Chapter Text
He’s been bringing his work to his brother’s doorstep, often reading night hunt reports or students reports while he sits outside, knowing his brother will not answer him. Cloud Recesses has been getting colder and darker as winter approaches, and it is getting harder to stay as long as he’d like. There is not much wind today, but the clouds seem to soar by.
The first months were hard. The cultivation world flipped on its head. Everyone looked to him to lead them. Frankly he did not know how. He watched his brother and uncle lead the sect his entire life, but he’d never actually done it. He saw how Jin Guangyao acted as the Chief Cultivator, but he never wanted to have to do it himself. All the discussion conferences, hosting banquets, hearing small petitions. He never wanted it. Yet, here he is.
It felt as though everyone was breathing a sigh of relief, but he felt like he was losing everything. Wei Ying wanted to travel. He wanted to stay out of Wangji’s way. He knew he had Wei Ying’s love, except it’s hard to remind himself of it when the man has been gone for so long. Sizhui knew the truth and went to Yiling with Wen Ning. Nearly every day he had to push back the thought that he’d never return. He was scared Sizhui would be angry at him, at the Lan Sect, and never want to come back. His brother chose to lock himself away in seclusion. The person who has always been by his side was no longer next to him, the people he loved weren’t there anymore and it hurt.
He understands his brother. He does. Maybe more than anyone else. He knows the absolutely crushing, devastating feeling that sucks the breath out of one’s chest and pushes them to the floor. He knows his brother needs space. He needs time. But he also knows that being alone doesn’t help. Even when Wangji wanted nothing more than to yell at Xichen to leave—which he did sometimes—his brother never left. He would simply say no, and he would always come back.
Sizhui helped—he gave Wangji something to rise for. He gave him something to live for and work for. He does not want to say the boy made it easier. Caring for a child while he himself was incapacitated presented countless challenges. But he and Xichen know that the child was the only thing that kept both of them afloat during those years of seclusion. Xichen doesn’t have something to rise for now. His person to rise for is the one who caused all this.
A cook made a comment that maybe Wangji should go out and find another gangly, orphaned toddler for Xichen to take care of. It’s a good joke, he even wrote about it to Wei Ying, but it wouldn’t be the same. No matter how ashamed he is to admit it, he never would have saved A-Yuan if he didn’t represent everything Wei Ying fought for. If he didn’t love A-Yuan first.
Wangji misses him. Selfishly, he wishes he was here. He knew the day would come when Sizhui found the truth and left to see the world from a different point of view. He just expected he’d be older. He knows he was out doing far more dangerous things when Wangji himself was seventeen, but the part of him that shines when Sizhui calls him “father” worries about him. Misses him. He can’t keep leaning on the boy for stability, he needs to live a life on his own. He knows this. It just hurts.
He signs his name to finalize a report he barely reads and moves onto the next item of business; two smaller sects arguing over fishing rights on the river that the Jiang Sect owns. Beneath the stack of idiotic letters is a letter from Sect Leader Jiang saying that he’s already granted fishing rights to both sects and divided up trade routes fairly but neither of these elderly, mindless men want to split and share. They want it all.
He takes a deep breath. He is not going to budge. He does not reward this kind of behavior. Jiang Wanyin dealt with it—and even though it pains him to admit it—he handled it well. These trading splits make plenty of sense and they are pretty evenly split. The sect that gets the larger fishing area has a much larger population to feed and a bigger town surrounding it. There is absolutely nothing wrong with Jiang Wanyin's handling of the situation. (Sometimes Wangji wishes he felt as capable as Jiang Wanyin is at being a Sect Leader.) He has to stop himself before he writes a wholly inappropriate letter back. There are so many people would be better at this job that him. He replies with several pages that politely (forcefully and bluntly) tells them to deal with the response they already got and not to bother him over trivial arguments such as this.
He picks up the next letter. It’s for Uncle. He sets it aside. Uncle is growing more upset every day the goes by that Xichen doesn’t open his door. Lan Jingyi is concerned it’s making him ill. After all, Uncle is much older than he was when he took on his own brother’s burdens, now he’s watching his nephews make the same mistakes. Uncle’s been through a lot. It’s not fair that he’s having to continue to help lead the sect, especially when Wangji should be capable enough to do it. He’s played a huge role in helping Wangji get his feet settled beneath him, but he’s getting tired. Uncle has taken up some of the smaller Sect Leader duties that he can’t get done himself. Wangji is trying to teach Lan Jingyi how to do them instead.
The tension that’s run between Lan Wangji and Lan Qiren for the past fourteen years has not let up, which is very… inconvenient. Neither of them really know why they’re still holding ont it, but they are both nothing if not stubborn. Despite all the help Lan Qiren gives his nephew and all the times Wangji tells his uncle to rest, or eat, or take time for himself, they both talk to each other in short, curt words. Lan Jingyi comments on it all the time. He stands between the two as they both stubbornly stare at each other and asks a question that is not a good question, but it is enough for one of them to answer him.
He appreciates Jingyi’s presence. Logically, he knows that the elders want him around Wangji. If something happens, the clan will fall to him. The boy is one of the only people left in the clan leader’s direct bloodline besides Wangji himself. It’s not fair. He is only just a senior disciple, but he’s tied here instead of leading night hunts like he should be. His friends are all traveling, righting wrongs, night hunting. He’s stuck here, following Wangji around, picking up work that never should have been his in the first place.
He also knows that Jingyi is worried about Brother as well. Xichen was very close with Jingyi’s mother before her death and as a child, he spent a lot of time with Brother after the Burning of Cloud Recesses. Xichen is important to Jingyi too. Outside of Wangji and Sizhui, he thinks Jingyi may be the only other person who has the best shot at correctly reading Lan Xichen.
His brother is much harder to read than people think. They see his warm, polite smile, and they hear his gentle, patient voice, but they don’t see his fingers picking at the base of his thumb until it bleeds. They don’t see the abrasions on his arms where he scratches like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin. They miss the times where his smile cracks and he locks his jaw and he just wants to get out. He sees it. To Lan Wangji, there is a stark difference between Sect Leader Zewu-jun and the person Lan Xichen.
Lan Xichen was raised to be a leader. He was raised to be perfect. Wangji was as well, he knows this, but Xichen carried a much heavier burden. Everywhere he went, he was expected to be absolutely perfect. Upright, moral, kind, patient, humble, diplomatic, powerful, strong, fearless, and the list continues. Eyes would follow him as he walked through the main halls of other sects, villagers would gawk at him, elders would whisper about him. The attention would make his skin crawl and his heart pound. Wangji thinks he’s the only one who noticed.
A few years after their mother died, there was fear their father would soon follow. Xichen was taken on diplomatic visits, introduced to the cultivation world early as Lan Xichen. He would accompany Uncle to conferences and banquets at the other major sects. He was pushed ahead to higher level cultivation courses. He took up sword training early, with children who were bigger than he was, stronger than he was. He studied harder and longer. He was digging himself into the ground. The elders saw that Xichen could still smile and make friends. He still endeared himself to people, so they pushed him further. The elders talk about this time as a “great flourishing” in their young leader.
Wangji remembers this time as immense panic in his brother. Xichen would often stare off into distances where no one could reach him, and his hands would shake, and he couldn’t catch his breath. He would scratch and scratch and scratch at his arms until they would bleed. He would not eat his meals, always putting more food on Wangji’s plate, or another younger disciple’s. He would become angry when he could not get something done on the first try. Wangji remembers his brother slowly becoming a much different person than the brother he knew. Lan Xichen on the other hand, doesn’t remember his fifteenth year at all.
“Hanguang-jun?” Jingyi says. He’s become quieter in the past year. The boy stands there properly, carrying an umbrella. “Rain is coming. I wouldn’t want all your work to get soaked out here.”
“Yes, thank you,” he responds, rising. Jingyi helps him gather his papers, gives a long look at the Hanshi’s locked door, and walks ahead, giving Wangji his space again.
“I’ll be back tomorrow, Brother. Please eat well tonight.” He crosses the courtyard and meets his younger cousin at the path, and the two of them continue ahead without another word between them.
The very air in the room weighs down on Lan Xichen, the guilt forces him to the floor and makes it near impossible to move. His shoulder blades dig into the hard wood beneath him, but he doesn’t have the energy to push himself off the floor. Air seemingly moves in and out of his lungs against his own will, and sometimes a single breath feels like it’s choking him. He deserves this, he thinks often.
Sometimes he can feel the weight of his sword in his hand. He can feel the pressure of it, he can feel the resistance against the sword in his hand as it—
As it—
As he killed A-Yao.
He’s always been able to make it to the back door of the Hanshi before he has to empty his stomach.
-
He’s been making a list of every person in his life and how he’s let them down. Their shadows haunt the corners of his home, taunting him, screaming at him. The least he can do, he thinks, is listen. The voices rush forward, crushing him where he lays, blowing a cold breeze across his skin. He believes what the voices from the back of his head tell him.
Nie Mingjue’s voice is loudest. Sometimes he’s in the form of Baxia, sometimes he’s the corpse they all saw at the temple—head messily sewn on, skin gray and thin and dead. But sometimes, it’s the da-ge he knew. He’s smiling or laughing or whispering commentary under his breath to Xichen who would have to use all the restraint he had to not laugh in the middle of discussion halls. Mingjue’s large, calloused hands discreetly holding his, a quick and comforting squeeze sent warmth all through Xichen’s body. It was electrifying. It was addicting.
He and Mingjue would seek each other out during the Sunshot Campaign. The burden of leadership weighed so heavily on Mingjue’s shoulders—Xichen understood that. In front of everyone, he had to be Chifeng-Zun, the fearless, powerful warrior who charged the battlefield without thought. But at night, he’d come to Xichen’s tent.
They understood each other. Xichen saw parts of Mingjue that was carefully hidden away. He saw the gears turning through every worst-case scenario until he drove himself mad. He saw the fear of when his saber spirit started taking over more and more. He heard the desperate hoping that he would never become the irritable and angry man his father became, but it felt himself falling victim to it and he was scared. He saw the hundreds of letters written to Huaisang and the tension in his shoulders dissipate when he finally got a response.
Mingjue saw Xichen’s vulnerabilities too. He heard them and saw them and soothed them. The would hold each other until the slightest light of dawn, and then they’d separate, both knowing there was no way they could fulfill the promises they made. They both knew they could die that day. They booth knew they could never see each other again. But they lived and they survived until Xichen helped Jin Guangyao murder him.
Mingjue died in pain. And that was Xichen’s fault.
He killed Nie Mingjue. He knows that. He doesn’t deserve to say he loved him anymore. He taught A-Yao the guqin. He taught A-Yao the song to play, he gave him an entry token to Cloud Recesses. Mingjue didn’t trust A-Yao. He told Xichen again and again to be careful, that A-Yao could not be trusted, but he didn’t listen. He stood by A-Yao the whole time. He saw a dimpled grin and kind eyes that seemed to know him, and he felt seen. He was the one who pushed brotherhood between the three of them. He was the one who insisted A-Yao play for Mingjue, despite Mingjue’s protests.
He remembers the funeral. Huaisang…he looked lost. He looked devastated. He was exhausted and drawn, and Xichen did not miss the dark circles under the young man’s eyes. He stood beside Huaisang through the ceremony, and he swears to this day, he can still feel Huaisang’s hand gripping the back of his sleeve. Xichen had separated him from the guests and gotten him out of sight from the rest of the clan to try and get some food in him, but Huaisang just looked distantly at his cup of wine. “Er-ge,” he whispered, voice shaking, “what am I supposed to do now?”
It’s his fault Huaisang was left all alone. He did that to Huaisang. He killed Nie Mingjue. He allowed Nie Mingjue to be murdered. And the thing is, looking back on how Huaisang seemed to be much more interested in asking Xichen for help instead of A-Yao, he can’t help but think that Huaisang knew. He’s known this whole time. He left Huaisang alone, with no one to turn to but himself who lived days away, or his brother’s murderer.
Secretly, it was his worst fear when he was younger—dying and leaving Wangji behind. Leaving his brother to lead a sect that was never supposed to be his. Leaving him alone. Huaisang and Wangji were both raised by brothers who became Sect Leaders too young and both relied on their brothers in ways most children shouldn’t have to. Huaisang was a little more forward about it, often clinging to the back of Mingjue’s robes as a child. Wangji was quiet in his dependence on his Xichen. He would crawl into Xichen’s bed at night when he was young, and as he grew older, he sought out his brother’s presence and would just sit beside him until whatever he was upset about settled. Especially after everything he never wanted to leave his brother alone. And yet, here he is.
He’s letting Wangji down. He’s shutting him out like their own father did, he’s handing his brother a sect that shouldn’t have to be his. He doesn’t even try to stop the water that leaks down his face when he sees his brother’s silhouette outside his door, waiting to see his older brother who left him to become Sect Leader and Chief Cultivator. He can’t bring himself to do anything but watch as his brother’s shadow quietly, patiently sits outside his door, shoulders uncharacteristically low. Sometimes he speaks. Asks Xichen how he is, tells him to take his meals, asks for the door to open.
He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve his brother’s concern after he abandoned him. He doesn’t deserve to want to see his brother, he doesn’t deserve to miss him, especially after all the ways he’s wronged Wangji. He tried to kill the man his brother loves. He led his clan to murder the man who Wangji loves, who did nothing wrong. He led his clan, his family to slaughter, trying to fight a man who never actually fought them back. He led his elders to separate Wangji from Wei Wuxian, who was dying, and he allowed his elders to draw their swords against his brother when Wangji did nothing wrong. He forced Wangji to draw his sword against the elders. He never stopped them, and he put his brother in a situation where he had no choice but to do what he did. He allowed his elders to be injured, he allowed Wangji to be tied and marched to Cloud Recesses. He allowed his brother to be whipped within an inch of his life. And he had the audacity to go to his brother’s sickbed and weep. And now, he’s left his brother out there, waiting for him to open a door that he can’t open. He doesn’t even have the strength to tell him to leave.
His brother had the strength to do this. His brother was able to rise from his own sickbed and raise a child. Lan Xichen is not the man his brother is.
--
Vaguely, he recognizes that it’s raining outside. There is no light in the Hanshi. He’s cold. That’s fine. Let him be cold. He should just lie here forever, where he can’t hurt anyone. He deserves to be here.
Alone. Cold. Trapped in this place where there is a ghost at every corner that sends him spiraling deep into depths, he didn’t know he was capable of.
But he can’t hurt anyone here. He can trust that his choices here won’t hurt anyone else. His people are better off without him. The world is better off without him. How is he supposed to lead if he’s so blatantly let the world down.
Failure.
Something in him cracks with that. He doesn’t know what. From the very beginning he was taught what failure looked like, and it came in the image of his father. His father who let the sect down and wasted away in seclusion.
He laughs.
-
Sleep hasn’t come for days—he thinks. He continues his list.
Jin Ling, A-Yao’s nephew who has lost everyone in his life except his two uncles. Now he only has one. He remembers A-Ling as a child, toddling behind his uncle, grinning up at him. That little boy is younger than Sizhui. He’s a sect leader now, far younger than he should ever have to be one.
When Xichen was thrust into his position he was already twenty or so years old. He had a friend who stood beside him at discussion conferences, someone who respected him when he spoke so others would follow suit. He had someone close to him who could offer advice and he could share his worries. Someone who understood what he was going through because they experienced it. He had a friend who would drink for him and walk with him around the courtyards of whichever sect was playing host and make him laugh. He always had an ally until—
Jin Ling is a sect leader now, far younger than he should be, far younger than what makes Xichen comfortable. He can’t imagine leading a sect at fourteen. Nonetheless a sect with none of his friends or family. Jin Ling was always far more at home in Lotus Pier than he was in Jinlintai, much to A-Yao’s dismay. He’ll have Jiang Wanyin to support him, he hopes—another young sect leader who had no one to support him. Xichen did nothing to help the teenager when he became the leader of a murdered sect. He adds Sect Leader Jiang to the list.
They really did nothing for him. They saw a teenage Jiang Wanyin lose everything he ever had and congratulated him for killing his brother.
He can see Jiang Wanyin’s face at the banquet after the Siege of the Burial Mounds. He was quiet and angry, and he was the only one dressed in white while everyone else celebrated.
--
Knock. Knock.
“Zewu-jun?” a voice startles him from where he lay on the floor. His body aches. “Are you well?”
Jingyi.
“Hanguang-jun cannot make it today. He got called to one of the juniors’ night hunts last night and they have not returned yet.”
He doesn’t know how to feel to know he feels nothing. There was a time where that sentence would have made his stomach turn. He would have found where the night hunt was and written to A-Yao to--
“Hanguang-jun tells me you haven’t been taking your meals.”
His voice is a bit deeper than he remembers it being.
“I went into town today and brought some of the sweet buns you like. I thought I’d bring you some. They’re still warm.”
His hands are so cold it hurts to close them all the way. He doesn’t have the strength to get off the floor anyways. He closes his eyes, pushing the ache in his stomach away.
“Fuck you, Nie Mingjue! You really think I’m scared of you?” He still feels the sting on his shoulder where A-Yao pushed him away. He can still hear the sound of his brother’s back hitting the statue. He can still here the snap.
He isn’t hungry anymore. He’s barely able to keep the bile down anymore anyways.
--
He continues his list.
He heard early in his seclusion that Sizhui and Jingyi had gone to Jinlintai to see their friend. Only Jingyi returned. He can’t blame Sizhui for not coming back. He remembers the first time he met the boy, too small, curled up in the crook of Wangji’s arms. He can still see the tiny, fevered little boy lying beside Wangji, his fingers wrapped in Wangji’s hair, both of them sleeping fitfully. The child his brother raised but was never permitted to adopt. Lan Yuan is an orphan. He was raised around people who weren’t his own, he would wake in the middle of the night crying for people who no longer lived, and he attached himself to the only face he trusted. It’s Xichen’s fault he grew up like this. It’s Xichen’s fault the boy was forced to be robbed of his identity and his family and is now serving a sect that murdered his family and destroyed his home. Xichen made him an orphan. It’s Xichen’s fault the boy was so ill and so fevered he nearly died as a child. If Xichen hadn’t blindly trusted a single smiling face, maybe Wen Yuan would have lived.
And then there’s Lan Jingyi, his second cousin’s child. He hears that Jingyi has glued himself Uncle and Wangji’s sides, trying to pick up anything that falls through the cracks, doing the work that Uncle and Wangji can’t get around to themselves. Apparently, it’s often Jingyi who greets guests and hears small petitions because no one else can. Lan Jingyi, who followed him closely after everything that night. The only person who accompanied him on foot all the way back to Cloud Recesses. Jingyi, normally bright and boisterous, was respectfully quiet, and made sure Lan Xichen made it home alright. He’s letting Jingyi down now. Jingyi walked him all the way to his door asked if he needed anything. He said he’d stay until Xichen fell asleep and pretended not to notice how he climbed into bed with his outer clothes still on. When he awoke, he had the nerve to tell the boy to leave.
“Get out,” he said, his voice hoarse. Jingyi had looked up, his eyes wide.
“Zewu-jun, I did not realize you were awake,” the boy replied, his voice purposely steady. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything, so I came back this morning. This disciple apologizes if he over stepped.” Jingyi stood and bowed.
“I said get out.” He didn’t feel anything when Jingyi’s shoulders tensed and the boy paused in his bow.
“Yes, Zewu-jun,” his voice was quiet as he turned to leave.
“Tell no one to disturb my seclusion.”
“Yes, Zewu-jun,” Jingyi said as he closed the door, pausing to look at him for a moment with sad eyes before saying, “Take care of yourself, please.”
He would be disappointed to see you now. The shadows that haunt him say. They all would be.
He uses all the strength he has to turn onto his side, pulling his knees to his chest as he tries to become as small as he can, to get as far away from them as he can. The wind outside makes the trees scrape against the outside of his walls, like nails.
You’ve destroyed them all, A-Huan whispers a voice that sounds just like A-Yao. He curls further into himself. It’s cold. He can’t stop shaking.
“I know,” he sobs in reply.