxian’s eyebrows raise, the ache in his chest throbbed anew like it hadn’t in a long time. Saying it out loud, hearing and processing his predicament had brought in a new wave of pain he hadn’t quite anticipated.
“How would leaving Cloud Recesses help with that then?”
There’s a long beat of silence, Lan Wangji looking down at the ground as Wei Wuxian stares at him, movement paused. Time always seems to crawl when met with two opposing forces, breath bated. Finally, after what seems like the entire afternoon, Wei Wuxian grabs the new roll of bandages and continues what he started.
“Lan Zhan, you didn’t leave just to heal, right?” Wei Wuxian speaks without looking up, tying the last of the bandages in place.
Wei Wuxian’s voice has never been softer. Maybe nobody’s voice has ever been softer, save the first snow, but in its softness it hurts sharply. He holds the power of, somehow, always knowing too much, and with that knowledge he always chooses to let others know just how much he does in the most tender yet bruising way. Denial rises up in to the brim of his throat, sour like bile, but before he can speak Wei Wuxian sighs, tracing a finger ever so lightly down his forearm, making sure not to place any pressure on his injuries, up till his palm. Feather-light, barely there, as if if Lan Wangji had not witnessed it himself it could almost be mistaken for the caress of the wind.
“We aren’t so different then, Hanguang-jun.” Warm fingers closing over his own, Wei Wuxian’s gaze comforts. There is not a single ounce of pity on his face nor is there a shadow of triumph for extrapolating meaning from Lan Wangji’s meagre, reluctant words. Simply and plainly there is understanding, genuine understanding. And for the first time, Lan Wangji thinks maybe this is real. Maybe this is true.
Outside, the plum blossoms have grown to full height.
Wei Wuxian insists on helping Lan Wangji with his tasks, what with taking care of the sick and injured. Lan Wangji finds that he doesn’t mind the company and an extra hand means an extra basket for fruit-picking. The hawthorn berries are ripe now, festive red and large. Coated in sugar, six on a stick, they would be any child’s dream. He knows that they were once his dream, at least.
“Lan Zhan, let’s do some sparring in future.” Wei Wuxian sounds suddenly, cracking his back.
“I haven’t sparred in a while.”
“Exactly. You need to practice again, and who better to duel with than me?”.
Wei Wuxian is fast but Lan Wangji is faster, and when he finishes his row of trees he moves over to help the other man.
“Give me some time to recover first.”
“Of course, I refuse to win an unfair battle.”
The smirk in Wei Wuxian’s voice is unbearable, voice practically dripping with cockiness. Lan Wangji feels the itch beneath his skin again.
“Shameless.”
“No reason not to be until you win against me.”
Only Wei Wuxian would be able to make a sentence whose words are so grating on the nerves sound playful, but maybe it’s because of how he looks like now. Robe sleeves pushed up to his elbows, ankle-deep in snow, it is hard to view him as intimidating. Not when stray snowflakes have fallen on his hair, clinging to his eyelashes as he tries to blink them away. Not when they saddle on his shoulders, rest on his cold-reddened nose lazily with no intention of leaving. Not when his eyes crinkle, his teeth rivalling the snowy landscape.
“We shall see.” But there is no bite in Lan Wangji’s tone.
Heaving the filled basket onto his back, he briskly walks back up to his humble abode, leaving Wei Wuxian to chase after him. The forest sees the man run, hollering for Lan Wangji to wait up, watches as he finally reaches him. It sees him grab him by his good shoulder, slinging his arm around it. It watches Lan Wangji stiffen for the quickest of seconds, watches him relax slowly just as fast. By the time they enter the house it is dark but the lantern they hold illuminate their proximity.
(“It’s been so long since I’ve had bingtanghulu.”
“Satisfying to eat it now, eh?”
“A little too sweet.”
“Oh, come on.”)
Wei Wuxian leaves a few days later. Last bingtanghulu in hand, bag over his shoulder, he bades Lan Wangji goodbye with the promise of coming back in spring or “whenever I get injured again”. When asked where he’s heading to he simply shrugs.
“Wherever beckons, I go.”
Lan Wangji stands by his door, watching Wei Wuxian’s back view grow smaller and smaller until he fades into the forest. Mengze sits on his shoulder, silent until Wei Wuxian‘s figure cannot be seen. And then she coos, gently head-butting his neck before flying off once again.
A few days later, he gets an anonymous letter in familiar penmanship, a single line scrawled in ink: First day of spring, we duel.
Lan Wangji tucks it in the fold of his robes.
The days pass fast. When the depth of winter reaches its ankles Lan Wangji has already learnt to enforce the heating charms around the periphery of the mountain. Not all spirits stay away, but at least they do not proliferate out of his control.
And it would be embarrassing to require help again , he thinks as he walks back up to his residence one night, fresh from his night hunt. He tells himself it is not an issue of pride and perhaps it might not be the main reason, but still dignity will never be lost on a descendant of Lan.
The vision he had before that night hunt, the same one he had mid-fight still linger. Sometimes awake as he heads down the mountain at the cusp of dusk, sometimes mid-fight, sometimes when he returns home from the hunt, sometimes in his dreams when he sleeps. Now that night hunting has become an inescapable inevitable these visions (no, he should call it what it is- memories) have infiltrated his mind the way it had when he first came up this mountain. Like the evil spirits of the night they lurk at the periphery waiting for the walls to come down so that they can creep in, opportunistic and vivid, different in form but alike in nature.
When it begins from the very start the first thing he sees is the immeasurably cold hand on his abdomen, digits searing into his skin and beyond, way beyond, into something he himself had never felt with his own fingers, could never touched himself. But he could not focus on that when the chill moved from skin and flesh into even deeper , all while his limbs were immobilised. As if hell had made a sanctuary in his body and then froze over all while he begged the heavens for a sliver of warmth. He remembers how the blood dripped from his body, staining the snowed ground as he saw the creature before him ripple grotesquely, digging deeper and deeper into his abdomen. And with it was the immense pain, a pain of an intensity he had never felt, muting all his other senses, threatening to split him open. It was like a dagger plunging slowly through the innermost part of his being, letting him writhe from its gradual, sickening torment as it twisted itself deeper and deeper and-
Then he hears the sound of his brother’s voice, loud and yet distant, so very far as if he was underwater and his brother was far above on land. He knows that his brother will come and save him but the memories always stop there, as if making him second guess if anyone will come. As if mocking him, telling him that all there is to him is that moment. Frozen in time, in a split second that feels like the past one year of his life. In a sense, it is not wrong.
After receiving the note from Wei Wuxian he starts on the exercise regime of the Gusu Lan sect again. It’s been a while, years in fact, since he’s done sets of their rigorous exercise regimes from start to end. Previously he had not need to, only doing core exercises to upkeep his strength and stability. It brings a flush of embarrassment, creeping up his neck as he starts from step one and gets breathless by step twenty, but nevertheless it helps when the only witness is himself and occasionally, Mengze.There’s a sense of nostalgia as he does them; he can almost smell the orange jasmine shrubs that filled the stone garden where he and his brother would complete their sets. At 6am with its dusting of morning dew the shrubs glistened like jewels and its aroma was light and pleasant. When they headed back to their quarters for breakfast he would always walk a little closer to the bushes just to revel in its scent a little longer.
Lan Xichen sends a couple more letters explaining and apologising for his lack of visiting. The comfort his marked absence brings is one that shames Lan Wangji to his core, yet with every letter that begins with a sincere apology his shoulders sag in relief. He wants to take it step by step, and meeting his brother again after such a long period of time is a plan for the far future.
Wen Qing visits another time and tells him that her marriage is set for the end of next spring. The Wei Wuxian predicament is something the Jiangs have decided is no longer in their jurisdiction, she tells him. Madam Yu insists that waiting on his presence like he’s royalty is a disgrace to their family name, so the wedding preparations start. Inauspicious to see the bride before the wedding, Wen Qing has yet to see Jiang Yanli in quite some time but still the correspond through letters. Needs must, he supposes. She confides in her her worries about Wei Wuxian, wondering if he would attend their wedding.
“He will.” Lan Wangji assured, unsure of where that confidence came from.
“With all due respect, Lan-Er Gongzi, I don’t think either of us can predict how he acts.”
Then he tells her about his interactions with Wei Wuxian. He tells her about his initial visit, the one after to repay him, and the last visit, which he speaks of vaguely. Through his monologue Wen Qing is silent, almost stiffly so, and only when he is evidently done speaking does she reply.
“If you don’t mind, I would like to share the news of his meetings with you with Yanli. Not in detail of course, just to inform her that he’s been seen and heard recently.”
“Has he not returned as of late?”
“Not that I am aware of, no. He used to visit from the backdoor like an intruder just to see the siblings, but it’s been a good few months since his last visit,” Wen Qing says as she shakes her head.
“I just want her not to fret too much.” She ends with a sigh.
“I understand.” And that was all Lan Wangji could give as well- his understanding as a bystander. It might not be enough, seeing how Wen Qing visibly sagged for the rest of their conversation, but that was all he had. When she leaves he gives her some passion fruits, winter-borne, penitence and gratitude and well-wishes all in one.
Business gets better, strangely. One would think frigid winter and the mountain’s extraordinary chill would deter patrons but winter becomes a busy month for Lan Wangji. He gets patrons from different counties, some even farther away than Qishan, and when asked from whom did they hear of him they simply shrug and say variations of “word on the streets”.
With all these work and self-training winter passes by in a blink of an eye. He only notices its wane when he sees the first of the swallows’ return, their chirps loud and bright. The note comes back to mind, a promise due in time, and for a brief moment, his heart thuds.
Spring looms, and Lan Wangji lies waiting.
When spring approaches life is breathed back into most flora and fauna. Mid-afternoon with the sunlight warming up the forest and Lan Wangji himself only donning a single light outer-robe, Mengze and him take a walk down a path less travelled- to the outskirts of the forests to lower the heat regulating wards of select plants. When they patrol together Mengze has fallen into the habit of flying slightly ahead of him in order to warn him about or protect him from incoming danger, even if in broad daylight, even if now unlike at the very beginning he is better able to protect himself. Still he lets her do her job, if it so pleases her.
With every ward lowered he feels the tingle of his powers being returned to him and when he is done he wonders how he had functioned previously with so much of his own spiritual energy sapped. Lan Wangji stretches his arms out, the energy returning to his core coursing steadily from fingers to chest. The heat of it makes him sweat, hair sticking to his neck and inner garments clinging to his back but his heart soars. He almost feels like he has finally reached a place of semblance. He is back to a state in which he has been familiar with all his life.
His thoughts don’t last long. In the distance behind he hears the sound of footsteps, faster than the beat of a dragonfly’s wings. They are traversing in his direction most definitely, streamlined and rapid with intention. The sound of their speed coupled with the ringing in the air tells him the assailant has a sword. And the instinct will always be there, he thinks, as he raises Bichen’s sheath just in time for the intruding sword to be countered. Metal against jade, the clang of forces reverberate around them like hardened rivals. Yet the sword withdraws at the speed of light and he turns just as quickly, Bichen now unsheathed and pointing straight ahead.
“Not bad, Lan Zhan. Not bad at all.”
His sword meets no opposition, only the grinning face of the man who promised to return. And return he does, red ribbon in his hair chasing the billow of breeze, apples of cheeks a healthy pink.
“Welcome back, Wei Ying.”