Work Text:
The harvest was good. That, Wen Ning knew.
Between Wei Wuxian’s mastery over the resentful energy that had spoiled their first attempts, Wen Qing’s keen eye for the earliest signs of infestation or disease, and Wen Ning’s careful, measured tending to the crops, the food they grew even in a place like the Burial Mounds was actually quite good.
The rest of the family, too, was of course essential. Wen Ning was well suited to seeing each person’s strength and weakness, using it here to assign tasks just as he as a Wen general. His family was happy to take direction, being instructed by someone who actually cared about them and for whom they also cared deeply.
Wen Ning found himself smiling often while working in the Burial Mounds. He was useful. He was with his family. They were safe, even if it wasn’t like “the old days” that Sishu liked to talk about, days where no one cared what their branch did, days when hardly anyone knew that there even was a branch of the Wen sect on Dafan Mountain, days that Wen Ning did not remember in the slightest.
He was allowed to go where he wished, now. His sister was far less concerned about him wandering the mass graves than she had been when he’d left his rooms in Qishan.
He could practice archery if he wished, a better shot now that he could be confident that no one who saw would base their opinion of him on his accuracy, that his skill with a bow and arrow would not mean trouble for his sister one way or another.
He patrolled the borders, sometimes, while the others slept – giving Wei Wuxian the opportunity for some much needed rest, even if the man never seemed to take those chances. Wen Ning sometimes had to fight the odd thing trying to creep across the boundaries, but Wei Wuxian’s barriers held strong, so it was more an added layer of security, not something he worried too much about.
He would brew medicines, always eager to see the relief on Granny Wen’s, on his cousins’, his aunts’ and uncles’ faces when he brought them something to ease whatever aches or pains ailed them.
He would check on his sister, gently redoing her hair where it fell haphazardly on her face. Wen Qing was never quite as good at taking care of herself as she was of others, so Wen Ning took it onto himself to do what he could. He suspected that he was one of the few who saw through the façade she wore sometimes, trying to downplay her need for their help in an effort to make sure no one ever hesitated to ask for hers.
He played with a-Yuan, jumping from rooftops to trees and back to the ground as a-Yuan flapped his arms and clapped, watching from below. “Fly! Fly!” he would shout, waving his butterfly toy in imitation of Wen Ning’s movements.
So he really couldn’t find too much to be upset over. At least not when he was at home.
But town was an entirely different story.
“Turnips. Turnips.” He adjusted his hat, self-conscious of the dark veins creeping up his neck, his face. Not wanting to be recognized. Not wanting to be seen.
But needing to sell these turnips.
The turnips were good. He knew that. But he had to accept that there were only so many different ways he could prepare them before whether they were “good” was far outweighed by whether they were “turnips.”
Even a-Yuan – never a picky eater, and always hungry, was starting to cross his arms, pout, shake his head, and push the dish away from his when dinner featured turnips in any way.
So they had to go. Had to be exchanged for something else.
“Turnips. Fresh turnips.” He tried a little louder. Still, no one turned to the sound of his voice.
He didn’t want people to look at him, but he needed them to pay attention, to listen, to be interested in what they saw.
He was good at avoiding attention. Liked it, even. So this?
“Turnips! Fresh and delicious turnips!” His monotone switched to something a bit more excited – though nowhere near “passionate” as Wei Wuxian had urged. Wen Ning tried. He really did. But truthfully, he just wanted out of there.
Wen Ning believed in his wares. The harvest was good. The turnips were fresh. Were delicious. Were fairly priced. The money would be used to support his loved ones.
But Wen Ning’s beliefs had never really mattered to anyone much. He struggled to put too much energy into his words when he was sure no one would care to listen anyway. His opinion had never meant much to anyone who didn’t now live in a graveyard, in one way or another.
Fortunately, there was another thing Wen Ning had never quite mastered, something aside from peddling wares, from being heard. And that was knowing when to stop.
The newly named Ghost General couldn’t have possibly known it then, sitting in a small Yiling town, bypassed by dozens if not hundreds of people, going about their ordinary lives, not finding a need to even spare a glance the way of the mumbling turnip seller, but one day, he would have another chance to offer – no, insist – that another person look at what he had to show them.
Suibian in hand, Wen Ning didn’t think twice about how Lotus Pier was somewhere he certainly was known, would be recognized, certainly was unwanted. He had had sixteen years to wish he could have a chance – any kind of chance – to care for the family he’d once had. Now, with a-Yuan once again in his life, with Wei Wuxian once again needing his help, needing an advocate, Wen Ning made his pitch.
And Jiang Cheng took the sword. Took the sword, and listened to what Wen Ning had to say.