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Purity, protection.
Virtue and vigilance.
Strength in stability.
Jade is perfect in every slight, pristine amidst all strife. Each disciple was raised under the guise of patience and penalty, but never once pride.
Lan Zhan emerges from seclusion without an apology. His brother, now the acting Sect Leader, does not seek one.
They make peace over a cup of tea.
Do you forgive me?
Mindful, merciful.
Tolerant.
Lan Zhan reaches up and removes the necklace given to him by his late father. He sets the pendant down between them. Quiet, careful. The jade crescent gleams under the dim moon’s light and reflects its other half, which sits against his brother’s chest. Composed, curt. He rises to leave. Lan Xichen does not call him back. It would be futile. He watches him go, his fingers curling around the jade pendant left behind. It feels heavier than the discipline whip.
Three thousand rules to set him straight, a thousand more to remind him of his sin. Lan Zhan knows, because he had written the lattermost himself. He had etched every stroke into the rock wall, painting each regret with negatives: do not, must not, will not. But not once does he take them to heart. He is now only a Lan by name.
Lan Zhan does not consider himself vindictive, just rightfully vengeful. It took him thirty-three strikes to find his venom, and three years to quell the violence that resided within.
Wei Ying is dead.
He understands why.
Yet he continues to inquire. Night after night, year after year, he plays for the ghosts of his past. They never answer.
Life moves on. His brother receives a courteous invitation to Lotus Pier to commemorate the completion of their ancestral hall. Lan Xichen cannot step away for long, so he goes in his place.
Jiang Cheng is a poor host. He offers him liquor, Lan Zhan declines. They make small talk. It’s awkward on Jiang Cheng’s end, apathetic on his. They have nothing in common other than their shared loss.
Impartial, indifferent.
He should have feigned ignorance, but a small part of him wishes to witness that guilt. On restless nights, he finds Jiang Cheng distressed by the Lotus Pond. Sometimes delirious, oftentimes depressive. It’s a one-sided conversation, but he lends an ear. Jiang Cheng confesses that his dreams are haunted by a spiteful spirit, that he hasn’t known peace since.
Does he come to you?
No.
A scoff. Consider yourself lucky. He won’t let me rest.
It’s a familiar tale.
Lan Zhan draws out his guqin. Then, without word, he begins to pluck a calming melody. Graceful strokes, gentle serenade. Tranquility—a song he had composed for young Wen Yuan, who suffers from a similar fate. In just a few notes, he lulls Jiang Cheng to sleep.
This becomes their one true connection.
When Jiang Cheng finds himself in anguish, pent up with anger and ache, he would come by the guest corridors, and Lan Zhan would play for him. Hour after hour, day after day, he pacifies this long harbored pain. But the more they are together, the worse it gets. It doesn't want them here.
Affliction to addiction.
In time, the truth becomes evident.
On the thirteenth night, he plays a different harmony. The back of his fingers brush the strings outward, sending a striking chord into the spirit realm. Something screeches. His hands still.
He peers up at Jiang Cheng.
“What did you do?”
Cold and callous, he does not spare any sympathy.
Jiang Cheng props himself upright, his eyebrows pinched, inquisitive. “Why did you stop?”
“Why is he here?”
“Who?”
Lan Zhan plays the same striking cord, and the ear-splitting screech sings back. It’s louder—torn, tattered, and tormented. Jiang Cheng flinches on cue.
“Answer my question.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He’s well-versed with lies. They both are.
Eyes locking with Jiang Cheng’s own, he begins to play once more. It’s an abrasive inflection, a jarring chime that has Jiang Cheng grinding his teeth together and fisting his lounging robes until his knuckles turn a ghastly white.
“What—are you doing?” he grits out, glare darkening, his expression now perplexed with notable unease.
Lan Zhan allows his fingers to answer. Calm, cruel, he mutilates him from within.
The melody grows discordant, each note a shrill cry for salvation. It rings. Resonates. Echoes, until it becomes shrieks of the persecuted.
Wicked, wayward.
Jiang Cheng shouts for him to stop, yells at him to yield, and when he doesn’t, Jiang Cheng collapses to the ground, grappling at his head, nails scraping skin from scalp. Stop, stop, stop. He chokes, sputters, suffocates. His stomach begins to devour itself.
“What did you do?” Lan Zhan asks again.
Jiang Cheng pushes himself upward, tries to get off the ground and a little closer, but with one caress of the now crimson strings, Lan Zhan forces him back down.
Vile, vicious.
He watches him gasp for air, heeds the pleas that spill from those bruised lips. It does not deter. Once more, he sends out another grating chord. The piercing screech answers, its pitch higher, desperate. He can almost decipher it. It’s screaming the same thing.
KILL ME.
Jiang Cheng writhes in pain. Grasping at his neck, clawing at drying flesh. It doesn't let him go.
Lan Zhan plays for him, but this time, he trades their usual Tranquility with his Turmoil. He wants the screams to match the spirit’s screech.
“Stop—” Jiang Cheng spews out blood, his face a pale white. “I tried—him—back.”
The music dies. Silence filters through.
“I—I brought him back, all right?” Hair disheveled, face marred. This is the most pitiful Jiang Cheng has ever looked. “But not—not entirely. Couldn’t. His soul, it’s—it’s here. Separated from his consciousness.”
Lan Zhan doesn’t need to ask how. He already knows.
“I just—I can’t put him to rest. He’s bound.”
“To?”
Jiang Cheng meets his gaze and rasps, “My soul.”
His fingers twitch over the strings.
They're bound by soul.
He moves to play the final chord, he can hear it crisp, clear, cutting—but stops.
Patience, mercy, tolerance. Though he has renounced his title, the principles continue to guide him.
He puts the guqin away, tucks it from temptation.
“You’re tormenting him.”
“I know,” Jiang Cheng mutters in-between deeper breaths. Then, a few moments later, “... I’m sorry.”
The air becomes still.
“You can see him.”
Jiang Cheng nods, but barely. “Not his entire form. He just—it’s this dark entity—creature, thing, hanging off.” He gestures at his left shoulder.
Lan Zhan narrows his eyes at the empty space, even though a part of him does not want to see. The soul is impure and likely looks as grotesque. It would worsen his nightmares.
He rises to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
The door slides open. His grip tightens as searing pain reminds him of the cuts across his fingertips.
“Lan Wangji—”
“I’ll find a way to release him.”
Jiang Cheng scrambles to his feet. “Wait, you can’t tell anyone—”
They're both good at keeping secrets.
He shuts the door between them.
A young servant girl jumps from her post, several distances away. Her eyes are blown wide. “Is—Is everything all right? I heard yelling, and I—I wasn’t sure if you—” She flushes bright red.
“He’s grieving. Let him rest.”
She appears to accept that answer and quickly scurries off.
He remains in place, listening as porcelain shatters to tearful swears. It continues for a while, then a collapse. Jiang Cheng mutters a name and an apology in his sleep.
Relentless, resolute.
Devoted.
Lan Zhan leaves Lotus Pier the following day and slips into Gusu Lan’s Room of Forbidden Literature that night.
Jiang Cheng joins him several months later.