Work Text:
The first thing Nie Huaisang notices is that he is falling.
His heart beat steadily quickens as he plummets through dark plumes of air and he does the only thing he can think of.
Da Ge! he screams. Da Ge, save me!
He feels his mouth move around the words, his lungs burn as they struggle to take in air, but no sound comes out. He screams until he is sure his throat is raw and his voice hoarse, but still he falls in deafening silence. The dark tendrils get denser and thicker, suffocating Nie Huaisang as he hurtles down the unending crevice. His eyes sting, blurring what little vision he has of the bridge, of his clan, of his big brother. With one last exhale he closes his eyes. No one is coming to save him.
His back hits hard rock just as Nie Huaisang opens his eyes.
He stares at his white ceiling as he tries to remember the last night he slept all the way through. It’s futile, he knows, so it’s not a surprise that he can’t immediately recall. It had been too long anyway. Nie Huaisang slowly sits up and inhales deeply, needing to feel his breath fill up every crevice in his permanently exhausted body. He exhales loudly, forcefully, willing the dark wisps to leave his system. It works for now, but Nie Huaisang knows he can never get rid of them all completely. He’ll always have that one that lingers in his throat, reminding him of its presence every time Nie Huaisang breathes or swallows. This, too, has become his new normal. It takes everything in Nie Huaisang to not scream.
He turns his head to his delicately covered window, shrouded by a slightly opaque curtain colored in traditional Nie jade. Colorful threads of orange, yellow, scarlet manage to escape from behind a nearby mountain and start to stretch into the sky. Another day is on the horizon.
There isn’t a lot to do today, Nie Huaisang thinks to himself as he gets dressed. He would still meet with the clan elders like he did most days, but that wasn’t until midday. The sun rays had only just started lighting up Qinghe and Nie Huaisang didn’t want to be in the cold stone palace any longer than necessary. He adorns his tight brown sash with the traditional Nie golden cincture around his waist, having to tighten a little more than usual. Nie Huaisang likes to tell himself that it’s the stress of managing a clan that makes him circumvent eating meals and he doesn’t linger much longer on the topic. The gold decoration on his belt feels heavier these days, enough for Nie Huaisang to avoid wearing any other jewelry for fear its weight may be too much for his body to handle.
Despite his aversion to regalia, Nie Huaisang can’t quite detach himself from the overwhelming necessity to have a fan in his hands at all times. It helps curb his restlessness in meetings or other clan gatherings, giving his hands (and him) something to focus on. If his hands started to shake more as time went on, no one brought it up.
He grabs what he considers to be his favorite, a simple yumu fan depicting bunches of red mulberries on beautifully crafted bamboo panels. As always, he runs his finger down the golden lettering on the handle, attempting to ground himself before he leaves the comfort of his isolated room. The grooves of the singular character are bold but ragged, lacerated with innumerable scratches due to its overuse. As a result, the handle would leave little puncture wounds along Nie Huaisang’s palm, pricking the flesh between his index finger and thumb where he would balance his fan. He can’t find it in himself to mind, especially when the pinpricks littered on his hand so closely represent the scene on the fan’s slats. Nie Huaisang lets out a little smile. Bold, ragged, experienced. He had fit it well.
---
Qinghe is chilly this time of year, Nie Huaisang notes as he walks through the town, his cheeks going red and numb at the unrelenting assault of the biting breeze. Bujing Shi was barely awake, save for the few merchants getting their storefronts ready for the bustle of the day. Nie Huaisang shivers as he greets the townspeople with small nods, feeling the sting of the cold air seep easily through his simple three layer hanfu and into his bones. The unbearably hot summer was all but gone, opening the door for the onset of a crisp autumn. He would have to meet with the farmers soon, Nie Huaisang thinks. The time of growth is coming to an end. It is the season to harvest.
Nie Huaisang’s favorite time of year is spring, when the great fields in the North start blossoming gold all across the region. The buds of the canola flower finally reach maturation and bloom in a dramatic fashion, drenching the valley with the vibrant glow of the sun itself. Although it had some use as a crop, Nie Huaisang was content with staring at the luminous valley for hours on end. Not everything has to have a use, Nie Huaisang would think. Sometimes just existing is enough.
Nie Mingjue would always scold him for that, having a favorite season that is. “The Nie sect prides itself on seeing duality and balance in all things,” he would say. “No one season is more important than the other.”
Nie Huaisang lets out a puff into the frosty air, the quickly disappearing cloud being the only evidence that he had attempted to laugh. Liar, he dwells. You always liked this time of year best.
The beginning of autumn always started with the harvesting of the wheat sowed at the cusp of the summer, a necessity not only in Qinghe but also in the larger cultivation world. Wheat grown in the fertile lands of the North plains brought in much capital for them every fall and as a leader, Nie Mingjue couldn’t ignore its usefulness. “It’s the foundation of Qinghe’s lasting prosperity, Huaisang,” he says. “Without wheat, we die.”
Nie Huaisang sighs softly. But Da Ge, he should have said, there is no summer without the spring that precedes. There is no wheat without the canola flowers of the season past.
The wheat can try endlessly to mature just as it’s planted in the winter, but it is only with the onset of summer that the wheat will be able to grow. The canola flowers, too, have their own timeline with the warmer seasons. As spring slowly fades, the flowers transform from a golden hue to a bronze, recognizing that they will be needed again in a year’s time. And so, the disparate seasons ebbed and flowed with each other and became endlessly intertwined, like different puzzle pieces combining to create a collective work of art. A cosmic masterpiece.
It was impossible, then, to separate summer from winter, spring from fall. Without the seasons, we die, Nie Huaisang reasoned. Without balance, we cannot survive.
Nie Huaisang muses about just how different his brother and him are, how even the contrast of day and night didn’t seem sufficient. But they, too, seemed to work in an indescribable harmony, in their own special dance.
Together they are balanced. Together they are whole.
Nie Huaisang’s body freezes, as if the ice in the air had finally occupied all the remaining space in his body, stopping him midstep. Slowly, he brings his feet together and stares at his black boots against the gray cobbled road.
Were, he corrects himself. Were whole.
---
Soon, Nie Huaisang finds himself turning into a narrow alleyway, an easily remembered shortcut to his destination. He had reached the outer parts of town closer to the wall, where the houses were made of wood rather than stone and weren’t much help against the harsher seasons. Mostly farmers lived so far from the center of the city, needing to flit endlessly between their homes and the farmlands, but Nie Huaisang would talk to them later. He slides past the last of the debris littering the walkway, emerging into a main street lightened by the ever brightening morning sun. Almost immediately, Nie Huaisang spots the familiar red lantern lettered with controlled, precise brushstrokes. From it hung an additional red ribbon, indicating that the store had already opened for the day. Nai Nai, Nie Huaisang sighs. Would it kill you to rest a little?
Grabbing his belt-tethered fan, Nie Huaisang pushes aside the sheer white curtain and peeks his head inside the shop, turning it left and right to get a good look.
“Nai Nai? I’m coming in,” he announces, crossing the threshold and unfurling his fan, the gentle ruffle of the panels echoing in the seemingly empty space.
A soft smile breaks through Nie Huaisang’s features as he takes in the place, unchanged from the years past. The center of it remains spacious, save for the few glass display cases exhibiting handmade jewelry pieces and other semi-precious crafts. The four walls, on the other hand, are brimming with innumerable mahogany shelves, each one holding a precarious amount of smaller wares.
Nie Huaisang approaches the wall closest to him and takes a cursory look at the shelf sitting at his eye level. Hair ribbons, inkwells, good luck charms, and other miscellaneous items populate the surface, beautiful but failing to pique his interest. Nie Huaisang continues his listless fanning as he tentatively reaches out his free hand to touch the mahogany, flattening his entire palm onto the surface. The shelves were as elegant as he remembered, even with the wood dulling and the top most ledges refilling with dust. In some time past, the Nie’s frequent visitation of the shop ensured that those very shelves remained spotless, but this notion quickly died with the initial years of Nie Huaisang’s ever decreasing desire to leave the castle. Neither him nor Elder Fei were tall enough to clean the highest points of the display anyway, and it was pointless to try and grasp at the fragments of happiness that no longer lingered in the shop’s air.
He feels himself go rigid, his thoughts clawing at his gut until he feels sick. You were needed, pleads Nie Huaisang. You were needed so what made you think you could go away?
His racing thoughts fill Nie Huaisang’s ears with the sound of rushing blood and he can barely register the muffled “Xiao Sang, is that you?”
Nie Huaisang retracts his hand from the shelf and lets out a taut breath, feeling it hit the permanent pit in his throat on its way out of his lungs. Slowly, he turns to face the entrance of the little room near the back of the shop, seeking the source of the voice he knew so well.
He clacks his fan shut, softly dropping it to hang next to his leg. The fan bobs as it settles from its fall, pulling the cincture to and from his waist. The metal digs into bone and raw flesh through his clothes but he finds that the pain helps him focus. He plasters on a small smile and gets to work.
“Nai Nai! Is this how you treat your sect leader? You kept me waiting so long!” Nie Huaisang delivers cheerfully. Good, he thinks. That should do it.
“Oh, how could I! Sect Leader Nie, thank you for blessing my humble shop with your presence,” Elder Fei responds just as sarcastically. She does a little bow before smiling warmly up at Nie Huaisang, and it comforts him to see one more thing unaffected by the tides of time. “I just brewed tea, come have some.”
Nie Huaisang dutifully follows Elder Fei through the curtains and kneels on the worn cushions near the fireplace.
“It’s been a while, Xiao Sang,” Elder Fei says as she hands Nie Huaisang a cup of hot green tea. “It’s good to see you.”
“I’m sorry, Nai Nai,” Nie Huaisang apologizes. “There was… much to be done. I needed time to transition, time to… to grieve.” Time to plot, he doesn’t add. The floral scent of the tea begins to sour in his mouth.
“And now?”
“Now?” Nie Huaisang repeats. He wonders if his life has ever felt so trivial. “Now, I can have this wonderful tea with you,” he ends cheekily.
Elder Fei does him the courtesy of not pursuing the question any further, but her eyes are nothing short of discerning. Nie Huaisang briefly worries if she’s seen too far in, if she has become witness to the abyss that swirls in his head and embitters his soul. But she provides him another mercy, looking away just to say, “You like it? I just got it in from Gusu, took months.”
Nie Huaisang tries not to reminisce in hazy memories of Cloud Recesses, before war, before loss, before betrayal. They were anything but soldiers then, sneaking in liquor, dozing off in classes, and exacerbating Master Lan any opportunity they got. Mischief and meddling were luxuries they indulged in without care, but the tides of time ran over them all. Cloud Recesses no longer was the place it was. Nowhere was.
“I hear they are preparing for a grand wedding,” Nie Huaisang mentions before taking a sip. “Surely that’s the cause of the delay.”
“Ah, yes, yes. His Excellency is to be married. Might I expect another leave of absence soon, then?” Elder Fei jabs.
“Unless my invitation came in with the tea, I assume that, too, has been indefinitely delayed,” Nie Huaisang retorts. He wasn’t one to keep expectations anymore, not for himself and certainly not for others.
Elder Fei goes to respond but is seemingly interrupted by her own thoughts. “Actually that reminds me…”
Nie Huaisang follows Elder Fei back into the main store, tea cup in hand, and watches as she rummages behind the counter.
“Would you like some help?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t know what to look for. Anyways, here it is,” Elder Fei says as she emerges with a neatly folded piece of beige cloth in her hands. She places it on the table in front of her and nudges it forward, urging Nie Huaisang to open the unexpected present.
Nie Huaisang gently puts down his tea cup and briefly hovers his hands over the cloth before gingerly unwrapping the package.
The first thing Nie Huaisang uncovers is the head of a beast and remembers the times it almost looked alive perched on broad, formidable shoulders, eyes wide and feral in anticipation of the imminent battle. Its mane cascades down the length of onyx stone as it chisels into a sharp point.
“Black jade,” Elder Fei says into the silence. “Looks like any other nephrite, but hold it up to the light…”
She cups her hands softly underneath Nie Huaisang’s and guides them up to the stream of sunlight coming into the shop from between mahogany shelves. Nie Huaisang lets out a small gasp as emerald crystals materialize from underneath the stone’s dark exterior, reflecting gauzy squares of green onto his fingers as he slowly turns the piece in his hands.
“It’s beautiful, Nai Nai,” Nie Huaisang finally says, turning back to Elder Fei. “But I... ”
He gestures vaguely to his hair, the top half pulled into a loose low ponytail with a simple ribbon. His braids fell out long ago, slowly unraveling without reliable hands to put them back together again.
“Your brother...”
Nie Huaisang holds his breath.
“With a name like that he should’ve been wearing something like this all this time, not that dull silver piece. I wanted to give it to him when he came back to pick up his request, but… well, we always feel like there will be a next time.”
“Ah,” is all Nie Huaisang can respond as he feels the burn gathering in the corners of his eyes. He clears his throat and hopes the action can stave off feeling a little while longer. “He made… a request?”
Elder Fei lays down what seems to be a pair of dark rectangular blocks on the beige cloth that previously housed the hairpin in Nie Huaisang’s hands. He steps closer, softly placing the ornament down, and it’s not until he is looming over the shapes that Nie Huaisang’s tears threaten to spill over.
“Is this…” he whispers.
Elder Fei offers a small nod before sparing some words of caution. “Careful, it’s heavy.”
Nie Huaisang picks up one block and flicks his wrist in a motion that has become second nature. A metallic clang fills the shop as the black surface multiplies into slats of forest-green tempered steel decorated with delicately painted golden flowers.
“No saber spirit in that one, although a little spiritual energy can make the weight easier to handle.”
Nie Huaisang can barely see Elder Fei when he looks up, his eyes like ponds reflecting light, distorting images.
“He figured if you were only ever going to wield a fan in your life, it might as well be a useful one. The edges are sharp, like knives,” she explains. “The war is over, Xiao Sang. But I think you should have it anyway. It is yours, after all.”
The murk lodged in his throat drags its claws along the inside of Nie Huaisang’s throat as it branches further, encircling his vocal cords, cradling his lungs. His chest squeezes until he feels ribs impale, until he hears breath stop.
“Thank you,” he rasps. “Thank you.”
---
“Sect Leader, must you put an old man like myself through this?”
“Assistant Tie, you exaggerate. You have no more white hairs than when I saw you this morning.”
Returning to the Nie stronghold took longer than Nie Huaisang initially anticipated, no doubt throwing his beloved attendant into an understandable panic.
“Ah Sang, the elders, they--”
“What, will Heaven beckon them back if I delay past midday?”
Assistant Tie can only give Nie Huaisang a wonderfully affronted look paired with an equally surprised gasp as he grabs the young sect leader and effectively shepherds him towards the hall besides the courtyard. Nie Huaisang barely convinces Assistant Tie to take his fans back to his room amidst the endless verbal scolding and intermittent gesturing. Ah, Nie Huaisang thinks. This is home.
The elders are, Nie Huaisang believes, in the profession of making his life more miserable than it already is. He is partially to blame, of course, convincing them too long of his cluelessness and general inadequacy. A rose and its thorn, he supposes. Nie Huaisang wonders if hands slicked with blood can still sense the slice, the separation of flesh, the sear of the rose’s blade. It’s a foreign feeling now, his being covered in cuts old and new, and it is beyond him to do much more than sit and take.
So he settles in and feels the drone of business collect at his temples, rubbing them to no avail behind his fan. And perhaps it is the sprint of his heartbeat through his sphenoids, the tight pull of muscles around his skull that makes him see it, a cloud of black in his periphery, innocently writhing in the middle of the courtyard. Marginally, he raises the fan higher, turning his head to meet the scene in front of him.
It’s him. It’s always him. His long, dark hair a shroud, covering his body in the undeniable hint of lurking doom. His tears mixing with blood as it runs and runs and runs, collecting on gravel in viscous rounds. His arms, once strong, daunting, fierce, suddenly uncoordinated, whipping around sloppily in unkempt threat. And yet, when he grips Baxia and directs his ire along its razor edge towards the traitor, those very arms are as firm as his resolve to kill.
He never stays, just long enough to instigate miniscule, caustic contractions along the unfurling seams of Nie Huaisang’s heart. Undetectable, Nie Huaisang lets out a short controlled exhale and loosens his fingers from where they have fused onto the hairpin hidden inside his hanfu. He watches as the scarlet specks develop, a perfect complement to his already marred right hand. Thorns, embedded.
“Sect Leader, the disciples have been… restless regarding the Yunmeng training camp.”
“Of course they have,” replies Nie Huaisang without delay, decisively snapping his fan shut. It was never hard to keep up with such fossils, all their questions always the same. “I’m sure we all remember what happened the last time Sect Leader Jiang extended such a courteous invitation.”
He smiles with calculated criticism. The affairs of the cultivation world are asinine indeed.
---
The headache has yet to take its leave when the elders and most of the sunlight do, placing Nie Huaisang’s patience in a very delicate balance.
“Assistant Tie, I just want to rest,” Nie Huaisang says upon seeing his attendant. “My head feels like it’s getting hammered with nails.”
“I’ll bring some hot tea to your chambers,” Assistant Tie replies before reaching into his outer robe. “This just came in,” he says, handing Nie Huaisang a distinctly red envelope, marked with a double happiness sign.
“I’ll be in my room, then,” Nie Huaisang offers as a goodbye, walking down the hall to his quarters.
Situating himself on the cushion, he opens the wedding invitation. It’s standard, requesting his presence at Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian’s wedding to be held in Cloud Recesses a few months from present. Tucked behind it is a neatly folded length of paper filled with equally immaculate handwriting.
Esteemed Sect Leader Nie,
I hope your affairs are well and in order. It is with Shufu’s and Xiongzhang’s blessings that I am writing to you today in hopes that you can come and celebrate my and Wei Ying’s marriage with us.
Words do not come easy to me, but I know I must first offer my condolences for the late Chifengzun. The newly revealed circumstances of his passing must do little to ease your grief and so, pending your acceptance, I would like to extend my hand in sincere friendship during this time. For the last 16 years, I have been conveniently absent from the world, leaving much upon the shoulders of others. I forgot that despite my disconnect from the world, my misery had its fair share of company spread across many regions. To have so much of my own happiness at the expense of Xiongzhang’s and yours forces me to confront all that I owe you both.
In one’s life, there comes a time where they must say two things. Sorry and thank you. I am sorry that you are left with only pain after the exit of revenge. I am sorry that I can’t do anything to fix it. And I am sorry that it is only after so many years I have endeavored to reach out, to build bridges I did not think I needed before. But I am thankful too. You returned Wei Ying to me. You created a space for him in a cultivation world that was unwilling and cold. And you finally let me fill the void hovering by my side for these long years.
Words are just words. I do not want them to be empty. Sorry and thank you, these words carry my earnest will to make things better. May this letter be only the beginning.
Be well.
Lan Wangji
Nie Huaisang lets out a sigh. Now, this… is not so standard.
Two knocks at the doorway alert him to Assistant Tie’s presence as he crosses the threshold and carefully deposits the hot kettle on the cloth of the table. He holds the wooden tray flat to his chest before inquiring, “Anything else, Sect Leader?”
Nie Huaisang waves him off with multiple thank you’s and a promise to not sneak out tomorrow morning. Assistant Tie is not even marginally convinced, giving his young master a fatigued look before lighting the room’s candles and leaving.
Nie Huaisang pours his tea into a small porcelain cup and drinks, lets it warm his hands and assimilate into his exhausted build. Once he can feel it flowing through his margins, maybe akin to the swaddling of a strong golden core, he reaches into his hanfu and secures the top half of his hair in a dismal bun with the onyx hairpin. Nie Huaisang flattens the paper with his blocks, grabs his brush. Dips. Inhales, exhales. And begins to write.
---
The next morning is lightless and cold, but Nie Huaisang greets it like an old friend. It’s a constant, a reliable actor in his story, and he is not a fool to take it for granted. Nie Huaisang pulls on his robes, securing the ties as snug as he can. Reaches his arms up, out, and around, testing the give before deciding it’s good enough. Ribbon between teeth, he drags his hair up and away from his face, fixing it in place. Shoddy work at best. He can’t find it in himself to care.
Nie Huaisang siphons spiritual energy into his palms before picking up his fans, the weight still unwieldy, unfamiliar in his grasp. He takes one last look at the room, an excuse to catch the first lights of day illuminating the hairpiece laying next to his enclosed response. He gazes for two, three seconds before bidding it farewell, before promising his return in a timely manner. Elders are not to be kept waiting, after all.
With an offhand comment to Assistant Tie about a letter that needs sending, Nie Huaisang sets off towards the courtyard, trying to start again.
---
Lan Wangji,
Worldly affairs are a never ceasing cesspool, I’m sure you’ve discovered. They are hardly in order or even correct, but they can be handled. All things can. Those days in Cloud Recesses were never spent thinking about the unshakeable future, of how our shoulders would learn to carry weight. We were young and ignorant, foolish. But we learn because time and hardship teaches us all.
Brother Lan, I hold no ill regard. What is done is done. But I’d like to believe we are still evolving, despite our ever approaching old age. We are the next generation, entrusted with the aspirations of the past and the hopes of the future. And we must do better. I think this is the road to better.
Sorry and thank you are unexpected sentiments. No doubt there are others more deserving. Others who must hear it. You know a few. Perhaps you could do me the courtesy of saying them to Xichen Ge on my behalf? Later, when it’s appropriate, I’ll say them myself. But for now, I’ll request a small, small favor from His Excellency.
The thing about words, Lan Wangji, is that they’re deceivingly powerful. They’re formed from nothing, mere thoughts, but expressed correctly can control people, attitudes, history. Your words are gracious indeed. Rest assured they are received in full.
Congratulations on the wedding, there would be no other willing taker for the nuisance you are about to spend eternity with. Brother Wei should be thankful!
For those left behind, for those given time, there is no such thing as too late. You two are a testament to that.
Until we meet again, take care. And write back!
Nie Huaisang