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.o.
The Bull, Built of Stone
Rumors and tall tales often wafted in the air of Qinghe’s markets. But as snow began to fall and drive even the most tenacious of street vendors inside to avoid the worst of the cold, the tall tales were brought inside, too, filling the taverns and inns with the strangest stories of the past year.
A favorite to tell and retell of late was the rumor of an impossibly large bull, black as iron and mean as steel, meandering its way through Qinghe’s knotted woods. It moved silently and those that had seen it claimed it looked more like a shadow than a bull. Travelers who had come across it were only able to describe glancing glimpses at it as it trudged its way stubbornly forward.
The last sighting of it had been somewhere near the ancient corpse-devouring castle: a place beset by ghosts, resentful energy known to twist and torment any living creature unfortunate enough to step through the protective arrays designed to repel those ignorant of its reputation.
“Zewu-Jun himself placed those arrays,” the rumors whispered. “After the last of the Nie Clan passed away.”
“They buried the last sect leader in that castle, did they not?”
“They did, they did. Such an odd request, but that Nie Huaisang was always an odd one.”
“They were sworn brothers, weren’t they?”
A careful shake of the head, a bringing of a finger to pursed lips. “No, Zewu-Jun was sworn to his older brother - the sect leader before him. And that rascal, Jin Guangyao.”
The volume of the voices swelled at the mention of the first Chief Cultivator, all talk of the recent year falling to the wayside in favor of ancient reminiscing. The sharing of tales told by generations past of sects now long gone, clans long extinct.
No one knew anything more of the bull - why it was here, from where it had come. Why it was so large and so black.
But cultivators tasked with maintaining Zewu-Jun’s arrays and ensuring the only soul laid to rest in the ancient castle received its proper rites and offerings came back one winter’s day with an even odder rumor to feed the mill.
They spoke of a cast stone statue of a bull, uncannily similar to the one travelers had claimed to see glimpses of between the sleeping trees. It stood among the many corpse-less granite caskets that dotted the castle, stone hooves grounded astride the tablet of the final Nie sect leader.
Its posture proud, its horns lowered.
“The meaning was clear,” said one of the disciples just arrived back from the castle. The cup of tea threatened to spill over in her trembling hands despite the roaring hearth she’d been placed in front of upon arriving. “That soul would be safe now and there was no need for us to brave the arrays any longer. We are not welcome there anymore.”
“Truly? What will become of a soul trapped alone in such a place without all the rituals to preserve it?”
The discipline shook her head. Her shaking hands stilled and she smiled. “I don’t think he is alone. Not anymore.”
The tale of the bull passed with the season, falling out of favor as new rumors and stories took root in the hearts of the people. But those that continued to tell the tale spoke of the stone bull as an auspicious omen - a blessing from the great clans of the past to those smaller ones doing their best in the shadow of Qinghe’s history.
Sure as stone, the Unclean Realm endured.
.o.
The Statue, Fair as Jade
News of Zewu-Jun’s death passed through Gusu not like a roaring fire, but like a gentle wave slipping over the sand.
There was no surprise, no shock or horror at the prospect of such a talented cultivator passing away when he was still so relatively young.
It was obvious to anyone who had pledged a cause to the Lan clan at any point in the last century. The Sect Leader was distracted, melancholy.
Heartbroken.
He performed his duties admirably and was well-loved in Gusu and beyond.
So, news of his death brought relief, rather than sadness.
After all, Zewu-Jun had stopped living long ago, the people whispered.
“The Lan Elders have made Hanguang-Jun sect leader,” the innkeeper said, plying gossip as his trade as easily as he did food and shelter.
“That’s a relief,” came one reply. “He has always been particularly good to the common folk.”
“A relief for us, perhaps,” came another. “The Elders made their complete lack of other options very apparent during the appointment process.”
“So stuffy.”
“So cruel, not doing it sooner. Making Zewu-Jun work so hard when he was so clearly in pain, right to his dying day.”
“The stress of it all probably did in his gentle heart.”
“I can’t judge them so harshly,” said one older gentleman, murmuring into his tea. “That makes Wei Wuxian consort to the Sect Leader of GusuLan.”
“Oh.”
“Ah.”
Several voices joined the murmur, more amused than concerned.
“Does that mean we can call Yiling Laozu, ‘Madam Lan’, now?”
“I suppose it does,” said the innkeeper with a laugh, turning to welcome in new guests from the cold.
A respectful silence fell over the region; there was no rumor interesting enough to risk besmirching the reputation of someone so beloved as the First Jade of Lan.
(Fear of reprisal from the notoriously unforgiving Second Jade and the sordid reputation of his husband did well to suppress any unflattering chatter, too.)
Not a soul complained when news of a statue built in Zewu-Jun’s honor wafts gently down the mountain like an easy snowfall. The ancestral hall in the Cloud Recesses was home to many stark and stoic tablets, but outside its walls stood a few statues of their greatest leaders.
It was hardly difficult to justify building this newest addition to that roster.
Without Zewu-Jun, many sacred texts would have been lost to the Wens’ fires when they burned their mountain near to the ground. Without his leadership, the Sunshot Campaign would never have recruited the soldiers it needed to be successful.
Without his partnership with LanlingJin, the Cloud Recesses would have never been restored to their former glory. The ancestral hall itself may have never been repaired.
A century of seclusion couldn’t undo those truths.
Hanguang-Jun made the case to the elders and to the people both but there was little persuading to be done. It was an easy project to approve.
(And many knew the statue would be built regardless, even if Hanguang-Jun had to fund and build it alone with his own two hands. Stubbornness, too, made him a difficult sect leader for the Lans.)
The pilgrimages did not wait for spring to begin.
Within weeks, the newly-built jade statue in Zewu-Jun’s likeness was granted offerings by countless visitors to the Cloud Recesses. Many travelers claimed to be the descendants of the minor clans that were nearly extinguished before the war against the Wen. They owed their survival to Zewu-Jun and were vocally grateful for the opportunity to continue saying their thanks.
“So many flowers,” Wei Wuxian said, watching the visitors parade respectfully through the grounds of their home. “It makes it look like spring has come early, doesn’t it?”
Hanguang-Jun hummed in agreement, watching as the many colors overtook the pale jade of his brother’s form.
When night settled over the Cloud Recesses, when the sun set and stole with it the many visitors, pilgrims, and well-wishers, Lan Wangji would visit again. Sometimes with his husband, more often alone.
He would neaten up the stone path leading to the statue, tending to the flowers left and the offerings gifted. This, he thought, was the best he could do. That this place should remain beautiful just as his brother has; just as their mother had. The Second Jade would come and spend time beneath the First Jade’s shadow, and leave feeling lighter for it.
And if he noticed the gold-red color of something that wasn’t flowers, that wasn’t a gift or a talisman or a bundle of incense - well.
He had no interest in letting his brother be as alone in death as he had been in life. He looked and saw.
The little fox looked back.
Hanguang-Jun nodded, and moved on.
.o.
The Fox, Finally Home
Spring came to Qinghe and brought with it a small fox.
The fox came months after the bull, but followed its path near-exactly. Those that guarded the perimeters of the Unclean Realm reported the strangest things about this new passer-through.
“The fox bowed,” said one, putting his hands together to pantomime how silly it would look for something with paws to bow. “It bowed in the direction of the ancestral hall, right where the arrays stop letting anything in.”
“I’m sure it simply smelled something on the ground.”
“Foxes don’t bow.”
“This one did,” the guard insisted. “Even from the top of the lookout tower, I could tell.”
.o.
Spring came to Gusu and brought with it a flood of pilgrims.
The fox came, too.
Colors explode from the statue of the First Jade of Lan. Spring flowers weaved into wreaths and talismans penned with the brightest paints adorned the site. Word was that Zewu-Jun was a painter and so bright and beautiful colors like the finest of paints came to rest on the offerings left for him.
It was by far the most colorful place in the Cloud Recesses.
The fox was drawn to the colors, people thought at first.
But the fox came and the fox stayed, regardless of how colorful the offerings were at any given time.
“Is it safe to be around?” murmured a child from the crowd, eyeing the little fox warily. Its golden-brown eyes turned to the voice, as if it had heard. The child squeaked.
“I think it’s visiting Zewu-Jun, too,” replied her mother. “We should honor our fellow pilgrims and respect their right to be here.”
The fox turned its head, then, and trotted closer to the statue. It cared not for rules nor ceremony.
He’d had plenty of both in his previous life to keep him from this.
The statue of Zewu-Jun was built in a traditional style, with a posture befitting someone of the former sect leader’s stature and nobility. One stone palm was pressed against his chest, against his heart, and the other was outstretched, open and turned to offer that same heart to Heaven.
The fox approached and leapt and landed in that outstretched hand. He laid down in the center of the palm, curled his tail around himself, and buried his face against the cool jade.
Gasps and murmurs erupted from the crowd, blanketing the Cloud Recesses in an unprecedented din of noise.
“What kind of omen is this!?” the masses cried.
But no tragedy befell the Cloud Recesses. No lightning came to strike the statue down, nor did a plague find its way into the mountains that year. The fox came and went without bringing a single curse; it slept every night in the statue’s hand.
The pilgrims were politely asked to leave come sundown, and Hanguang-Jun himself cleaned the plaza. The fox, though, was never made to leave against his will. He rested alone, unmolested, seemingly content in the cold stone of the hand that held him.
Until one day, when he, too, was no longer alone.
The storytellers speak of a beautiful stag, its coat so purely white as to be nearly blue in the sun. Regal antlers and a nearly-silent approach would cause any looker-on to mistake the creature for something divine.
The stag appeared and approached the jade statue. Hanguang-Jun watched as it happened, they say. The stag raised its head and touched its nose to the base of the statue’s outstretched palm.
The fox raised its head and looked. The fox finally saw who he had been willing to wait for, all these many years.
They left the Cloud Recesses together, it is told. They could be seen in the forest in the early morning, or very late at night, depending on your point of view.
“They live like Lans do,” was what people said.
“What an unlikely pair,” was something also said.
But this, too, was taken as an auspicious sign. The fox had come and made its home in the First Jade’s care. He lived in the forest now with the beautiful white stag, making the mountains surrounding the Cloud Recesses their home.
“The fox wouldn’t leave for no reason,” said the same child, now older and wiser. “Zewu-Jun must have reincarnated. The fox wouldn’t leave otherwise. He loves Zewu-Jun.”
Her mother smiled. “We can only hope he will find happiness in his next life.”
“He will,” her daughter said. “If he isn’t alone again, he will. The fox, too.”
And so, together, they did.