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There’s an arm in the dirt. Xichen lands Shouyue beside it and dismounts, carefully avoiding the rusty puddle of blood it lies in. Its severed robes, underneath the stains, still retain the remnants of a clean white color. Lan robes . Xichen kneels, and his gaze slides down to the hand, seeking any information that could possibly point to the identity of the arm’s owner. There are calluses that match up to the grip of a sword; this is certainly a cultivator. Closer to the tips of the curled fingers are more calluses, ones that those skilled at the guqin sport–
( “A-Huan,” says A-Niang, “do you want to see your little brother?”
A-Huan does want to see his little brother, he thinks. Uncle said that it was in the rules to love your family and care for your siblings.
When he looks up at A-Niang’s face, she’s smiling, and he feels his own lips part to do the same. He takes a couple of steps closer, and she lowers the bundle of cloth in her arms so he can see–
That’s his little brother?
“A-Niang,” he says, troubled by this turn of events, “are you sure that’s a person?” As if in agreement, the thing in the blankets gurgles quietly. A-Niang trills in laughter, and does her best to keep the little thing she’s holding steady.
“I’m sure, A-Huan,” she says through her giggles. When A-Huan’s doubtful look doesn’t dissipate, she smiles wider. “Here, I’ll prove it to you!” She holds out her hand for A-Huan’s, and without hesitation, he places his hand in hers. His whole hand almost fits into just her palm, and he mirrors the smile off her face again. “Look, do you see our hands?”
A-Huan nods. “Yes!”
“Now, look at this!” A-Niang lets go of his hand to gently unravel some of the cloth on the bundle, revealing more of the wrinkly pink skin on what’s apparently A-Huan’s little brother. Slowly, she removes its arm from within the blankets. “Hold out your hand,” she commands. When he does, she places it on his palm.
There’s a hand. It’s fat and curled into a loose fist, and it’s even smaller than A-Huan’s, but it’s a person’s hand. A-Huan looks up to see a pair of large golden eyes watching him calmly, and for the first time, he smiles because he wants to, not because he was copying off someone else’s face.
“Say hello to A-Zhan, baobei,” A-Niang says.
“Hello, A-Zhan,” A-Huan says, and his didi gives a gurgle in return.)
Without Xichen’s consent, his feet are already taking him away from what he knows is Wangji’s–
His mind shuts down before he can finish the thought. He’d seen Wangji just a shichen ago, right before he’d suddenly up and left Jin Ling’s one month celebration; Xichen’s little brother couldn’t– in such a short time–
A stumble over a rock quickly brings his thoughts back to the present. He can't afford to get distracted in this situation; now that he’s paying attention, there are quite a few bodies scattered around the area. Judging by the colors of their robes, there seem to be members from many different sects here, including GusuLan. Despite himself, Xichen pays closer attention to those in white than any others, trying to find any missing an arm.
(It can’t be Wangji’s . It can’t .)
He kneels beside a few of the bodies, checking each for any vital signs. All seem to be alive and whole, just knocked out with at most a few bruises and cuts. Xichen breathes a sigh of relief for each he finds alive; it doesn’t look like there had been a killing today.
(But what about–)
As he weaves through the cultivators strewn about the path, careful not to let his boots trample any stray arms or legs, he sees a slight movement from the corner of his eye.
(For a moment, Xichen stalls. Somehow, he knows– he knows – that the moment he turns to look, the moment he sees... He knows. He knows . So, he stalls. Then, he turns.)
Briefly, the image before him doesn’t register, and Xichen doesn’t understand why. He’d seen war, devastation, much more blood than what’s in front of him now, so why does his mind not allow him to understand what he sees?
(He knows –)
In the center of a pool of blood, there are two people. One of them is very obviously dead, his long hair spread around them, tangled into the surrounding blood. Clutching him tightly, a hunching figure shakes heavily, letting out short, aborted sobs that jar the body, and it jumps at every shuddering breath. As Xichen stares, its head lolls toward him–
( “Gege,” A-Huan hears the sweet voice say, “how do you do that?”
He combs through the lock of his didi’s silky hair a few more times, doing his very best not to pull. Gently, A-Huan reaches for another lock and begins combing through from the bottom up, not wanting to ruin the sleepy, comfortable lull in the room.
Only after a few more strokes does he ask, “What does A-Zhan mean?”
A-Zhan begins to fidget at the question the way he always does when he’s thinking through what he wants to say, before he remembers the situation and goes still once again.
“It does not hurt,” A-Zhan elaborates as A-Huan begins to gather his hair up into a nice little hairdo, “when gege combs my hair.”
A-Huan smiles and gentles his movements even more, even as he maneuvers his didi’s hair this way and that.
“It’s because I like combing your hair,” A-Huan decides. “Because I like it, I want you to like it too.”
A-Zhan says quietly, “I do.”
They sit in a peaceful silence after that, and A-Huan finishes up his task. A-Zhan turns to look over his shoulder with his stoic little face and big, golden eyes, and doesn’t even protest when A-Huan subsequently attempts to squeeze the air out of him. He even offers his hand for A-Huan to hold when they start up the path toward the gentian house. )
Xichen’s boots, once white, are long since soaked through with Wangji’s blood when he finally stops before the remnants of his brother and what’s left of Wei Wuxian. Every step he’d taken on the way there had taken hours.
(It should have been longer –)
It takes a few more minutes ( years ) for Wei Wuxian to notice Xichen through his sobs, and Xichen is content ( not content, never content ) to stay silent until then.
“Zewu-jun?” Wei Wuxian asks when he finally notices the blood-stained boots from his peripherals. Slowly, he raises his gaze to Xichen’s face. Xichen hadn’t known what he had expected from Wei Wuxian’s expression, but whatever it was, it hadn’t been this.
With Wei Wuxian still looking at him ( trying to find Wangji in him ), Xichen lowers his gaze to Wangji again.
His arm is missing. Despite his previous knowledge of this, it still takes Xichen by surprise.
(wrong, wrong– )
Behind where Wangji’s arm should have been, there’s an oozing, gaping–
( “Wangji!” Xichen quickly rushes over to where his brother is already getting back to his feet, stopping when Wangji meets his eyes with a warning glance.
“I am alright, xiongzhang.” Wangji begins to resume his sword stance, but stops when Xichen grabs at him.
“Let me see, then,” Xichen says cleverly. Despite Wangji’s unchanging expression, his general air turns sassy. Xichen wishes he could call his little brother out on an imaginary eyeroll, but he’s quite sure that goes against the rules somewhere. Honestly, this little…
With a quiet hmph , Wangji turns in a circle under Xichen’s scrutinizing gaze. Once complete, he stares back at his brother, even having the audacity to almost imperceptibly raise a brow. What a cocky xiao tuzi, ha!
“Lift your arms,” Xichen orders. Wangji complies, but Xichen can tell it’s only because of rule 217. ‘Obey your elders.’ The nerve! Xichen is almost impressed, right up until he sees a spot of blood on Wangji’s side.
“It is truly fine, xiongzhang,” Wangji says when he catches Xichen’s worried look. “I have already healed it. You need not worry.”
Need not worry, he says!
“Wangji…” Xichen gives his best imploring look. “May I please take a look?” He catches the tell-tale twitch of Wangji’s finger, and widens his eyes further. Wangji holds strong for a moment (though they both know he’ll lose), then finally inclines his head a bit. Xichen perks up and reaches for his wrist, and begins to weave some qi through his brother’s familiar meridians.
His qi finds Wangji’s side unwounded, but his spiritual reserves ever so slightly depleted. Attempting secrecy, Xichen leaves just a bit of qi behind, ignoring Wangji’s knowing look when the subterfuge fails. They resume their sparring. )
For a never ending moment, Xichen is hit with so much indescribable rage it almost makes him stagger. How dare Wei Wuxian grieve? How dare he cry? How dare he have done whatever it was he’d done?
(How dare Xichen not have felt it, known it, the moment his little brother’s life had been snuffed out?)
There’s a tug on Shouyue, and when Xichen returns his look to Wei Wuxian, he feels the anger drain right out of his body, leaving nothing behind. Wei Wuxian had let go of Wangji with one hand ( Wangji, Wangji, Wangji– ), and now had it wrapped around Xichen’s blade, gently guiding it toward his own throat. Xichen instinctively begins to pull it away, but stops when Wei Wuxian only tightens his hold despite the blood beginning to bubble from his palm.
“Zewu-jun,” comes the tired voice. “I destroyed the seal.”
They meet eyes, and hold one another’s gazes for an eternity. Xichen sees love there, pooling endlessly through Wei Wuxian’s gray irises, and even more grief.
He sees there, “ I’ve tried my best. ”
He sees there, “ It was my fault. ”
He sees there, “ I’ve lived too long, and I don’t want to, without him. ”
He tries to return, “ I understand. ”
Xichen moves his sword until the tip rests against Wei Wuxian’s bobbing throat, and pauses.
“Zewu-jun,” Wei Wuxian says, “the Wens I rescued aren’t an army. They’re elderly and a child.” Their shared gaze keeps steady. Xichen somehow knows it’s not a lie.
Xichen says, “I understand.”
Wei Wuxian closes his eyes. Xichen thrusts his sword forward.