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The disciples of the temple of the moon god incline their heads in unison, bowing formally. White robes trimmed with purple form lines on either side of him, creating a path to the innermost chamber of the temple.
As the first disciple of the Moonwatcher Temple, it’s Lan Sizhui’s job to take over as head priest in the future. Like each generation of first disciples before him, he must go through a ritual when he comes of age, entering seclusion for fifteen days from the start of the eighth month. This is to allow him to become closer to their patron god, and to prepare him to oversee the temple in the future.
Lan Sizhui walks along the corridor with his head held high, straightening his posture the way he has always been taught. His robes, only slightly more elaborate than that of his fellow disciples, flutter lightly as he walks. The only other accessory he has is the clarity bell hanging from his belt, making a pleasant tinkling sound alongside his steps.
The small box in his hands feels heavy, even though it contains only fifteen incense sticks. Specifically designed for the ritual, each burns for a full day, with the next one lighting by itself once the previous one has burned out.
When he reaches the end of the delegation, a hand reaches out quickly to catch at his sleeve. Lan Sizhui turns his head to look at the offender—of course, it’s Lan Jingyi, the temple’s second disciple and his childhood best friend. Only he would do something like break formality to wish him luck.
“You will do great, I believe in you, A-Yuan! You’re our dashixiong, after all, of course you’ll do well!” Lan Jingyi tells him. “I’ll look after the temple until you’re back, so don’t worry.”
“Well, now I’m worried,” Lan Sizhui jokes good-naturedly. “Thank you. I’ll put the temple in your hands, then. See you in fifteen days.”
“See you in fifteen days.”
Lan Jingyi lets go of his sleeve reluctantly, and Lan Sizhui turns to face the double doors again. He studies the elaborate patterns on the dark, polished wood: a crescent moon embracing the nine-petaled lotus. Taking a deep breath, he pushes the doors open with one hand and steps into the innermost chamber of the temple.
The chamber can neither be called large or small; it stretches twenty meters wide and half as tall, though the lack of decorum makes it seem grander than it is. The walls, like the door, are made of dark wood, polished without paint. Against the centre of the far wall sits a small shrine, holding a medium-sized statue of the general Yuedu-zun.
The patron god of the temple stands tall with an unsheathed sword in one hand, a whip coiled around the other. The statue is painted with such skill that the moon god’s stormy eyes seem to track him as Lan Sizhui moves to the shrine.
First, he lights the scattering of candles on the shrine before the doors fully close behind him, so that he wouldn’t be left in total darkness. Next, he carefully slides open the box of incense sticks, setting each one into its respective holder. Putting down the box after he removes the fifteenth incense stick, Lan Sizhui lights the first stick.
Instantly, the scent of lotuses permeate the room, making his eyelids feel heavy. Rapidly, he moves to sit cross-legged in front of the shrine, where a Taiji diagram is painted on the floor. Its tadpole-like shapes in black and white curl around one another to form a perfect circle, and he settles on the white portion of the circle. Relaxing into the lotus position, making sure his posture is perfect, he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.
When Lan Sizhui opens his eyes again, the chamber has melted away. Instead, he is sitting in the kitchen of a simple wooden hut, the interiors resembling a farmer home in a small agricultural village. Outside the window, night has fallen, but only stars fill the sky. The residual scent of lotus dissipates from his lungs, gradually replaced by the less pleasant smell of smoke. Lan Sizhui thinks a neighbour must be cooking a late-night snack, but the odour only grows stronger.
And then the shouting begins.
All of a sudden, the sound of yelling men and crying women fill the air, clashing weapons ringing metallically through the night. Lan Sizhui rushes out the door to see a troop of soldiers on horseback, their faces hidden by helmets, each holding a burning torch up high. A wave of soldiers on the ground cuts down defenceless villagers mercilessly, creating space for the calvary to charge forward.
As he watches, one of the soldiers drops his torch onto the local butcher shop, which catches fire immediately. Several other soldiers follow the lead, riding further into the village.
The smoke grows and rises, stinging his eyes and threatening to suck all the oxygen out of his lungs. Lan Sizhui coughs and covers the lower half of his face with a sleeve, blinking through tears as he tries to locate some container to put out the fire with. He finds a small wooden bucket by the shed and begins heading in the direction of the village well. The chaos makes it hard to think, and he stumbles against the wave of desperate civilians trying to escape the inferno. For a second, the scent of charred flesh floats past his sleeve, and he gags hard. It’s all he can do to put one foot in front of the other, until he finally arrives at the well.
Lan Sizhui quickly pitches some water before he runs back towards the worst of the flames. The little amount of water in the bucket splashes against the wall of fire pathetically, barely making a difference. He grits his teeth, persisting through the heat, and heads back towards the well.
A bird swoops down overhead, low enough so that Lan Sizhui can hear it caw, but it’s gone again before he could see it clearly. Its cries sound mocking to his ears.
Slowly, the fires begin to die down. The soldiers have since ridden on, content to leave the ashy shell of the village smouldering. Lan Sizhui’s limbs feel like lead as he runs between the well and the fires. As if the heavens decided to take pity on him, it begins to rain.
And rain.
And rain.
What began as a sprinkle quickly turns into a downpour, extinguishing the remaining flames to reveal black husks where houses and shops once stood. A flash of lightning tears the sky in half, briefly illuminating the sliver of a moon, and a mere few seconds afterwards, thunder booms in the clouds.
Lan Sizhui’s muscles lock at the sound before a shot of adrenaline courses through his body. He drops the bucket in his hands, and he’s running before his mind can catch up, his tired limbs somehow finding a burst of energy to leave the village behind.
He runs, and runs, and runs, but the thunder sounds closer and closer each time, approaching him menacingly. The dirt ground beneath his feet turns to wild grass, growing taller until the stalks reach his waist. Lan Sizhui pushes his feet to run faster, nearly sprinting, but there is still no shelter in sight. Without shelter, he is at the mercy of the thunderstorm, and—
Thunder crashes, so close it sounds like it is right next to him, and the massive boom drowns out the distant cry of a bird of prey.
His legs collapse from underneath him. Lan Sizhui curls into a ball, making himself as small as possible, pressing both hands to his ears. He hums a song from the recesses of his memories, a melody that was once played on the dizi to sooth his nightmares. With the lullaby circling his ears, the thunder seems more distant, no longer as real or as dangerous.
“Sizhui? Are you alright?” a deep voice calls.
Lan Sizhui blinks, and finds himself standing in the side chamber of the temple, adjacent to the main hall. His adoptive father is looking at him with a blank face, but he has learned to interpret it as concern.
“Of course, my apologies,” he says, shaking himself out of his reverie.
Lan Wangji inclines his head to acknowledge his apology, before holding out the tray on his hand in offering.
As a part of his duties as head disciple, Lan Sizhui will have to bear the silver goblet during the prayer they send to Yuedu-zun on the night of the moon’s first quarter each month. This is his first year with that responsibility, and he accepts it with due diligence.
“A-Yuan will do great!” A brighter, more cheerful voice pipes up. Wei Wuxian, his other adoptive father, positively skips over to him to pat him on the head, carefully avoiding the sharp parts of his headpiece. The weight of it feels unfamiliar on his head, heavy enough that it threatens to make him lose balance if he so much as shifts his head.
“Mn,” Lan Wangji agrees, his voice tinged with pride. “Sizhui has excelled in his studies thus far, surpassing his peers with little effort.”
Wei Wuxian gasps dramatically all of a sudden. “Aiyah, look at the time! Don’t let us stop you, son, go make us proud!”
Lan Sizhui shifts the silver tray from hand to hand. It hadn’t been difficult to handle a moment ago, but it suddenly wants to slip from his grasp if he doesn’t hang on with both hands. Slowly, he approaches the main hall of the temple, where Head Priest Lan Xichen is waiting alongside an audience of devout followers and city officials.
“Present the Cup!” a disciple orders from the other side of the room, his projected voice echoing through the chamber. The audience’s murmurings fall silent, their eyes following Lan Sizhui attentively.
He steps forward, but his legs seem to have become cooked noodles. Lan Sizhui focuses on the goblet on the tray, staring so hard that the silver etchings form afterimages when he blinks. Don’t spill, don’t spill, don’t spill—
In his concentration, he stumbles on a step up to the altar, and the tray flies out of his hands, dark wine staining the wooden floor purple.
Instantly, the temple erupts in an uproar.
“How inauspicious!”
“Did he just curse us all?”
“What an incompetent boy, he must have only received the title of head disciple because his father is the brother of Head Priest.”
“May Yuedu-zun strike upon his insolent disciple!”
Lan Sizhui backs up slowly with wide eyes, his hands shaking uncontrollably. No, he wants to say, but his tongue has turned to stone in his mouth. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.
“Such an act must be punished!” one nobleman in the crowd yells, pulling a sword from his belt.
“He must be taught a lesson!” several voices concur loudly.
Lan Sizhui takes another step back, bracing himself against the crowd. Instead, the men rush past him and seize Lan Xichen, who is looking at him with a mixture of disappointment and sadness. He barely has the time to react before a blade catches the light of a thousand candles, spilling fresh blood onto the steps of the dais.
“Zewu-jun!”
“Xiongzhang!”
“Shizun!”
Three voices shout in unison as Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, and Lan Jingyi run out from the side chamber.
Lan Sizhui remains rooted in place as the men turn on his family like a pack of wolves, forcing each of them to their knees. His blood turns to ice in his veins, and he can only watch helplessly as they pin him with identical looks of shock and betrayal.
“No!” he finally manages to yell, but no sound comes out of his throat. Maybe there is sound, but it is lost in the bloodthirsty chants of the masses. His lungs seize up, black spots beginning to dance around his field of vision.
It’s all his fault, he’s a failure, it’s all his fault, he failed…
Standing off to the side, away from the chaotic cries, a young man with glittering grey eyes watches the scene unfold without joining the chants. His hair is tied up in a bun with braids running up either side of his head, and he wears the disciple robes of the temple, except they are entirely purple. Somehow, Lan Sizhui sees him despite the gruesome sight of slaughter before him. The man opens his mouth to speak, and his voice cuts through the shouts of everyone in the temple, so clear it feels like he is standing right next to Lan Sizhui.
“It’s not your fault.”
With a gasp, Lan Sizhui is able to breathe again. The crowd begins to dissipate, trickling out of the temple one by one. A disciple comes to clean up the spilled cup, and another begins to scrub at the red stains on the floor.
One after the other, the bodies on the ground rise again, their cuts healing until they look like nothing ever happened, pristine as always.
“Got you!” Lan Jingyi says, laughing.
Lan Sizhui rushes forward to hug his best friend so hard that Lan Jingyi wheezes. He wants to pull Lan Jingyi close, so that nothing could ever hurt him again. So that no one could ever hurt anyone in his family again. “As long as you’re okay. As long as you’re here.”
“I’m here, Sizhui,” Lan Jingyi confirms, patting his head. “I won’t leave you, ever.”
“No, you won’t.” A dark, unidentifiable feeling wells up inside of him.
Outside the temple, a rooster’s crow pierces through the quiet night.
“…Sizhui?”
Without answering, Lan Sizhui squeezes him one last time before letting go. He turns to Lan Xichen and bows. “I will go into the city for an errand. I will return soon.”
Lan Xichen, as usual, seems to see through him. “Let go of the past. Do not allow your emotions to overcome you. Perhaps you should meditate, so as to clear your mind and calm your heart.”
Lan Sizhui holds his eye contact in a rare show of disobedience. “Oh, I am not acting from a place of emotions, Zewu-jun. Quite the contrary. My mind has never been more clear.”
“Sizhui…” Lan Wangji says in warning, but he simply flashes his father a smile.
“Do not worry for me, Hanguang-jun.”
Wei Wuxian grabs his arm before he can step out of the temple. “A-Yuan, this is wrong. Violence only begets more violence. Trust me.” I’ve been there, goes unsaid.
Lan Sizhui gently but firmly pushes his hand off. “I have my assurances. Do not worry.”
He picks a decorative sword off the wall of the temple and sets out, walking the streets of the city that has been emptied by nighttime. Only animals are still awake, and he can feel their gazes on him, eerily humanlike. As he passes by a pen, he swears one of the pigs turn to look at him with judgement.
His path forward is lit by the bright moon, nearly full.
Lan Sizhui arrives at the manor of the city official. A white kite with black highlights on its wings dives low out of the corner of his eyes, but he pays it no mind. The bird had been following him the entire way, after all.
He enters the guest room with no resistance, finding the minor nobles and officials who called for the deaths of his family all sitting together, laughing over tea.
Their laughter dies quickly when he arrives, one of them spilling his tea all over the snakeskin rug. Lan Sizhui’s gaze lands on each of them, trying to commit their faces to memory, but their features slip from his mind the moment his gaze flickers over to the next person. All he remembers is their shouts, the way they raised their swords against his family without reason.
A steady fire burns beneath his skin, growing brighter and hotter with each person cowering beneath his stare. His vision tints red, reflecting his desire to bathe the entire room in blood. Lan Sizhui raises his sword, taking a step forward—
The same white kite lands on the back of a chair opposite of him, staring at him with intelligent grey eyes. Lan Sizhui’s motion with the sword stills. He should kill them all—no, killing is wrong—they must pay for what they did to his family—one should not return violence with more violence—no one touches the people he loves—
The fire burns hotter, setting his nerves alight and sending his blood boiling. His vision bleeds crimson, and he sinks to one knee as flames fill his meridians. The heat becomes too much, and he falls over sideways, his eyes slipping shut.
~
Lan Sizhui comes to in a feverish haze, feeling cool energy seep into his meridians and sorting out any blockages. He’s back in the inner chamber of the temple, though he isn’t alone. His head is resting on the lap of a mysterious man who looks vaguely familiar, but Lan Sizhui is certain he has never met the stranger before.
His head pounds, so he doesn’t even stop to consider how an outsider is able to enter the locked chamber, especially while he is still in seclusion. Glittering grey eyes meet his own, and cool fingers come up to massage at his temple lightly. He sighs, leaning into the pleasant touch.
“I must be dead,” he mumbles in feverish delirium, “for such a beautiful man must be a heavenly being. There is no other explanation for it.”
The man chuckles lightly, pressing two fingers against Lan Sizhui’s forehead, and he falls asleep.
When he wakes properly, he is in a bedroom—his bedroom—and a figure in purple is sitting by his bedside. He blinks a few times to clear his vision, and when he can see, he sits up in shock.
“Y-Yuedu-zun!” he stutters, bowing hurriedly. His face flushes red as he remembers what he said to his patron god after he was saved from what must have been a qi deviation. Lan Sizhui almost wishes he had died then, so he wouldn’t have to deal with the embarrassment now. “This disciple apologizes for his inappropriate behaviour!”
Yuedu-zun Jiang Wanyin simply smirks and waves away his apology. Up close, Lan Sizhui can see that the martial moon god is a million times more attractive than his statues make him out to be. Even in simple disciple clothes, the same ones he wore in Lan Sizhui’s trance, Jiang Wanyin is a vision to behold. His sword is nowhere to be seen, but Zidian is fitted around a slender finger in ring form, promising danger. Even so, Lan Sizhui feels no threat from the god.
“This is the first time I have seen a first disciple react this strongly to the succession ritual,” Jiang Wanyin says. “You have a lot on your mind, for someone so young.”
Lan Sizhui flushes again, this time in shame. “This disciple is a hundred, a thousand times regretful to have failed the test.”
Jiang Wanyin shakes his head. “The purpose of the ritual is for you to better understand your innermost fears and desires, and to learn to overcome them, if not suppress them altogether. To obtain mastery over yourself. In that aspect, you have performed with excellence.”
Lan Sizhui looks down at his hands. Pale, slightly calloused, free of bloodstains. “Still, I nearly went into qi deviation…” he trails off, when a thought suddenly occurs to him. “Why did you save me?”
Jiang Wanyin leans forward on his elbows, staring at him with all knowing eyes. “Well,” he begins, deliberate, “I couldn’t simply let my favourite disciple die, could I?”
At this, Lan Sizhui’s flush spreads all the way to his ears.