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Most of the cultivation world didn’t know the details of why Zewu-jun had suddenly vanished from their midst – the Gusu Lan sect was notoriously skilled at maintaining privacy – but his absence was still notable. Rumours swirled.
Some had expected that one day, he would simply return to his duties as sect leader. Quieter, sadder, perhaps, but only noticeably so behind closed doors. Zewu-jun was too noble, too selfless to avoid his responsibilities for long.
Others shook their heads, saying they didn’t believe that. They thought Zewu-jun would stay in seclusion, never leave at all. That he might let grief, guilt, eat away at him.
Then there were those who preferred darker tales – who mused that maybe it hadn’t been a willing withdrawal. These were the conspiring whisperers who reminded their companions that this was not the first time a prominent figure from the sect had suddenly disappeared. Hanguang-jun had since re-emerged, but many others had not.
Of course, none would dare say any of these things if they knew that anyone from the Lan Sect was present. Gossip had its way of always making it to the ears of those most central to it, but the Lan sect were above such idle chatter – in public at least – and so the discussions went on unchecked, grew wilder and wilder. Soon, it was hard to find someone who did not claim to know some secret about the distinguished Zewu-jun’s fall. Each storyteller had a deeper insight than the last about the nature of his disappearance.
And Lan Xichen found himself chuckling into his tea on more than one occasion, as he listened to these stories. Stories of alternate versions of himself. He felt that maybe he shouldn’t, that maybe there was a reason the Lan rules preferred truth to lies, but there was a part of him that enjoyed these new, strange versions of himself. In the stories, everything made sense. There was always catharsis to tragedy, justice in a downfall.
It was much easier to listen to than the truth.
--
Wei Wuxian had been the only one to immediately understand, but he wasn’t the one Xichen needed approval from. Wangji had been slower. He had eventually come around, assuring his brother that he would take care of the sect in his absence, but Lan Wangji had always been understanding, given enough time. It had been Lan Qiren who had surprised him. He had not understood, probably never would, but he had long learned that when it came to his nephews, there were some things more easily left unquestioned.
And if all his nephew wanted was to travel alone? Lan Qiren counted himself as lucky.
And so Zewu-jun was finally free – or rather, Lan Xichen was free, so long as Zewu-jun remained in seclusion.
He left his elaborate hair pieces at home. Brought only light, simple robes with him. Lan whites. Not blues. He cloaked Shuoye. He would certainly not be mistaken as an ordinary man, but only those who knew his face, or who knew of the inner disciples’ forehead ribbon could guess just how far from the average person this mysterious cultivator actually was.
He was courteous, kind, helpful. Never lingered or imposed longer than was strictly necessary.
He tried to keep to towns, large enough for him to be of use, small enough to be ones that he’d never visited before. Would have no memories of. There were monsters in the villages. That was why he visited. But the paths between the monsters were where the true horrors lay. There was a disquiet to this void. An emptiness that opened itself up to a roar – a rush of wind, an echoing, dark place defined by the cacophony of absence.
It was in a town, in one of the safe havens from this cold, uncaring void, that he ran into another.
He knew of the man. Had in fact heard the wanderer’s name on his travels. He had sometimes been mistaken for him, before he approached, before he spoke. The other was not quite as capable at hiding that there was a story to his past, and so his profile was well known: the corpse lines on his neck, the stark whiteness of the second sword against his otherwise dark silhouette, the way he favoured, protected his right side – seemingly not due to injury, but to put himself between any threat and the two spirit bags that could sometimes be glimpsed if he turned just the right way.
“Song-daozhang?” Lan Xichen asked of the man, who was seated alone, like him, at another table in this crowded inn.
The man looked back, furrowing his brow as though trying to place him. His eyes trailed up to the Lan headband and his eyes narrowed as they returned Xichen’s gaze. Lan Xichen’s well-trained eye caught the smallest movement, a twitch in Song Zichen’s hand, ready to draw his sword if need be.
Lan Xichen shook his head, smiling reassuringly. He stood slowly and bowed, “You have nothing to fear from me, Daozhang. I have only heard great things from my brother.”
A moment’s pause, and Song Zichen visibly relaxed, hand lowering back to his side. He nodded, stood, and offered a bow of his own before gesturing to the seat across from him.
Lan Xichen allowed himself a gentle smile, a moment to indulge in a greater cultivation world, comforted that this man, too, kept himself at a distance. He moved his tea from his own lonely table and joined the other lone traveler.
In this time, Song Zichen had placed paper, a brush, and ink on the table, had written in careful, purposeful script, Your brother. Hanguang-jun?
Lan Xichen smiled, nodded, “Yes, he spoke of you often when he was younger, you left quite the impression,” Song Zichen tilted his head a hair before nodding, “And then, after meeting you the last time…” Xichen’s smile faltered, no way to proceed in this conversation without digging into something painful.
Your brother is a respectable man. His partner, too. Song Zichen deftly rerouted the conversation.
Lan Xichen sighed as he read the words, nodding, “They are. Though I must admit I had… difficulties with Wangji’s choice of companion at… some moments,” he didn’t know why he was telling someone this, not just someone outside the sect, but someone who by all accounts a closer acquaintance of his brother’s than himself. But he went on, “But sometimes, people can surprise you,” Xichen let out a huff of laughter and lifted his tea, “Sometimes for the good, others for the bad,” he ended, unable to keep a slight bitter tone from his voice, a pang of guilt leading him to sigh, close his eyes, reset. Remind himself that Wangji was happy, and that that was what mattered.
Lan Xichen smiled, “But I suppose it is our companions who make us who we are,” he laughed in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood, “And so we must live with our choices.”
You feel responsible. For the actions of another.
Lan Xichen shrugged, “I am responsible for the consequences.”
There was a pause. Song Zichen frowned, studying Lan Xichen for a moment. A part of Xichen wanted to look away, feeling scrutinized by the swordsman’s keen eye. But there was no malice in the stare. Only a careful contemplation. A search for truth, or understanding.
Song Zichen wrote. Slower than before, took his time, carefully considering every word, tapping the handle of his brush to his chin on occasion. Lan Xichen waited, listened to the wind whistling fiercely outside, to the walls of the old inn creaking, until finally the other man turned the page for Xichen to read.
People have surprised you. They can surprise because they can lie. They may lie for many reasons, but you are never the lesser for believing them. For taking people at their word. If there is guilt to be found, it is to lie only with the speaker.
Xichen looked up, breath shaky, chest tightening, even as Song Zichen was already rising, bowing, waiting for Xichen to rise, to mirror him.
Lan Xichen knew the man’s story, had heard what had happened from his brother. But he didn’t know whether Song Zichen knew his. He didn’t know whether Song Zichen was speaking to him, arguing with him, or communicating through him to someone else. But he found himself replying, “But it is still no defence to bury your doubts. The isolated actions of others may be excused as mistakes or misfortunes, but patterns should not be ignored.”
The corner of Song Zichen’s mouth twitched. The prospect of a smile even if not quite there yet. He reached down, writing a few quick words before flipping the page over, clasping his hands in front of him. The two bowed once again, and Song Zichen left, heading towards the staircase up to the inn’s rooms.
Lan Xichen sat, finishing his tea. He didn’t know what had compelled him to say any of that. He sighed and reached across the table, flipping over the page.
Perhaps, then, even for the most dire of errors, there may be forgiveness.
Lan Xichen smiled. With all that had happened, he wasn’t sure he believed that. But he hoped Song Zichen did.
--
The next morning, Lan Xichen collected his things and made his departure. He didn’t turn back. Didn’t look around for the only other cultivator in this tiny town. Their meeting had been fleeting, but moving.
His heart felt lighter, stronger, from having been understood. Seen even for just a moment.
But their understanding went two ways, and for now, they both knew, so must they.