Chapter Text
Able to crow like a cockerel and steal like a dog.
(Or - A person with a range of useful tricks.)
Jiāng Chéng paces in front of the ancestral shrine, twisting Zǐdiàn on his finger. Baskets of tribute sit near the doors, but he has made no move to enter. He has already made his bi-monthly offerings, there are no holidays to observe, no announcements to be made. He watches out of the corner of his eyes as his disciples scatter every time they turn the corner, and he feels his mouth twist ever further each time.
Sweat gathers between his shoulder blades, the thick ceremonial brocade of his robes stifling. He squints up at the sun and estimates that he has three shí, knowing Wèi Wúxiàn’s capabilities of timekeeping. But as he watches the clouds, he adjusts his timeframe to half a shí to account for the stick firmly lodged up Hánguāng-jūn’s ass.
He stops wearing a path into the stone, clenching his fists before letting his breath escape in a long sigh. Walking calmly, he gatherers the baskets and heads into the temple. He lights incense for his parents, for his sister, for the ancestors long gone. He recites a silent prayer for all who were lost during the Sunshot Campaign and slides fruit closer to his mother’s tablet.
He imagines, what she would say, if she were able. Can nearly hear her voice hiss across his skin: ‘ Didn’t I tell you that boy would bring ruin to our house? To himself? He died, he is an abomination, he should not be here. And after all that you have done to return glory to your house, you are inviting the thing that nearly destroyed it to return?’ He can see the bitter twist of his father’s mouth, the one he got when he disagreed with his wife but wouldn’t speak up about it. His father in death remains just as silent as he had in life, a passive shadow.
But his sister, well… His sister wouldn’t need to say anything. He envisions her face, but with the addition of crinkles at the corner of her eyes, and deep smile lines - remnants of joy imprinted on her beloved face. It would only take one look from her, lips tilted ever so slightly down, and he would do anything in his power to remove that atmosphere of disappointment from her. It’s the same look Jīn Líng had given him when this all began.
Biting his tongue, he adds another stick of incense to his mother’s tablet in apology. Sitting back on his heels, he remembers the visceral taste of copper in the back of his throat, the ash on his tongue, the rain that washed down his skin, taking the blood and grime with it. Remembers wrapping his hands around his brother’s throat and attempting to choke the life out of him. Remembers screaming at him. And he remembers the deep, burning flame in his gut that said it was all Wèi Wúxiàn’s fault.
There is a small voice, deep inside of him that seems to say: But that’s not quite right, now is it? He staunchly ignores it as he gets to his feet and heads towards the pier.
◇─◇──◇─────◇──◇─◇
Jīn Líng is waiting, watching the sky as his feet tap out some unknown tune on the boards of the dock, the sound echoing out over the water. He’s surrounded by retainers that hover around him, asking after his every need. He ignores them, instead focusing on the sky, looking for signs of the incoming Gūsū cultivators.
Jiāng Chéng observes the ripples of the water, the swaying lotus, the floating moss, and ignores the clouds overhead. Niè Huáisāng stands between them, slowly fanning the summer heat away from his face. He talks at Jiāng Chéng about inane things, the weather, the cloud that looks like a bear, the bugs that zip across the lake. He talks at Jiāng Chéng rather than with, because Jiāng Chéng hasn’t spoken more than ten words to him in the days since he’d inserted his nose in Yúnmèng Jiāng sect business.
He’s still not sure how the Chief Cultivator had even heard about this issue, or why he felt it was necessary to involve himself. He’d arrived in a flutter of green robes without notice, and sat himself between Jiāng Chéng and a visiting Jīn Líng, just after they’d settled for dinner. At first, it was just greetings, well wishes, apologies for his lack of decorum, each statement so rapid-fire Jiāng Chéng couldn’t get a word in edgewise. And then Niè Huáisāng had started picking at the plate a harried servant had placed in front of him, and in between delicate bites he’d brought up the series of strange incidents in Méishān.
But when Jiāng Chéng had gone to remind Niè Huáisāng that he’d specialized in hunting Demonic Cultivators for thirteen years, the words had died in his throat. The Chief Cultivator had given him a look akin to pity, as if he knew the thoughts that had just tumbled through his mind, and then he’d plodded along and recommended an inter-sect night hunt. And although he had assured Niè Huáisāng that they had it well in hand, there had been no stopping him from setting the plans in motion.
This was why, five days later, they were waiting for Gūsū Lán to join Yúnmèng Jiāng and the small sampling of cultivators Niè Huáisāng had brought with him. Jīn Líng had sent for a few of his better cousins, but no one was eagerly awaiting their arrival. To be fair, Jiāng Chéng is not eagerly awaiting anyone’s arrival. The only person he cares about is already here, standing beside him in gold finery.
Jīn Líng has grown, his shoulders broader, his waist thin, and he is all lithe grace. He looks more and more like his father every day, but the remnants of his mother remain, easy to see when you know where to look for them. Jiāng Chéng chooses to ignore that the more time his nephew spends with the man that was once her brother, the more Jiāng Chéng can see of Yànlí.
He has not seen Wèi Wúxiàn since the Gūsū Lán Discussion conference nearly two years ago, when he wore Gūsū white and played the subservient wife. But Jīn Líng has started to visit him in Gūsū, and Jiāng Chéng knows that Wèi Wúxiàn and his husband had spent the autumn in Lánlíng. He swallows the sting as he watches the boy he raised staring at the sky and tells himself that Jīn Líng is only waiting for the young Lán boys.
Jiāng Chéng feels it when he tenses, can feel his jaw and fists clenching tight, his shoulders drawing up, and forces his breath through his nose as the Gūsū Lán contingent comes into view. He looks for the black speck as they come closer, looks for the sword that carries two, for Bìchén’s sword glare. But when he finds her frosty trail, Lán Wàngjī stands alone.
His heart plummets before jumping back into his throat, when he looks behind him to see a sword that wobbles, one that dips and rises, as if a novice disciple were on their first long flight, and his breath is stolen away when he recognizes the sword glare of Suíbiàn.
Jiāng Chéng feels suspended in time, and manages to greet Lán Xīchén purely out of the courtesy his mother had beaten into him as a child. No matter how he attempts to look away, his eyes are always drawn back to Wèi Wúxiàn, who is grinning with Mò Xuányǔ’s mouth, but it looks exactly like he remembers, exactly like his dreams. His skin is dappled with sweat, his hair in curling tendrils around his face and wild waves that escaped the binding of his red ribbon. He still wears white, but his underrobes are scarlet and charcoal, and his brocade carries clouds, marking him as a member of the Lán family.
He bites back the snarl that wishes to escape his throat and greets the rest of the party, including Hánguāng-jūn and Lán- èr- fūrén, and assigns everyone a set of servants to show them to their rooms and get them settled. Once his duty is done, he stalks away down the pier and locks himself in his office.
There, he finds a beautiful bottle of liquor sitting at the center of his desk. The bottle is made of a dusky amethyst ceramic, mountains and trees painted along the base. An apology note is tied to the neck with an olive green ribbon, and the flourishes of Niè Huáisāng’s calligraphy are unmistakable.
Old friend, this one wishes to apologize for the additional stress he has brought you. This is a bottle of báijiǔ from my mother’s stores, it has been sitting in Qīnghé Niè’s cellar since before I was born. Please accept this gift on my behalf. This was dà-gē’s favorite after a trying day, and I hope it brings you peace.
Jiāng Chéng scoffs, and sets the bottle to the side so that he may complete some paperwork. But after dark has fallen, and the candles have burned low, he cracks the wax and pours himself a nightcap.