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The rosy flush of last night’s drunken revelry in Caiyi Town has faded from Lan Xichen’s cheeks and ears, leaving behind a dull headache and quiet fatigue. He rolls over in bed, cracking his eyes open and squinting at the dawn light pouring through the window of his room in the junior disciple dormitory. Xichen’s mind is foggy and the night before is a blur. He can’t recall exactly how it all went down, but sweet, maudlin vignettes flit across his mind like snowflakes.
As he dresses, he recalls the delicate and smooth taste of the Emperor’s Smile he shared with Nie Mingjue, the pleasant, dizzy high from the wine heating his cheeks and boldening his actions. The way he straddled his body over Mingjue’s lap and sang him folk songs in a delighted, intoxicated warble, Mingjue’s deep bass answering his tenor. Mingjue’s large hand resting on his hip like it belonged there. The woodsy scent of Mingjue’s chest as Xichen’s cheek lay upon it. That same large hand dipping lower to find the curve of Xichen’s hips. Lips finding each other in the dark sidestreet.
He had pined for Mingjue badly while they were apart. The letters they share, filled with the detail and heart that come from well-worn friendship turned to passion, never seem to match the sweetness of Mingjue’s company and physical presence. And it seems now Xichen is destined to pine for him again. His heart aches with need. But as he approaches the discipline pavilion, his sorrow swells into a sickening sensation of guilt.
Xichen has been insubordinate. He’s traded the fundamental principles of Gusu Lan for a night of selfish bliss. He’s betrayed the pillars of Lan sect life he’s supposed to stand for, and by extension, his people.
The day Xichen stands before his disciples, hair adorned with his father’s silver guan, and accepts the role of sect leader is fast approaching. He thinks of where the headpiece rests now, its sprawling curves like a dragon’s tendrils, hidden in the dark seclusion of a lacquered box in the hanshi. Soon the argent wisps will rest upon his head, along with the heavy legacy of all the Lan sect leaders before him.
Was it so much to ask for one private night, just one night to indulge the folly of his young romance with Mingjue before the ancestral treasure is lowered onto his head like a steel weight?
Xichen already knows that the answer is yes.
When he enters, Lan Qiren is waiting for him, seated on a cushion and writing notes in a thick disciplinary record book. The only sound is the soft flitting of the grandmaster’s brushstrokes on the parchment. Xichen’s eyes immediately dart to the object set upon the desk—a long, slim bamboo cane.
Xichen takes a deep breath. Of course, the choice of the cane is merciful. Lan Qiren could have chosen a more public, humiliating punishment like the bastinado…or the discipline whip. Either one would certainly be justified punishment for the future Lan sect leader breaking core rules so flagrantly. Trust the grandmaster to be kind even when doling out well-deserved castigation.
Xichen is tremendously relieved that they are alone. Usually, several other elders and disciples stand watch at the pavilion, but Lan Qiren must have dismissed them. Good, Xichen thinks. He’d prefer not to have an audience witness his shame.
“Xichen,” Lan Qiren says, silently noting the time. His nephew is prompt, as always.
“Grandmaster,” Xichen bows.
It doesn’t escape Xichen’s notice that despite his sharp appearance, Lan Qiren looks more tired than usual. His posture is perfect, his hair is impeccably neat, but there are faint circles hanging under his eyes and his lips are pressed together in a thin line, the same way they always are when he has a headache. That makes two of them—Xichen’s forehead throbs dully and he squints in the early morning light.
Lan Qiren deliberately lets his nephew stew in silent reflection as he dips his brush into ink and makes a few more careful notes in the record book. After several moments, he sets his brush down and says, “Tell me why you are here, nephew.”
“Alcohol is forbidden in Cloud Recesses,” Lan Xichen recites with perfect elocution.
Lan Qiren levels a piercing, cold gaze at Xichen. “You know it so well, hm?” he admonishes. “So, if alcohol is forbidden in Cloud Recesses, why did you spend last night gorging yourself on wine?”
“Shufu…” Xichen says wearily, but Lan Qiren hushes him.
“Do you think you are above the rules of our Clan just because you are the future clan leader?”
“Shufu,” Lan Xichen repeats, this time with an angry bite to his voice. That’s not at all what he thinks and it angers him that his uncle would suggest it.
“Silence, Xichen, I am speaking now.” Xichen turns his gaze to the floor bitterly as Lan Qiren continues. “It is precisely because you are the future sect leader that you cannot be allowed to make foolish missteps like this. Think of the example you are setting for Wangji.”
Xichen scoffs at that—quiet but still loud enough that Lan Qiren fixes him with an annoyed glare. Gusu will freeze over the day that Lan Wangji becomes interested in drinking and romance. The second young master is more likely to join the traveling circus than follow his brother’s influence into love and passion.
“Something amusing?”
“Wangji is not swayed by my actions,” He says plainly.
“Your didi is influenced by you more than you think,” Lan Qiren snaps back.
Of course. It comes back to how his foolish errors could influence pure, stoic Wangji. Xichen wonders sometimes whether Wangji wouldn’t make a better sect leader, if their roles were reversed. Never speaking out of turn—rarely speaking at all—the second young master is disciplined and stately, more like the grandmaster. In comparison, beneath Xichen’s solemn facade lies a wild heart, pounding erratically with love for a boy he can never have. Xichen knows deep down that between the two of them, he’s more like their father. His stomach twists at the thought.
“Xichen, I am telling you this because I am concerned for you and for our sect. If your relationship with Sect Leader Nie strays from the strictly diplomatic, it could bring many troubles to Cloud Recesses.”
“My relationship with Sect Leader Nie is strictly diplomatic,” Xichen lies through his teeth.
“Lying is forbidden!” Lan Qiren admonishes, fire blazing in his eyes. Xichen’s eyes lower to the ground, as though by looking away from the grandmaster, he can hide his anger.
“Matters of the heart and…” Lan Qiren looks aside, “Matters of the carnal body are volatile.” Hearing his uncle mention sexual intimacy shocks Xichen enough that his eyes snap back upward, mortifying heat prickling all the way down from his ears to his back. “You know this. You know better. I need you to be calm and reserved in your relations with Qinghe.”
“I am calm and reserved,” Xichen protests softly, knowing full well that calm and reserved are the last things he feels when he looks at Nie Mingjue.
“Silence. “
Lan Qiren cannot even fathom the thousands of ways that a whirlwind romance between two teenage sect leaders—well, one future sect leader—could be catastrophic. One misstep and suddenly a bad breakup is influencing trade agreements and foreign policy. And that’s to say nothing of how Qishan, Yunmeng, and Lanling would respond to an alliance that goes beyond the reaches of propriety.
He thinks of his nephew and Sect Leader Nie with their hands clasped under the negotiation table. He imagines the curious comments, the sneers, the snide remarks from Jiang Fengmian, Wen Ruohan, Jin Guangshan—and he shudders. He can’t protect his nephews from everything, but surely, he can shield A-Huan from this cruelty. It simply cannot be allowed.
Lan Qiren’s expression turns sour. “You’re fine with talking back to me, now, hm? Is this a new trait you’ve picked up from your escapades with Sect Leader Nie?”
“No, my insolence is all my own,” Xichen replies, annoyed at the suggestion.
“Oh, very good!” Lan Qiren’s eyebrows shoot up in irritation and he launches into a hearty lecture.
Xichen shuts his eyes and wills himself to remain calm, thinking of his correspondence with Mingjue while the grandmaster continues his dressing-down. He envisions the letter he wrote, tucked under Mingjue’s pillow.
In the coldest Gusu winter, your love is a warm, pleasant flame.
And Mingjue’s response: thick, dark brushstrokes on a leaf of parchment slipped inside Xichen’s hanfu above his breast. Mingjue, for all his protests that he is not a poet, writes heart-shatteringly romantic letters.
I burn for you like the bright sun of Qishan.
I dream of your touch, soft like the lotus blossom of Yunmeng
All the gold in Jinlintai couldn’t shine like your countenance.
All the bronze in Qinghe couldn’t hold me from you.
Lan Xichen allows himself a brief moment to indulge…to consider what it would be like if he were the second young master, free from the burden of becoming sect leader. How he would spend his days. Play the xiao on the roof in the moonlight, read poetry in the meadow in the afternoon, sample the wines in Caiyi town, and taste them all with Mingjue at his side.
His mind strays wilder—and feverishly wilder. Leave snowy Gusu behind for the mountains of Qinghe. Sleep in Mingjue’s bed at his side and make love every night. Sire his children, raise a family in the Unclean Realm. Be a father. He could do it; he could be Mingjue’s partner, learn to cultivate with the saber. He knows he’s strong enough.
Xichen smiles inwardly even as it hurts to think about. He could wear the gunmetal gray of Qinghe and be Mingjue’s right hand man, but Mingjue could never wear white, give up meat and wine, give up duty to his people, to his little brother. His mass, his towering strength would smash the delicate framework of rules and life in Cloud Recesses like jade. The flight of fancy shatters into fragile shards on the ground in front of Xichen.
No. Even if Mingjue could, he would never. And Xichen knows and admires so well what kind of man he is—a man who would never break a commitment, strong as a boulder. Shouldering the backbreaking work, the burden of true leadership, the responsibility to the lives and livelihoods of his disciples all to protect his clan and his family. All so his little brother can have a normal, free life.
At least, they have each other. They can be partners in a different way, a diplomatic and chaste way. They are the shining leaders of their clans, the ones their disciples look to. Qinghe and Gusu, respectively, are counting on them to succeed. It’s a role some cultivators would kill and die for. It’s the greatest honor of their lives, the greatest privilege they will ever know. It is enough. It should be enough. Mingjue will always be in his life, but just not in the way, no, never in the way Xichen dreams of. His greedy heart aches with want for more.
It isn’t fair to have these foolish fantasies. To his uncle, to Wangji, to himself, to his disciples, to anyone. For all of Xichen’s quiet, unreasonable envy, he knows Wangji’s life is not the picturesque dream he envisions. He thinks of his image of Wangji in his inner heart, a small boy, his white forehead ribbon nearly the full length of his body, kneeling silhouetted in the gentians outside the silence room. Xichen knows his little brother doesn’t live free from the chains of responsibility and grief any more than he does.
Silent tears stream down his cheeks and Lan Qiren’s face softens.
“My nephew is tired,” the grandmaster says gently after a moment, having paused his lecture. “You must rest.”
“No, Shufu, Please just give me the punishment now,” Xichen cries, not wanting to be shown preferential treatment.
“You will answer for your actions, but not right now. Come to the hanshi—sleep and meditate in my room. I will have tea brought to you. Alcohol may be forbidden in Cloud Recesses, but I will have a tonic made to aid your condition.”
The tender care and thoughtfulness brings more tears to Xichen’s eyes and he stumbles forward. Lan Qiren catches him and holds him upright, his eyes blazing with fierce concern.
“Shufu, I’m fine!” Lan Xichen protests weakly, wiping his face with his sleeves as Lan Qiren shushes him, supporting him by the arm and guiding him out of the pavilion.
“Hush. I saw you stumbling into your room in the dead of night—you are in no shape to be standing here arguing with me right now.”
“Shufu!” Lan Xichen sniffles and then wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “Hold on—you waited up for me...? You slept after nine?”
“Aiyah, how can I sleep when my nephew is out putting himself in danger at all hours of the night and doing god-knows-what with some great hulking Nie boy?!” He bonks Xichen on the head and Xichen smiles for the first time that morning.
“That’s better,” Lan Qiren clears his throat. “Your smile suits you, nephew. I do not wish to see it go away.”
“Drink it all and sleep,” Lan Qiren advises him before departing, as though he’s still a child who might resist taking his medicine. Xichen purses his lips at that, but nods.
The broth is herbal and bitter. Xichen sits straight in his uncle’s plush bed, the same familiar bed of his childhood, and sips it slowly, breathing deeply and letting the medicine flow into his core. When he’s finished, he sets the ceramic bowl down on the night table and sinks into a deep rest.
When Xichen wakes up, he’s still guilt-stricken and tired, but infinitely better physically. His hands clutch the blankets, embroidered with whirls of white clouds in moonlight, the same designs he slept on growing up. He remembers the many nights that he and Wangji would crawl into their uncle’s bed if one of them had a nightmare or a thunderstorm passed by or they missed their mother or sometimes just to be close. Just to feel safe.
Lan Qiren would snuggle them tightly in his broad arms and tell them quiet stories until they fell asleep. Under the invisible charmed barrier of Cloud Recesses, beneath the tall gingko trees, swaddled in the blankets of Shufu’s bed, nothing could harm them.
In less than six months’ time, the hanshi will be his room again: the sect leader’s private quarters. It’s been the grandmaster’s room for so long now, and before that, it was home to the three of them: Shufu, Xichen, and little Wangji. For three, the hanshi felt just right. Now, alone in Shufu’s bed, Xichen just feels small and out of place in the immense room.
Before Xichen was born and before his father went into seclusion, it was Qingheng-Jun’s residence. Xichen wonders if it was the same then as it is now, the same cold, dark wood floors and sterile cloth screens, the same large skylight windows, and ascetic walls. Maybe it’s better not to know.
“How are you feeling?” Lan Qiren slides the door of the hanshi closed behind him.
“Better,” Xichen admits, rubbing his eyes, and pushing the soft, deep blue blankets off of his body. His limbs ache, but his headache is much less intense, and he’s not dizzy anymore.
“Good.” The grandmaster looks at his nephew's disheveled hair and crooked forehead ribbon and frowns. His hand twitches with the instinct to reach out and adjust it himself, but he reminds himself that Xichen is not a small boy anymore. He’s well on his way to adulthood, already there in the eyes of the elders. In less than six months’ time, this young man who still has baby fat will be Zewu-Jun, Gusu Lan Sect Leader. “Straighten yourself out! It is forbidden to have one’s appearance in disarray.”
Xichen quickly fixes his ribbon, smooths his hair and robes, and looks up at Lan Qiren with wide, apprehensive eyes.
Lan Qiren takes a deep breath. Xichen has known sorrow, but he hasn’t yet lost his youthful virtue. He’s sweet and pure. Lan Qiren doesn’t want to throw him to the grizzled old tigers of the cultivation world, the other sect leaders so wizened and cynical with age and experience. He would feel better knowing that his nephew had a peer in Nie Mingjue, if only their relationship wasn’t a complicated trouble in itself.
Lan Qiren recalls the old, quiet mornings in the hanshi, helping his two nephews get ready for the day. There were always attendants there to comb their hair and help them wash and dress, but according to Lan sect rules, only parents and significant others may touch the forehead ribbon. Tying A-Huan and A-Zhan’s ribbons was a task that only Lan Qiren was permitted to perform.
Xichen would smile, called to sit on his uncle’s knee and reminded not to fidget as Lan Qiren fastened the smooth white ribbon around his forehead securely, the white tails of the knot hanging down his back. The forehead ribbon reminds Gusu Lan disciples to be self-disciplined at all times. It was Lan Qiren’s duty to instill that responsibility in his boys.
Then, Xichen would rise, fully dressed, and sing a cheerful tune while Lan Qiren combed Wangji’s hair and tied his forehead ribbon. There was always music in the boy’s mind, a beautiful soul spinning little melodies, folk songs, the timeless ballads of Gusu, and new ideas that were on his own. Lan Qiren and little Wangji, nestled in his lap, listened and loved all of them with quiet humble wonder for a small boy who has no idea what a genius he is. And then they would all start their day with meditation and calisthenics.
A fundamental rule of Gusu Lan: do not touch others’ forehead ribbons. Only parents and significant others may touch the forehead ribbon. So, of course, the forehead ribbon was also a reminder of what his nephews didn’t have: parents.
Lan Qiren remembers watching Xichen from a distance one morning after class. He had fixed his nephew’s ribbon, and Xichen had grinned and hurried ahead to chat with another boy his age. Even the smallest disciples of Gusu Lan knew the basic rules well.
“How come the grandmaster is allowed to touch your forehead ribbon?” the boy had asked curiously. “Only my mother and father touch mine.”
Xichen had frozen in place, a tiny poised figure, unable to find the words. Try as he may, he could only stutter blankly, incapable of explaining why his father and mother were not there to tie his forehead ribbon.
After that, Lan Qiren was careful only to touch his nephew’s ribbons in those quiet, private mornings of the hanshi, and taught them quickly how to do it themselves. It wasn’t long before Xichen learned and of course, Wangji, eager to be like his xiongzhang, followed suit, managing the task even with his big, clumsy child’s fingers.
Lan Qiren straightens up, brushing the memories from his mind. “Let’s get on with it. Tell me the rules you broke. What is rule number three?”
“Alcohol is forbidden in Cloud Recesses,” Lan Xichen recites.
“Rule six?”
“Do not sleep after nine or rise after five.”
“And rule eleven?”
“Do not indulge in debauchery.”
“You’ve broken many rules,” Lan Qiren sighs tediously, flexing the cane in his hands to test its give as he deliberates. “We’ll do twenty strokes, then.”
Lan Xichen visibly pales but he hangs his head obediently. “Yes Shufu.” If it’s going to be twenty strokes, Xichen knows that each one will be quite severe.
There is already a space cleared for Xichen to bend over the grandmaster’s desk. He does not need to be told what to do. Without a word, Xichen silently removes his outer robes so that he’s only in his very thin trousers and undershirt, folds them, and places them neatly on the bed. He drops to his knees and lowers himself over the desk, resting forward on his elbows. He schools his posture into one of dignified submission. His stomach churns with nerves.
Lan Qiren gets his bearings, rolling up his sleeves and adjusting his stance. He looks at his nephew’s slender, vulnerable figure and his heart aches. But discipline is essential. Rules are rules.
Lan Qiren lines the cane up parallel with Xichen’s bottom and gives him a few taps for aim, before raising it high. Without further ado, he sweeps it downwards through the air with a great whoosh and it hits Xichen with a sharp crack. A jolt of white-hot pain runs through Xichen, his breath hitching quietly. He remains perfectly still, letting the pain crash over him, searing through him.
“No more drinking,” Lan Qiren admonishes as he lifts the cane again. It cuts through the air with another righteous swoosh, this second stroke landing precisely where the first had hit. Crack. Already, a deep, red stripe is rising on Xichen’s skin, visible through his thin, white trousers. He lets out a very quiet whimper, knuckles gripping the desk hard.
Crack. The light trousers offer no protection from the vicious cane—the grandmaster may as well be hitting Xichen’s bare skin. He feels each stinging stroke intimately. Still, Xichen silently berates himself for making noise. It’s the type of pain that makes you want to scream and holler, jumping away from the hurt, but such actions would be incredibly undignified. Rule seventy: train your body and your mind. Xichen can do this. He can keep silent. He will keep silent.
The fourth stroke lands with another abrupt crack and Xichen succeeds in keeping still and making no sound. He focuses on his breathing and allows his mind to go somewhere else entirely. It’s not so bad, he tries to persuade himself. It’s not so bad at all. Pain is just a sensation, a part of nature, a part of life, inevitable. Every living creature experiences pain.
CRACK. Xichen shudders as the cane hits him a fifth time, Lan Qiren now spacing out his marks to cover more surface area. Pain is part of nature, but it still hurts. It’s still violently painful. Lan Qiren is channeling his martial strength into the punishment, imparting his personal disappointment into the discipline. It’s agonizing.
Lan Qiren raises the rod again and strikes Xichen a sixth time. Xichen lets out a shaky exhale. Not even halfway there, his body is in agony. Each stroke is distinctly horrible. With fourteen more to go, how can he possibly manage it? He’s going to lose himself in this pain, jump out of position, and make a huge, shameful scene.
No, he will not. Do not panic, Xichen thinks, scrambling to control his breathing as the seventh stroke sears his buttocks. I can do this. I choose to receive this. I choose to accept this. I choose to let go. Xichen silently repeats the mantra to himself, inhaling deeply.
“Will you obey the rules?” Lan Qiren demands, brandishing the cane for the eighth hit and yanking Xichen back to reality.
Xichen flinches horribly. “Yes, Shufu,” he answers, choking back a yell as it lands. He grips the edge of the desk until his knuckles are white. Looking forward, he forces himself to relax once again. Clenching will only make it worse, he knows.
I am tense…holding energy where it doesn’t need to be held. Release it. Let it flow through me. Xichen wills his grip to relax and his breath only hitches a bit when the ninth stinging swoosh whips him.
Lan Qiren delivers the tenth stroke and then stands back to examine his work, neat, orderly, red stripes that will swell into thin welts. Xichen can already feel his pulse beating along each line, throbbing with a burn that will last through the week and remind him of his punishment each time he sits.
The grandmaster is a veteran disciplinarian—hardly a day passes when he doesn’t take a cane to some disobedient Lan disciple. As such, he is always experienced and meticulous with safety and aim, never recklessly hitting a disciple’s lower back or the more fragile tendons of their legs. He takes particular care not to ever harm Xichen.
Another crack echoes through the hanshi and Xichen is still and silent as a rock.
There is dignity in accepting pain. It’s a consequence of nature. The mountain is divided by paths. The cliff is crashed by the sea. The wind splits and divides the trees. The wood turns to ash in the hearth. Xichen won’t fight it—he’ll welcome it, let it shape him.
The twelfth crack hits and Xichen flinches in agony, but does not make a sound. At this point, he stops counting.
He has to face justice for his mistakes. Even in suffering, he is grateful for the correction. It’s an honor that he’s lucky to have. He is to be a leader and what is a leader, if not a servant? Without love, there can be no discipline. Without discipline, there can be no peace. Shufu cares enough to give this to him. His father did not. The thought wounds him deeper than the cane.
Lan Qiren continues to deliver the strokes individually as they near the finish. When two particularly harsh swings whip his upper thighs, he realizes belatedly that teardrops are staining the wooden desk. But he is above it, somewhere else.
Xichen doesn’t even fully realize it’s finished until Lan Qiren sets the cane down next to him with a soft tap. He exhales and all of a sudden, the pain he had been meditating through catches up with him, shooting through his body like fire and he shudders hard, knees buckling. He’s drenched in sweat and shaking.
“You took it very well,” Lan Qiren brushes Xichen’s long hair off the back of his neck to cool him, and presses a steadying hand in between his shoulder blades, imparting a wave of cooling, internal energy to his nephew’s golden core. The rare praise goes through Xichen like water and, all at once, his stony disposition crumbles. Tears break from his eyes like a rushing dam, streaming down his cheeks in great sobs that wrack his lungs. He reaches back to touch his backside, striped raw with immaculate, even red stripes, rising into swollen welts. The sting is gruesome.
Xichen pushes himself upright, eyes squeezed shut in overwhelming hurt as he cries. Lan Qiren helps him to his feet.
“It’s alright,” Lan Qiren holds him tight and rubs his back and Xichen wraps his arms around his uncle’s back, sobbing openly into the crook of his shoulders. “We’re going to be alright, A-Huan.” Xichen’s breath comes in little gasps and he leans against Lan Qiren’s chest, letting his uncle shelter him.
“That’s my good disciple,” Lan Qiren says. “You are strong—you are a precious pearl that lights the world. You make our sect and you make me very proud. You will do well in your relations with Qinghe as sect leader and be fair and true. Your love is not a shameful thing. There is no one else who would be a better sect leader. I do not hold your mistakes against you.”
Xichen sobs, great cries that empty his chest of air and he holds his uncle tight.
Lan Qiren doesn’t admonish Xichen for showing weakness. He doesn’t try to fix the hurt that can’t be healed. He just holds Xichen close to his chest and lets him cry as long as he needs.