Archive of Our Own

You were the first to leave.

It doesn’t remember when you fell, gracelessly and full of desperation as your kind is wont to be. There were many that had fallen before that, all equal in their fragility, all with weak rabbit-hearts that thumped thumped thumped until they didn’t anymore. You were not the first to fall and, in its bitter and tired impression, it had expected you to not be the last.

It felt as your hands scrambled for purchase that first night, frail and insignificant. Many had scrambled for purchase before. Many had crawled through the darkness, seeking for the faintest chance of something. It had seen it all, the madness of human nature, it had been exposed to it over and over again.

It didn’t expect you to be anything but another desperate clawing of nails on its bone-ridden earth, another tangle of fear and anger and sadness until what came for everything came for you as well. Until you were left as only the resentment of your death, joining your brethren in their mournful cries that echo on its peaks.

(Later, it would learn that underestimating you was a quality it had in common with your people.)

Only after many days, when it could still feel your shallow gasps of breaths, did it understand that someone was still alive in it. Where before it felt resigned, at that moment it was angry.

Just die. Can’t you see that it’s useless? No one leaves it, dead or alive, body or soul. No one does, even when it wished they would. It was angry that you had dared. That you had challenged this inevitability. Most of all, it was afraid.

Your kind's hubris rubbed off on it in the worst ways.

Yet, you still fought. You did unspeakable things. You felt sorrow, rage, bone-deep despair and it felt it all with you. You screamed and you cried. Sometimes you laughed as well, though it held no joy. And by each day it observed you, the core of its being struggled with faith.

Forgive it, for not trying harder for you back then. It was hard to try at all, even for itself. However, it knows you won’t begrudge it; in your worst days, you found it hard to try for you as well. In those brief moments, there was nothing remaining to try for.

When you left, it felt strange. It had spent such a long time festering in resentment, wishing your kind would leave it alone once and for all, but when you did, it felt lonely. Please understand, you were the first. Back then it was used to corpses rotting in it. It was used to the toxic stench of death, entrenched deep into its land, drying the life from its trees, poisoning the waters of its river. It was used to being the dumping site of anything and anyone the world deemed worthless.

It was not used to people leaving. To people surviving. You did.

You did the impossible.

(Later, it would learn from the others you brought with you, that this was a particular ability of yours and it would believe them, because it had experienced first-hand, your brilliance.)

Such a precious thing. Less than a bloom, less than a sprout. A seed, really. That is the size of what you left in it. It knows it left something in you as well. You could not have gone, without taking it along, whether you wanted to or not.

That was enough to change the course of both existences. After so much destruction, so much death, so much resentment, it had finally remembered hope. It had finally remembered life. It had finally remembered that it could be so much more than what your kind had done to it. They had done it to you as well and you survived.

(Later, it would learn that you brought life everywhere you went and that you weaved life into everything you did. It would experienced that first-hand, as well.)

And when you stepped out of the last of its rotten soil, when the sun finally hit your ashen skin in that clear, blue day,

you were beautiful.

The sun in the Burial Mounds never shines as strongly as a day of summer in Yunmeng, but it's still annoying to feel it first thing in the morning, especially for a night owl like him. He stretches like he hasn't moved in years, feeling the bones in his spine pop one by one, and blinks at the mouth of the Demon Slaughtering Cave.

A ray of sunlight exposes the little bits of dust and dirt dancing about.

"Huh," he mumbles.

It's not as hard to get up once he's awake. If he was still at Lotus Pier, in an actual cozy bed, he’d probably roll around some more, trying to get back to one dream or another even as it faded away. Now, he figures, he's sleeping on a cold slab of rock and there are no dreams to go back to.

With one final groan, he rises. He washes to the best of his abilities with a tin and a wet cloth and tacks on his outer robes almost as an afterthought. When Wei Ying reaches the other side of the cave, he stops by the body laying dormant.

Wen Ning is just as he had been yesterday. His body remains at a stasis, struggling to follow its natural order against the stacks of talismans keeping him fresh. He is, of course, deathly still. Wei Ying takes his hand.

“Good morning, Wen Ning,” he mumbles, brushing his thumb over the rigid knuckles, “We’ll work on you tonight, hm? You’ll have to find some way to entertain yourself while I’m gone.”

Two more pats and he turns to go.

As the sun finally envelops his entire form, he takes a deep breath and tries to feel for its warmth. Even though it’s already noon, the light is dim like the first hour of dawn. Wei Ying soaks in it, starved, either way.

"Good morning, Young Master Wei!" Uncle Four calls from below.

A group of Wens stand on the incline near the cave. Wei Ying notices them holding the few hoes and shovels they managed to get from Yiling a couple of weeks ago. Probably going to plot and tend to the new field they cleared out up north.

"Good morning, uncles!" Wei Ying grins, descending to stand by them, "What are the work plans today?"

"Now, why would you want to know that?" Uncle Six huffs, crossing his arms.

"Ai, uncle!" Wei Ying whines, "you know that if I don't at least offer to help, Wen Qing will pull out my ear."

"Our Xiao-Qing thinks we're all ancient sacks of bones who can't lift both arms above the head! She would have us stay in bed and drink broth all day!" He puffs his chest, "Nonsense! Look at how sprightly I feel!"

Uncle Six raises the hoe and randomly brings it down on the other side of the road. The movement is clear and strong, but when he tries to straighten up, his back gives a loud crack and he is forced to hunch over again. Wei Ying tries to hold in his laughter.

"You old man, maybe you should really go drink some broth." Uncle Four sighs then looks at Wei Ying, "And, you! Go get some breakfast, boy! We can handle ourselves a day of working the field just fine. You look skinny as a pole!"

Wei Ying smiles at what he knows is only a jab. There is not a whole lot of food to go around and literally everyone gives up portions to A-yuan, the youngest. They're all becoming skinny as poles together.

He doesn't try to insist, even though the work would probably go much faster with him there. He knows the Wens still don't feel completely at ease with his presence. Two years of war tales about his massacre of the Wen forces, each story more gruesome than the last, cannot be erased by a couple of weeks, nor does Wei Ying want them to. He is well aware that the cruelty he used back in the Sunshot Campaign was not always warranted. He can't fault anyone for being reluctant of the evil burrowed inside him.

The only two Wens that treat him with no hesitance are Wen Qing, who has seen him split open, has held his life in her hands before, and has no reason to fear him, and A-yuan, who is too young to know what the sound of a flute means to a Wen. To A-yuan, Chenqing is just a chew toy to drool on. Wei Ying finds it extremely amusing to watch the land's most feared cultivation tool be handled by a two-year old. He tries focus on that while burying the questions that threaten to pour out of him under the many layers of himself, before they come out and scare their poor A-yuan;

Questions about whether he killed the boy's parents too. Whether he was the one to make him an orphan.

He knows he could ask Granny Wen about the story behind A-yuan's parents and put this to rest, but he doesn't know what will happen to him if the answer is even as simple as 'died in the war'. There are lots of things Wei Ying should put to rest that he can't, and this is just one more on the list.

"If you can stand there looking at nothing like an idiot, then you can very well help me with the laundry!" Wen Qing appears suddenly and roughly deposits one of the laundry baskets onto his arms while Wei Ying squacks, "See if you can make yourself useful!"

“Wen Qing, ah!” Wei Ying complains but follows her, “Don’t you see my delicate hands weren’t made for manual labour?!”

“Tough luck!”

They walk together towards the river that crosses between the Burial Mounds’ peaks. It used to be dirty and muddy, though most recently it has started to clear. Even with the water like that, the sweat stains and dirt still need to be cleaned and they can’t exactly be picky with what they have.

Both of them kneel near the riverbank, starting the arduous process of rubbing the clothes together with a bar of soap they got in Yiling that is already starting to get small. At first, Wei Ying complains and bumps Wen Qing’s shoulders, but soon the repetitive motion of the mindless task becomes soothing.

Despite his whining, Wei Ying doesn’t really mind this type of service.There’s a peculiar pleasure in using your hands to wash your community’s clothes, in cooking the food, in tending the plants. It's nice to do something that matters and that wields instant results without having to think much about it. There’s a type of care that shows through.

Maybe that’s why Wen Qing seems to always find some menial thing or other for him to do with her when he’s been holed up in the cave for days on end, but neither of them will ever admit to that out loud. He lets the quiet tranquility between them rest for some moments longer before he breaks it.

“Have I gone crazy?”

“Yes,” she says unhesitatingly.

“Is that your medical opinion?” He teases.

“It is my person-with-working-eyes opinion.”

He bumps her shoulder again with a smile.

“My crazy is about to be contagious then."

“Well,” She flops the wet clothes into the basket and pats her hands, finally turning to look at him, "It was bound to happen some time."

“Hush and listen to my idea,” he starts, “I thought of when I was first here, by myself. Back then, I dismissed it as a number of things.” Starvation, despair, madness. Any of these would fit, if he’s being honest.

He stops to find the best way to explain.

‘Once, it was a beautiful place,’ the story-tellers would preach, booming voices reaching every corner of the room. Wei Ying remembers having a week or two of being fascinated by the Burial Mounds back when he was first starting his cultivation training. Freshly out of the streets, everything was still new to him and the concept of a mass grave so terrifying no one would dare enter filled him with childish excitement rather than dread.

He had read many books about it, wondering, imagining.

From the few descriptions of before, the mountain had been the complete opposite of how it is today. Flowers bloomed across its land, cheerfully carrying the sun’s light in their petals. Grass and trees and green made up its beauty, making the air pure with the breath of nature. A river parted its middle with the rushing of crystalline waters and the sparkles that rose from the mist in winters.

Animals and people alike passed through in their visits, made camps during the nights and ate from the fruits that were aplenty. There was no trace of inherent resentment.

‘Once, it was full of life,’ the story-tellers would say, mournfully.

Soon the story turned ominous, talking about human shame, human spite, about the grand battle that had brought death to the land and the consequent wars. The story talked about the indifference to human life. As a child, Wei Ying was much more interested in the intrigue than in the moral implications of the outcome.

Now, as an adult and Burial Mounds resident twice over, Wei Ying mulls over the last part of the story while watching the breeze move the grass in regular intervals.

‘And so, once where it had been divine and powerful,’ he recites in his mind, ‘it now had become known as the Burial Mounds.’

He’s certain that Wen Qing has also heard of all the stories before as well. Every cultivator has.

“The entrance to my cave has gotten bigger, so much so that the sun can easily enter,” he comments, “Last week, when Uncle Six worked through the new field we chose, there were no corpses mingled in the earth, even though that shouldn’t be possible.”

“And today we walked less steps to come to the river than we did last week and the week before last.”

“Exactly,” he knew Wen Qing would have caught on as well. They are both a mad type of clever. That’s why they get along so well. That’s why they are able to trade life-changing debts like nothing. It takes two to do that.

“So, what are you saying?” She asks.

“That the Burial Mounds is sentient.”

Wen Qing doesn’t look surprised at all, and Wei Ying didn’t expect her to. Instead, she looks calculating.

“You know this place better than anyone else living," she says, "Do you think that’s going to be a problem?”

Wei Ying glances to the floor. A trail of tiny wildflowers had grown between them while they talked.

He would not be so presumptuous as to guess what an immortal ancient spirit feels or thinks, but… from all the little things that are changing since the first time he was here… He looks back to the river. It is starting to clear, no interference of his own.

It does really feel like the mountain wants to be given life again.

He brushes the petals of the flowers gently.

“I don’t think so.”

Despite that, Wei Ying still tells her to keep it a secret from the other residents, while they are still unsure of what exactly living upon a conscious mountain entails. The Wens are finally starting to feel secure in their new home, it would do them no service to shatter the expectation they had created. Besides, they can come to their own conclusions once they notice how the coincidences add up.

Wen Qing hauls up the laundry basket into her arms and shakes her head, “I’m starting to question myself about the many strange things I go through just by being around you.”

“That’s part of my charm, isn’t it?” He winks.

She huffs and leaves him sitting on the grass.

He sits there for a long time, listening to the rushing of the river and watching the breeze stir up the leaves of the trees.

Wen Qing's words swirl around his head like alcohol. You know this place, you know this place, better than anyone living.

“You’re really alive,” he murmurs and the ground below him shivers.

A bout of laughter spills out of him, a little maniacal if anyone cared to listen. It’s almost funny, only it isn’t really.

‘Did you watch me bleed?’ He chokes on the desire to ask, even though he knows the sentient mountain probably doesn’t fucking understand human language. ‘Did you watch me become the monster I am today? Were you there all along when I struggled to stay human? When I failed?

He can still taste the rotten earth inside his mouth after he wakes up from a nightmare. The blood inside his veins still moves like old oil sat for too long and he still hears screaming when he is alone.

He had thought he would take the three hellish months spent here to oblivion, he had known that he would never share the things he saw, the things he did with anyone. Speaking them out loud would make them real in a way he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t.

For the longest time, he had thought it was a burden he would carry alone.

The chuckles transform into dry-heaves, and Wei Ying lays twitching on the grass, but no actual tears come out. It’s like something broke in him somewhere along the way, as if his body is only going through the motions of being alive. One could argue that is the side effect of being thrown here the first time around. Or of having his sect crumble in front of him, because of him. Or of getting part of him carved out of his chest, or of the war afterwards, or of the resentful energy, or, or, or.

There are so many occasions that can rise to the test.

But sometimes, the very few times when he allows himself to sink too deep into his mind, he wonders. He wonders if he has not been born broken all along; shattered pieces of a person struggling to stay together from the very first breath. He never felt enough of a person even once in his life, after all, doesn’t that prove something?

As if able to sense his panic attack, the grass grows longer, wanting to engulf him in its comfortable hold, wanting to shield him from everything. Wei Ying feels the dry stalks of weeds curl around his skin and nonsensically thinks, ‘how sweet of Wen Qing, to still count me among the living.'

Hasn't he been this place's corpse all along?

It’s strange. The Burial Mounds may be sentient, but it’s still a damned mountain. There’s no point in feeling betrayed, in feeling scared of the way it saw him at his absolute worst. It doesn’t know human dignity, it only knows survival. There is no point in feeling relieved, either, that he is not alone in this anymore.

But Wei Ying does.

The ground below him thrills and trembles like a purring cat.

He huffs in amusement, through his shallow breaths. Both of them were chewed on and then spit out by the cultivation world, discarded like common trash. Both of them have something inhumane swirling in their core. And both of them have seen the most terrible states of each other.

If anything in this world would be able to understand this damned him, it’s this damned mountain.

“You and me, huh?” He breathes, “You and me.”

You brought others with you when you arrived on top of horses, soaked through by the rain, in the middle of the night.

You played your flute and lifted the resentful energy around you. You did your all to transform it into a livable place.

It watched in wonder, in joy as you did.

If feeling you leave was the seed, feeling you return was the poured water nourishing the growth, was the trimming of the leaves for new ones to show, was the picking of the fruits and the flowers and everything else in the cycle.

You and your companions struggled, for it was not easy to live in the middle of death. But even then you still laughed. You still put your child on its earth and told them stories. You still played your flute and helped your family. It didn't know any of this back then, you taught it all.

Just as you chose to try, it chose to give its everything as well.

Once, you had planted hope in it and then you returned to harvest. This is what fate means: collecting the consequences of the choices you made, all in careful hands, and letting them flourish.

“I want Gege to stay!” A-yuan whines, tugging on Wei Ying’s leg.

“Let me take him, Young Master Wei.” The old woman they call Granny scoops a crying A-yuan and takes him back with her. Lan Wangji won’t deny feeling the tug on his heart watching the toddler reach for him.

"I'll see you off, Lan Zhan," Wei Ying smiles in a way that is not a smile at all and Lan Wangji swallows dry and nods.

As they walk, Wei Ying talks about the choice to stay. The choice to not give this up. He talks about Lan Wangji choosing the same, in another lifetime. Lan Wangji can't blame him, even if he wishes things were different. It's already hard enough to leave now, no matter his family, his sect and all his responsibilities. That last one weighs him down like a shackle in a way it never did before.

As Wei Ying stops and says, final, "I know what I should and shouldn’t do. I believe I'll be able to control it, as well", there's nothing left for Lan Wangji to do than to move forward and go.

He takes step after heavy step, trying to commit to memory the Wei Ying of today. It was a haggard, lean and sickly-pale Wei Ying, but who knows when they'll be able to meet again. With their parting words swimming across his mind, he doesn't realize the path in front of him twisting and turning, foliage and bushes blurring into an indiscernible mess.

He allows his feet to take him, for in his mind he had walked down in a straight line. However, when his eyes focus again, they meet the contrasting black of Wei Ying's clothes as he's climbing up the mountain and Lan Wangji is reaching him from the side.

Lan Wangji stops abruptly.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying raises an eyebrow and glances back over his own shoulder, presumably to the direction of where he left Lan Wangji.

Lan Wangji feels mortified, his ears start to warm up. Of course, he was reluctant to leave Wei Ying, would stay by his side forever if he could, but to show it this boldly--

“I apologize. I should go.” He reiterates, feeling awkward.

“Mhm,” Wei Ying hums, looking extremely amused, “Go down this road. Follow the path and you won’t miss the exit.”

Lan Wangji nods promptly and walks past him. Wei Ying crosses his arms, struggling not to smile, and stays there, watching.

It happens again. The dead trees start to swirl together as Lan Wangji attempts to follow the road. He could swear new branches are growing in front of his eyes and the grass is molding to different directions. He tries to force his spiritual energy forward to dispel any disorientation arrays Wei Ying might have set up, but it doesn’t work. Nor would it make sense for Wei Ying to tell him the way out and not the solution to the array. He could fly out on Bichen, but he doesn't want to take his sword out and be thought of as a possible threat.

Lan Wangji continues along, fumbling with the new obstacles until the trees open up and he finds himself face to face with Wei Ying again.

Now he’s full on laughing. The type of Wei Ying laugh that has him holding onto something for support and curving over his belly. It’s a beautiful sight, one Lan Wangji had missed dearly and cherishes greatly.

“Hah! C’mon, Lan Zhan!" He wheezes while wiping a stray tear, "You gotta stay for dinner now. It seems like you’re a mandatory guest around these parts!”

Lan Wangji doesn't understand, but he won't refuse something he had been coveting inside his mind. Wei Ying takes his wrist and Lan Wangji follows.

The way back is lit with lanterns and from Wei Ying's bewildered face, that's not a common sight around these parts. The Wens look at him with mixed parts of confusion and suspicion when they return, but most get over it quickly enough when they see Wei Ying is accompanying him.

Wen Qing is one of the few whose expression doesn't lift but he understands. He won't begrudge them their caution. She explains to Wei Ying their desire to have him around for dinner and the celebratory meal for saving Wen Qionglin.

The way Wei Ying's eyes soften with affection and intimacy fills Lan Wangji with enough warmth to last the entire night. He shouldn't be here, witnessing this. He's so glad he is.

They usher them to a slightly bigger hall than the other houses, where some long tables had been set up. There are many plate arrangements on top and Lan Wangji is slightly surprised. He never would have imagined anyone could have grown life from the Burial Mounds.

That said, he thinks, if anyone could have done it, it would be Wei Ying.

"Rich-gege, I want to sit with you!" A-yuan clings to him when he notices Lan Wangji came back.

"Of course you get to be the fun parent," Wei Ying clicks his tongue jokingly and pinches A-yuan's cheek, "Meanwhile, the one who does the actual raising is left in the dust."

"Who says you do any raising?" Wen Qing asks, "Is that what you call all the bad habits you teach him?"

"Ai, Qing-jie!" Wei Ying pouts, "Be more lenient! Wen Ning, won't you defend my honor?"

Wen Qionglin, who had regained consciousness that very day, nods nervously, "I'm sure you're doing your best, Young Master Wei…"

Wen Qing cackles while Wei Ying bemoans into his hands, calling out traitors. Lan Wangji puts a cooked radish on A-yuan's bowl and lets a tiny slip of a smile shine through.

After a rowdy dinner and a wandering jar of homemade wine, Lan Wangji follows Wei Ying through the settlement once again. At some point, the Wens had perhaps forgotten the intrusion Lan Wangji posed, or simply reassessed his possible threat, because they then decided to include him as much as possible considering he didn't talk the entire dinner. Wei Ying had spoken enough for both of them, often answering them on Lan Wangji's behalf.

They laughed at inside jokes and commented about recent events unknown to the outside world and looked so different from the Wen cultivation force the sects thought Wei Ying was gathering.

They are a family, plain as that. Wei Ying's family.

Lan Wangji feels silly to have ever thought Wei Ying would change his mind.

They walk towards the Demon Slaughtering Cave. When they reach the entrance, Wei Ying places his palm on the outside of the rock while Lan Wangji waits further behind.

"Thank you for the food today," he says, softly.

"No need," he answers, although feeling like he was not supposed to say anything at all.

"Oh." Wei Ying's face scrunches slightly, "I wasn't… You know what, forget it."

He steps back from the wall and enters the cave.

"Lan Zhan, it's late. You should spend the night."

Lan Wangji's heart stutters for a second before he makes sense of the words. The proposition of sleeping in a cave should not sound as enticing as it does. Curse Wei Ying for making the offer appealing enough.

"I shouldn't," He starts, "My brother."

"Of course," Wei Ying smiles bitterly, "Zewu-jun must be waiting for you. We can't have the kidnapping of Hanguang-jun added to my extensive list of crimes. Don't blame me if you fall on your sword, though."

There's nothing that Lan Wangji hates more than being misunderstood like this. He would never let anyone accuse Wei Ying of kidnapping him. Wei Ying doesn't seem to have that same conviction.

"I'll stay," He decides and sits on the stone floor, near the entrance, "I'll meditate."

"Huh?" Wei Ying asks, "Are you sure? We can--"

"I'll meditate." He interrupts before Wei Ying offers whatever it is he was going to.

It is highly improbable that Wei Ying would offer for them to sleep in near vicinity of each other. But the chance was there anyway, and Lan Wangji couldn't bear to hear it. It would be extremely difficult to say no if he did.

It's already too much that he will let himself stay the night. Even if he spends the entire night meditating, there are things he will know, come morning, that will be too much. How Wei Ying looks when he wakes up, for once.

"Well," Wei Ying hesitates, "... Suit yourself."

He sits down and enters a meditative trance, recovering his spiritual energy while the night goes on.

Lan Wangji expects to have to wait until noon in order to leave, knowing Wei Ying’s sleeping schedule. However, very soon after the sun rises, around what is probably 8, sun rays begin to seep into the cave, reaching far deeper than what is normal.

He hears Wei Ying’s complaints and shuffling. He tries not to imagine Wei Ying getting up, the rustle of his robes while he puts them on, the stray lock of his hair falling across his face. Lan Wangji tries, but when Wei Ying comes into view, adorably rumpled and brushing his eyes, it’s all for naught. He looks… so cute.

“Alright, alright,” he grumbles, “I’m awake. Happy?”

Lan Wangji stands, awkward and hoping his face is neutral.

“Ah, Lan Zhan. Do you want to stay for breakfast?”

“I thank you for the hospitality,” he begins, “But I really should go this time.”

“Yes, yes,” Wei Ying gives one final pat on the cave wall and leaves with him, “Let’s go.”

They follow the same road they had the day before. Luckily, A-yuan is still asleep, so Lan Wangji doesn’t have to go through the excruciating process of explaining he’s leaving. That said, the other Wens greet him amiably and tell him to come back. He doesn’t know how to answer that, so he simply bows his head to each uncle and auntie that says goodbye.

When they leave the settlement itself and begin the track down the mountain, Lan Wangji speaks.

“Wei Ying,” he tries to find the least offensive way to word this and comes up with nothing, “Yesterday, I really was trying to go.”

Wei Ying hums.

“Let me guess: the path changed without you realizing, almost as if things were moving places. Suddenly, you were in front of me again, even though you were so sure you walked in a straight line.”

“Yes,” Lan Wangji replies, “It was your doing?”

Wei Ying smiles cryptically.

“Come with me, Lan Zhan.”

They continue on their way until they find a small clearing, where the trees form a circle around the dry patch of land. They finally stop, but Wei Ying continues to look ahead, not turning back to meet his eyes at all.

“What I’m about to tell you,” he says solemnly, “You can’t tell anyone else. Are you able to keep a secret, Lan Zhan?”

“Hm,” he answers.

“Really?” This time, Wei Ying looks at him funnily, “What about ‘don’t tell lies’?”

He's stalling, though Lan Wangji will not call him out on it, “Do not betray trust freely given. Maintain your principles. Be honorable,” He recites promptly, “And not saying anything is not a lie.”

“Hah!” Wei Ying laughs, “I guess you’re right.”

There’s a couple more seconds of silence, as if Wei Ying is preparing his words. Lan Wangji is patient to not rush him. There’s something about what happened yesterday and other actions he has seen that give him a nagging feeling of something much bigger going on.

Finally, Wei Ying says,

“The one that did that to you yesterday wasn’t me,” he inhales, “It was the Burial Mounds.”

“Excuse me?”

“The Burial Mounds. I guess it wanted you to stay for dinner,” Wei Ying smiles ruefully, “It can be surprisingly stubborn when it wants to.”

Lan Wangji blinks.

“You speak as if it were sentient.”

“Yep.”

It is a notion so absurd his first instinct is to deny it. Surely if the Burial Mounds was actually a mountain spirit, this would be mentioned in the various texts warning of its dangers, surely it would be known by the elders who fear it so much. But, Lan Wangji thinks past his preconceptions, he is also aware, now more than ever, that the cultivation world fears what they don’t know. Only one other being is more feared than the Burial Mounds, and he is the one who spent the longest there, standing right in front of him.

It makes sense, he realizes. It makes sense with everything he saw, with the things he experienced. That doesn’t make it any less unbelievable.

Lan Wangji looks around the clearing, taking in things he had never stopped to take in before. The sun is dim due to the resentful energy, still present although much less oppressive. The trees and the grasses are dry, and there’s an unnatural quiet, that much is true. But when a breeze passes by, he notices. There is life, underneath the appearance of death. Everything is swaying to the same rhythm. A lesser cultivator would never realize, and Lan Wangji almost didn’t.

And there is Wei Ying in the middle of everything. With the entire scene curling around him, from the stalks of grass twirling around his shoes, to the branches arched closer to him, to the halo of sunlight following him everywhere. It's incredible.

He had thought it to be the fault of his own lovesick eyes, seeing everything with tinted colors. Now that he has a sharp clarity of the facts, he feels a little ridiculous.

“Do you believe me?” Wei Ying asks, the smallest vulnerability flickering through his expression before it disappears.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji breathes, “Of course. This is amazing.”

“Don’t tell me,” He laughs, “Tell it. I haven’t done anything special.”

An immediate rumble begins, the deep moaning of a beast, and the earth begins to tremble slightly. Lan Wangji startles back, but Wei Ying simply pats the nearest branch affectionately.

“Ai, okay, okay, I get it.”

The shaking stops and Lan Wangji gapes.

“You tamed the Burial Mounds.” He can’t help but say, full of awe.

“Tamed it? No,” Wei Ying shakes his head, “I befriended it, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Wangji has never been more in love.

At that moment, another shaking of the earth overtakes them, and the patch of land where he stands inclines. Wei Ying pitches forward with a small yelp and Lan Wangji instinctively raises his arms to hold him steady.

Wei Ying looks up at him and his hands find balance on Lan Wangji’s chest and they are closer than he has ever dared dream. He is so close he could lean forward and touch his forehead to Wei Ying. He could nose at his cheek and leave a kiss at those parted lips. He could if he so much as leaned forward.

“H-haha, see?” Wei Ying breathes, eyes wide and lovely flush on his cheeks, “It has a mind of its own, for sure.”

Lan Wangji swallows, “Hm.”

Wei Ying steps back, clearing his throat, and Lan Wangji regretfully lets him.

“Lan Zhan. I’m sure you understand this information can not reach anyone else.”

“Of course,” He says, “Thank you for your trust.”

Wei Ying smiles, “Thank you for listening to me. Now go, before your sect sends their entire force to raid us in search of their precious Hanguang-jun. We’re right outside the borders, just walk down and you’ll be out.”

He turns to leave with a final, fond look. Lan Wangji stands there, watching his figure disappear in between the foliage.

As Wei Ying walks, white wildflowers bloom slowly but steadily behind every single step he takes. He looks ethereal, god-like. He looks beautiful. After his back can no longer be seen, Lan Wangji kneels and reaches a tentative hand.

“May I?” He murmurs, almost reverently. It is only fair to the place that protects and cares for Wei Ying when he can’t.

The flower closest to him tips sideways, into his fingers. The petals are soft where they brush his skin. He pulls it out and stands, putting it inside the left side of his robe. When he gets home, he will press it properly inside the same book he has kept all of the flowers Wei Ying gave him.

This one flower, though, he can tell will be the one he's most fond of... Lan Wangji has so much in common with it after all; forever destined to reach for Wei Ying after he has already walked away.

He wonders if the Burial Mounds also feels like this. Wei Ying might not have 'done anything', in the sense that he didn't create the consciousness that lives in this land, but Lan Wangji can see that he did something much more important, instead. Something that no one else had done before. He gave the Burial Mounds a chance.

It doesn't surprise Lan Wangji at all. He was also given a chance by Wei Ying many years ago, and had fallen in love for it. He is intimately aware of just how impactful Wei Ying's actions are.

Lan Wangji takes one last look at the being who cares for Wei Ying as well and leaves.

He had never thought he would come back like this.

It has been ten days since Wei Ying died. Lan Wangji would have come sooner, if only his brother had told him the news right away. He thinks Lan Xichen probably knew that nothing would be able to stop him from coming here after he heard.

He dismounts his sword outside of Yiling, the fabric of his robes sticking to his back like candle wax. Already can he smell the scent of blood, sulphur and burnt soil. He takes step after heavy step up the mountain, dragging his feet like a prisoner.

The earth is caved-in in various parts of the ascent, the bushes are thorny with dangerous spikes. Lan Wangji had heard the whispered rumours that hid in the corners of the Cloud Recesses. The siege was a massacre, on all sides; the very ground had split open when the forces arrived, swallowing cultivators like a hungry beast. The corpses had risen in massive waves. The paths had mingled in each other like a maze, trapping unfortunate souls in never-ending circles.

The Yiling Patriarch's devious tricks, the rumours whispered, didn't stop even after his death. Lan Wangji knows better.

He marches past the corpses of the four sects, those that were unable to be retrieved in the middle of the pandemonium. He walks in a trance, as if he would not be able to get up again, if he stopped. Considering his wounds, that might as well be the case.

He walks until he reaches what once had been a humble settlement. The houses are burnt down to crisps, the crops are trampled and ruined. There is an eerie stillness in the air.

There is undeniable death.

His legs are unable to carry him farther, and Lan Wangji stumbles onto his knees. He places his forehead against the earth and cries.

He wishes he could crumple into a tiny ball and disappear. He wishes he could still be a child, unaware of grief, with the stubborn hope that his mother had just gone somewhere without telling. But he's old now. He is weary and so, so tired. He is old beyond his years and he's old enough to understand that the place Wei Ying went this time is not one he can come back from.

He will never see him again, he will never talk to him or bask in his smile. He will never be called 'Lan Zhan!' by anyone else. His heart twists so painfully he crumbles, sobs shaking his entire form.

How is he supposed to live knowing he will spend the rest of his existence without him? What point is there to anything anymore? How is he supposed to go on?

He allows the tears and snot to run free, allows himself the privilege of breaking apart completely. He kneels there, waiting until the howling wind will numb his entire body and soul, until he can pretend he is just another rotting corpse.

But it doesn’t matter how long he stays there, Wei Ying is gone.

At some point, hours later, the tears stop. Time is cruel like that, Lan Wangji thinks. Even when he wants to continue hurting, even when he wants to sink his hands into his open wounds and feel them sting and bleed, at some point the pain will stop. Even that is out of his control.

When he rises from the ground, he is shivering as the wind picks up. His robes are stained and even his face is dirty, There is no semblance of Hanguang-jun left, only a lost man without purpose.

Lan Wangji slowly turns to leave, feeling empty of everything and the wind howls again. It whips around him so strongly he tenses against it so he won’t be sent flying. The wounds on his back cry out.

Lan Wangji is ready to mount his sword again, even though he barely has the strength to draw breath when a rumbling from the mountain makes him stop. He has heard this before, has felt this calling, when he had visited for the first and only time and when Wei Ying had confided in him the secret of this land.

The earth rumbles again and Lan Wangji knows better.

He mindlessly turns in the direction the wind had been blowing and starts running.

Back when he was first learning the rules of the sect, he remembers questioning each precept the way children do everything just as he remembers stopping that habit after his mother died. But before then there was one rule that felt fair for his young mind. Do not seek senseless hope. It seemed like reasonable advice at the time, after all, creating high expectations is what causes disappointment.

He wonders if the one who wrote that rule ever felt what Lan Wangji is feeling right now. A desperation so ardent it burns his throat.

The trees part for him, twisting him into paths he has never taken before, but he trusts the Burial Mounds with all his being. Even if he didn’t, he has nothing left to lose. The wind beckons him to continue walking, almost pulling him along.

It’s not long before he reaches a clearing, the same inconspicuous clearing from which he picked white wildflowers. In the middle of the clearing stands a tree, so dry and withered it makes all the other trees look as though springing with vitality.

The rumble stops. Whatever the Burial Mounds wants to show him, Lan Wangji is in front of it.

He takes hesitant steps, not daring himself to guess what he will find.

The trunk of the tree slowly begins to unfurl. A tiny hole opens up and enlarges in rhythmic breaths, until it forms an opening big enough for a child to pass.

Lan Wangji inhales, but he doesn’t dare hope. He is so afraid to hope.

“Xian-gege?” A weak voice calls, breathy and feeble, “Can I come out now?”

Lan Wangji once again falls to his knees, though this time for an entirely different reason.

He scrambles for the opening, finding A-yuan tucked against the rough bark of the tree. His face is white as a sheet and his forehead is lined with cold sweat. His hand is curved around an inner stub of the tree from which a trickle of water is falling steadily.

Lan Wangji carefully picks him up and takes him out of his cot, cradling the tiny child, skinny with malnourishment and burning with fever close to his face. He kisses A-yuan’s hair with all of his relief. Gratitude fills him so completely he is almost dizzy with it.

He presses his hand against the trunk of the tree, the way he had seen Wei Ying do many times before.

“Thank you,” he croaks, “He is safe now.”

The ground shakes and the trickle of water that had saved A-yuan falls in steady drips, almost like tears.

“I know you did your best,” Lan Wangji murmurs.

We both did, he thinks, and it still wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. But this, he hugs A-yuan more closely, they can make this mean something. They have no other choice.

The Burial Mounds moans, as if to share the sentiment.

When you died, your soul was torn apart along with your body.

Just as with many other things you had taught during the years, in that moment it would learn failure; how it feels when one tries so hard and it doesn’t make a difference. It thought it knew what hopelessness meant before. It thought it was well-familiar with the concept. But the moment you invoked all of your strength into your own weapon and allowed what you had controlled to turn against you, oh so deliberately, the pain of being able to do nothing had been stronger than anything it had felt before.

It had thought it knew anger. But when you hid your child in its tree and told it you knew it would want to save you but it would never be able to, when you begged it to save the child instead, when you forced it to choose without actually giving it a choice, it was furious at you like never before too.

It was mean of you, to teach it what it means to love and then not let yourself be loved. And it was cruel of everyone else to not have loved you unconditionally in the first place. To have made you believe it was never an option at all.

Very easily, after you split apart, it killed the ones naive enough to linger. They had thought the fight was over. They didn't realize its ire until it was too late.

And after it decimated every cultivator it could find, it grieved.

Your absence was like the yawning gap between a canyon, immeasurably immense, and its hold on your soul was like trying to fill that gap one sand grain at a time. So unbearably impossible yet still an attempt nonetheless.

It gingerly collected every little piece of you. Shattered in all different directions, tremulous bits of soul, confused and alone.

It mourned.

It guarded you at your most vulnerable, even as your kind raged against its borders, set up trick after trick to try and steal you back. But it was completely sealed.

Any force against the resentful energy was repelled, any ritual or incantation was drowned out by the murmur of the wind, harsh and unyielding. Those who had helped you bring it to life again were all gone and your tiny wisp of a soul was the most precious treasure ever hidden in its grasp.

With time, its state deteriorated. There was no more reason for its land to become fertile, no more reason for the waters of its river to run clear. There was no more reason to try. It knows you wouldn't want it to give up. It knows you would want it to move on.

But you understand better than anyone, how easy it is to decay when there is no one to care.

Season after season passed, the same endless gray. In its immense grief, it had believed they never again would be able to take you from there.

One split second, one breath to the next. For thirteen years it nurtured your broken being, it kept you safe, but it was in one split second that everything fell apart.

It could never fight resentful energy. It was a part of it, as much as it had become a part of you. And any being affected by resentful energy knows the point of no coming back intimately, those who control it know it in a way that can never be undone.

So, when thin tendrils of black smoke slithered across the muddied floor, snatched all of you in its gelid claws and pulled you down the forest ground, none of its roots, none of its trees, none of the crows or the rats or the corpses, no matter how desperately it screeched, trashed in that moment, no matter the way it split the earth, the way it split the skies,

no matter how much it tried, nothing could have stopped this.

You were gone.

The residents of Yiling are familiar with the pressure of resentment. No one could live so close to the most dangerous mass grave in the cultivation world and not know the sensation of struggling to breathe, the sensation of impending doom, and the knowledge that you could be next. The next to what, exactly, no one could tell, but they feel it all the same.

They got used to it the way one gets used to a broken bone that had not healed right. Slowly, painfully, eventually. One felt it acutely when it was snowing or raining, but lived with it normally otherwise. They ignore the way the hair on the back of their necks rise when they glance at the mountain from afar and pretend everything is okay.

That is why, when in one uneventful afternoon, a howl so loud it shakes the earth resonates through the entire town, no one can tell what is going on. The residents of Yiling look around trying to understand, but the angry moaning becomes intolerable. Many fall to their knees and scramble to cover their ears, eardrums bursting and starting to bleed.

For miles, the howl can be heard, long and drawn out, with no intent to stop. From the Burial Mounds, a dark fog of resentful energy begins to seep out, sluggish as it swallows the roads, the animals, the trees. Everything in its way. Nothing is spared.

The residents of Yiling had forgotten the dangers that lurked on the other side of the city. That day, they remembered.

Many escape once they are able to get their bearings, but the howling doesn’t stop. Even after days have passed, the howling doesn’t stop. Those who hear it, even from afar, are plagued with incessant headaches and a sense of crushing dread so deep they would take their swords out and threaten to kill themselves right then. Yiling becomes uninhabitable.

Those are the rumours that Wei Ying hears when he’s traveling with Lan Zhan in search of the rest of the body’s parts. Naturally, he’s intrigued. And Lan Zhan, so indulgent he seems to be of Wei Ying’s wants nowadays, takes him to Yiling with no word, after he asks.

“Lan Zhan,” he had commented after he overheard the conversation at an inn, “Surely these rumours are exaggerated. Is the city really empty and doomed?”

“Hm,” Lan Zhan had answered, “It started recently, investigations are still in the beginning.”

“Really? When did it start?”

“The night of Mo Manor.”

“Huh,” Wei Ying had blinked, “That can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

There are hundreds of ways to have interpreted his words. He had thought Lan Zhan would believe him to be talking about a possible masterplan tied to his resurrection, the arm and the happenings in Yiling. However, Lan Zhan had looked at him meaningfully instead.

“It cares for you,” He had said, simply, “It always did.”

Wei Ying hadn’t answered, but his chest had filled with warmth at the words, however ridiculous it may have been. He cares for it, as well. He has come to see it as a home, despite everything or maybe because of everything. Sometimes, home becomes the place you least expect it. He thought no one else would understand, but Lan Zhan, surprisingly, does.

That’s why they put a pause to their search and find themselves in front of the howling city.

“The range is stretched so far,” Wei Ying murmurs. Lan Zhan is a silent but steady presence at his side.

The howling hurts him, but he knows an oppression much tougher than this. He knows what it’s like to have rage entering his very being, trashing inside his empty core. The howling stutters and gasps, as if sobbing. This, he recognizes, is not anger, but grief.

The way the wind whips at him, cuts his skin and pushes him away doesn’t scare him. Neither does the resentful energy growling aggressively or the screech stinging his ears. He has seen wild animals cower into themselves with their bared fangs and lash out in hurt, in fear. He has been one of these animals too, once upon another lifetime. With a deep breath, he steps forward.

As soon as his first step lands on the soil, everything stops.

Wei Ying doesn’t. He goes on.

He walks through the deserted streets of Yiling, feeling the hesitation, the wait for him to arrive like a heavy blanket on his shoulders. The hope is so thick it chokes him. His heart clenches inside his chest, where it's beating like crazy. He never wanted for it to suffer like this. It's humbling, to know it did.

Finally, he arrives at the foot of the Burial Mounds.

To anyone else, it would seem like a normal mountain on a normal day. But Wei Ying can feel it. He can feel the sorrow and he can feel the way the Burial Mounds wants to make sure he is really there, really alive, but is too afraid to reach out.

No one else would be able to see anything, but Wei Ying feels it, almost as if it is a tentative hand offering to feel his heartbeat.

He takes a step forward and the mountain breathes.

When it felt your touch upon the rough bark of its dead tree, kind, even after all the destruction it wrought both to others and to you, the roots in its soil filled for the first time in thirteen years, the longing buried along all the corpses bursting to the surface in staccato movements of unbearable, hesitant hope. Its dry grass grew again, pushing as much as it could to reach for you. Its barren leaves fell from their perch, content enough just to brush your cheek and show you it had missed you like nothing else. The very air all around you stood still, adoring.

Much like the first time it met you, it didn’t dare believe, for the disappointment would break it. Only, you forced it to. You unwittingly took its being upon your hands and made it look. Made it witness you.

It has been for thousands of years. Lifetimes come and gone, as brief as raindrops. Life is stretched out into a long path, where your time here has been barely a fleck of dust in the road. And yet, these nothing years without you were the loneliest of them all.

But you were here again. And when you leaned your forehead against the low branch, eyes closed, rabbit-heart thumping thumping thumping and whispered, ‘Shh, old friend. I’m sorry I scared you’,

it flowered again at your feet like you never left home.

This is what fate means: You were the first to leave,

and the first to come back.