Chapter Text
The letter arrives mixed-in with several others, unassuming and without any markings to indicate its significance.
As leader of their sect, the letters are addressed to Lan Xichen, and contain matters of varying importance – requests for aid, complaints against parties who have in turn written their own complaints, and the occasional aimless partition for Gusu Lan favor; a play for some systemic gain or other.
But newly emerged from seclusion, Lan Xichen is…fragile. Lan Wangji does not want him taking on too heavy a burden so fresh from his mourning, lest his physical and mental wellness suffer. So Lan Wangji has taken to sharing a number of his duties, particularly those that can be dealt with from the comfort of his residence, away from political squabbles and diplomatic finessing and grating small talk.
Lan Wangji moves through the letters methodically, and keeps the forceful exhales of agitation through his nose to a minimum. He manages to only roll his eyes once.
Each of the letters is addressed to Lan Xichen, or more broadly, the Gusu Lan sect.
Only one is addressed to Lan Wangji.
The envelope is plain, unsigned by any sect or sender. On the front, scrawled in simple, anxious text, is his lone title: “Hanguang-jun.”
Curious, he slices the top neatly open, and withdraws its contents.
Through his time in handling Lan correspondence, he has grown accustomed to skimming past several lines of prattle and flattery: extolments of their clan’s nobility and unsubtle suggestions of the sender clan’s esteem.
There is no blather to skip in this letter. It reads simply:
Come to Carp Tower.
Something is wrong with Wei Wuxian.
- Jin Rulan
Lan Wangji’s heart jumps sickeningly into his throat before dropping like a stone, leaving a churning worry in its wake. The missive is unorthodox, forgoing the use of conventional format and sent on anonymous paper so as not to officially implicate the Jin Sect. The hastily written characters speak of urgency and the lack of ceremony speaks of secrecy. Sure enough, when he turns the letter over, there are instructions cursorily scribbled on the back.
He is not to enter Carp Tower to be received formally, but has been provided with the means to sneak through the back and meet the sect leader of Lanling Jin in his own private quarters. Like a thief in the night, or a mischievous lover.
Lan Wangji wastes no time. He sends a message to Lan Xichen informing him of his departure and prepares a note for Lan Qiren. He will deliver it to a disciple with the clear instructions to ensure his uncle receives it this evening, when Lan Wangji is already long gone.
He does not take a moment to reflect on his cowardice and indirect deception. There is not a moment to take.
He packs a qiankun pouch with anything he may need – rations, medical supplies, silver, a jar of Emperor’s Smile – and sets out into the dew-coated morning.
He is riding the sword before he has even arrived at the gate, flying swiftly past the guards and tearing down the mountain. If they call after him into the cold billow of wind he leaves in his wake, he does not hear it.
✽
Wei Wuxian had been summoned to Lanling Jin five weeks ago, in a similar manner to Lan Wangji.
After the events at Guanyin Temple and the resultant exposure of all of Jin Guangyao’s evil deeds, before and during his role as Chief Cultivator, the cultivation world is teeming for justice, unsatisfied with a confession they did not hear and an execution they did not witness.
Deservedly, all of Jin Guangyao’s actions have come into question. Undeservedly, as his blood relative and prematurely successive heir, a good portion of that scorn and distrust has fallen on the shoulders of young Jin Ling. The cultivation world demands much of him in way of proving the integrity of the newly cleansed Jin Sect, and as a boy of only fifteen, his position as sect leader is unsteady, at best, in the eyes of his people.
Publicly, as an act of good will, Jin Ling had sworn to scour every hidden crevice of Carp Tower and ensure all traces of evil from the devious bastard son of Jin Guangshan, whom he so cruelly murdered, were brought to light and eliminated, in order to restore faith in the credibility of the Jin Sect.
Privately, he had appealed to Wei Wuxian and his expertise to help him comb through the vaults of Carp Tower.
In their efforts to control the yin iron and accrue greater power by more effectively manipulating resentful energy, Jin Guangyao and Xue Yang had amassed a vast collection of dark objects and demonic tools, most of which Jin Ling was completely at a loss to deal with.
That he had recruited the efforts of the infamous Yiling Patriarch to unearth, catalogue, and destroy these artifacts remained secret, and Wei Wuxian was asked, through a similarly unmarked and informal message, to come to Jin Ling with the utmost discretion.
Lan Wangji had been angry on his behalf. Wei Wuxian had spent a good portion of the night patting mollifyingly at his hands, insisting that it was fine, that it was better this way, that he took no offense and Lan Wangji shouldn’t either. There was enough pressure on Jin Ling as it was without having to deal with a public association to the Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation, the great villain of the cultivation world.
That same great villain who had been openly vindicated and cleared of wrongdoings, Lan Wangji had protested. Wei Wuxian just gave him that soft smile he saved for when Lan Wangji was determined to defend him.
But in the end, Lan Wangji had conceded, as he generally tended to do. There were already threats of uprising in Lanling, spurred by a few particularly spirited leaders of the community. Wei Wuxian’s presence could have possibly been the blade to cut the precariously tethered horde of revolt.
So he had gone, promising to be back soon and making Lan Wangji promise in turn to miss him so much that he would be completely miserable the entire time he was away, pouting and cajoling with a blinding grin. Lan Wangji assured him that each day parted would be its own exquisite agony, with enough sincerity that Wei Wuxian pitched theatrically forward into his arms, lamenting of his poor, feeble old heart.
Lan Wangji held him for a few beats longer, and tried to commit every piece of him to memory – the warm weight of his body, the scent of his own hair oil in his long tousled locks, the lively glisten of his eyes, the impish curve of his smile – before he let him go.
Wei Wuxian had written frequently, using a newly developed talisman-array tandem to deliver his letters instantly to Lan Wangji’s bedside, an irregular schedule of twice weekly. (The only other person with whom Wei Wuxian had shared this new invention was Sizhui. Lan Wangji thought he wanted to offer it to Jiang Wanyin but was uncertain of the reception that he would receive.)
He told him of the tools and manuscripts they uncovered, described the process of determining their design, purpose, and function, some of which were simpler than others, and how he planned to transport or destroy them. Occasionally, he asked for Lan Wangji’s input, and throughout it all he sung of the wonderful time of fun and bonding he was having with his adorable nephew, though Lan Wangji was certain Jin Ling would not appreciate the doting descriptors Wei Wuxian employed when referring to him.
After the third week, the letters stopped.
Lan Wangji had made a diligent effort not to worry. Wei Wuxian is forgetful – he could have easily gotten swept away in a particularly challenging project, could have discovered some artifact that required all his focus, or could have simply lost track of when he had last written.
Lan Wangji had been determined not to fret, not to disturb him in his work, not to fuss like a clucking mother hen. Wei Wuxian was out of danger and very happy to have an excuse to spend so much time with what little natal family he had left. Any day now he would write to Lan Wangji and tell him of his latest fantastical accomplishment and amusing vexations of his nephew. Lan Wangji had gone into town, restocked his private store of horrendously spicy chili oil, and resolved to exercise patience.
Jin Ling’s ominous summons is a bad sign, and Lan Wangji is not only worried. He is frightened.
Foreboding thoughts swirling tumultuously in his head, he flies faster, pushing Bichen over trees and threw clouds as swiftly as her blade will carry him, hair and robes whipping unforgivingly against his frame.
Wei Wuxian needs him, and no mountain nor army could keep Lan Wangji from him.
✽
“It’s not my fault,” Jin Ling says by way of greeting when Lan Wangji arrives in his quarters, the expansive walls dripping with gold and ornate decoration in classic Jin fashion.
Behind him, swimming within the pearl-white, gem-encrusted sheets of an overly large bed, supported by twisted gold framing and canopied in glistening drawn silk, is Wei Wuxian, eyes closed and nearly as pale as the glossy marble floor.
Lan Wangji is at his side in an instant, shirking his own manners to brush aside a stray lock of Wei Wuxian’s hair, hand coming to rest on his arm.
“Wei Ying,” he calls softly, eyes sweeping over his body, the steady but slow rise and fall of his chest, the rigor with which he lies still on his back, when Wei Wuxian is never motionless in sleep, always throwing off the sheets in his twisting and turning and sprawling himself over the mattress, curled on his side or splayed on his stomach.
“He won’t wake,” Jin Ling says from the entrance, shutting the door before coming to stand at the foot of the bed. “It’s not my fault.”
Lan Wangji raises his eyes to absorb him where he stands. He is agitated, that much is clear – there are dark circles beneath his eyes and his robes are wrinkled and unpressed. His hair is similarly fussed, like he has been tugging at it. He shifts uneasily from foot to foot, never meeting Lan Wangji’s gaze for longer than an instant, glancing at Wei Wuxian before casting his eyes anywhere else about the room.
Lan Wangji tries to remember that this boy is not only a sect leader, but also Wei Wuxian’s beloved family, and he keeps his voice very even, if firm, when he asks,
“What happened.” What did you do.
“It’s not my fault,” Jin Ling insists again, fingers flexing at his side before balling into fists. Lan Wangji’s glower must darken to something accusatory because Jin Ling looks away again, hands coming up to twist nervously in front of himself. “He’s been like that for almost two weeks.”
The timeframe aligns with Wei Wuxian’s cessation of communication. Still, the concern doubles and trips over itself in his stomach, leaving him staggering for purchase, though his outward composure remains perfectly still and unrippled.
“He has been unconscious all this time?” Lan Wangji asks, looking back at Wei Wuxian’s gaunt complexion, the hollow dip of his cheeks that had not been there when he left, that Lan Wangji had been endeavoring to fill out with good food and affection.
“He has been cared for,” Jin Ling contends, his tone going back to the defensive, “my maid has been looking after him. She has taken care of me since I was a baby; she is loyal. She can be trusted.”
“Who else knows of his condition?” Lan Wangji presses his hand to Wei Wuxian’s forehead and is startled to discover it is ice cold, despite the fire that is blazing unseasonably in the fireplace and the many layers of heavy blankets he is currently swaddled under. Lan Wangji tucks them in more securely up to his chin.
“No one,” Jin Ling asserts, walking up to stand opposite him at Wei Wuxian’s bedside. “No one else even knows he’s here.”
Lan Wangji’s reputation may sing of his unyielding jade-like countenance, but he is not a patient man. Not where Wei Wuxian’s wellbeing is concerned. He looks up to lock eyes with Jin Ling, and this time, the Jin heir does not look away, but the bobbing of his throat as he swallows is a poorly concealed indicator of his anxiety.
“Explain,” Lan Wangji demands pointedly.
Jin Ling only shifts his gaze fleetingly to Wei Wuxian before turning back to Lan Wangji, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, seeming to ready himself.
“We were scouring the vaults,” he starts, and he appears to be making a conscious effort not to fiddle with the sheets or his robes. “My unc- Jin Guangyao had built up a huge store of dark objects and demonic trinkets, hidden behind many layers of concealment charms down in several of the deepest dungeons of Lanling. I never would have been able to discover them, had Wei Wuxian not been able to track the signature of their resentful energy.”
None of this information is new to Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian had described the process of locating this hidden cache of weapons and experiments, comparing it to a search for the source of infection in a sick person’s body (along with several references to himself a gifted physician and how he would be more than happy to nurse Lan Wangji to health upon his return to Cloud Recess).
He holds his tongue as he waits for Jin Ling to continue.
“We’d been going through everything for weeks,” Jin Ling asserts, unable to resist fingering a loose rhinestone at the creased edge of Wei Wuxian’s sheets. “There hadn’t been any problems. We destroyed most of it, kept some things for further study, even sent a couple things to Qinghe-”
Huaisang will LOVE this, Wei Wuxian had insisted when recounting such findings.
“It wasn’t my fault, if that idiot had just-”
“Jin-zongzhu.” Lan Wangji hopes the warning against insulting Wei Wuxian in his presence, when his current condition is no doubt related to his efforts to assist Jin Ling, is implicit in his expression. It must be, because Jin Ling swallows again and has the decency to look away, having nearly ripped the unfastened rhinestone from the upholstery.
“I found a knife,” Jin Ling says simply, “a dagger. It was black, the hilt was all twisted. It didn’t look like any weapon I’d ever seen before.” He pauses, like he is trying to figure the right words. “When I touched it…I don’t know, I don’t remember exactly, but I think…” He shakes his head, pausing in his attention to the rhinestone as he attempts to work up the nerve to look Lan Wangji in the eye. “It did something to me. I turned the dagger around and…” He stops speaking for long enough that Lan Wangji considers pressing him when he finally says, “I tried to stab myself with it.”
In that moment, crushing understanding of what must have transpired strikes Lan Wangji like a blow, even without the peripheral details. That Jin Ling is standing here relaying this story while Wei Wuxian lies wan and wasting away in his bed, paired with Wei Wuxian’s self-sacrificial tendencies and his deep-seated compulsion of blood debt to his family, makes the situation all too clear.
He almost doesn’t hear Jin Ling past the roaring in his ears as he mumbles, “he must have jumped in front of me. The knife was in my hand but he was up against my chest, and it was…sinking into him, even without my pushing it.”
Lan Wangji does not voice the blaring observation that this will make the second time Jin Ling has stabbed and mortally wounded the man whom Lan Wangji cherishes with all the fervor of his soul. From the way Jin Ling seems to shrink away, his voice tapering off to something meek, it is not lost on him.
“Where is the dagger now?” Lan Wangji somehow has the calm and presence of mind to ask.
Jin Ling clearly does not want to answer this question, looking back at Wei Wuxian again before responding reluctantly, “I think…I think it’s in him.”
Lan Wangji is immediately pulling back the blankets. Wei Wuxian is clad in only an under robe, and he withdraws the layers away to expose his abdomen. But not only is there no dressing, no bandages of any kind, there is not even a wound – no indication that he had been injured at all. His torso is bare, save for the portrait of scars that have long since healed. He looks to Jin Ling in confusion.
“After he was stabbed,” After I stabbed him, Jin Ling pointedly does not say, “he fell, and, and I saw the dagger… go into him. I tried to grab it, to pull it out, but it was just gone. Buried in him. Amah even tried to open him up, to remove it surgically, but there was just…nothing there.”
Jin Ling’s courage seems to have replenished itself, and he ceases his jittering to declare, once again, “It’s not my fault! I was just sorting through the stuff and…and I had no idea what it would do! But he didn’t have to jump in front of the thing like some sort of–” In perhaps the wisest move he has made since Lan Wangji’s arrival, he does not finish the statement. From the way he continues to gulp so obtrusively, Lan Wangji thinks the sect leader may require something to drink.
“He’s okay,” Lan Wangji hopes his incredulity comes across as blatantly as he feels it on his face. Jin Ling stutters to correct himself. “I mean - Amah was a nurse during the war, she examined him. His pulse, his breathing, everything is fine. She’s given him water, broth. He’s not-” dying, Jin Ling means to say, Lan Wangji knows, but he doesn’t, like saying the word aloud might bring about bad luck.
“His spiritual energy is…” Jin Ling hesitates. His jaw flexes where he grinds his teeth – the gesture is shockingly similar to Jiang Wanyin, “the same.”
Functionally nonexistent, Lan Wangji knows. Equal to that of a mediocre person’s. Jin Ling clearly knows this too, and that this has been the case for some time, as he is not further stumbling over himself to explain that he had somehow stabbed Lan Wangji’s soulmate with a mythical demonic dagger and destroyed his golden core all at the same time.
Through all the explanations, Wei Wuxian lies stagnant, undisturbed by their conversation and clearly oblivious to their presence, his chest continuing to rise and fall, slow enough that after each exhale, Lan Wangji fears there will not be another to follow it.
He rests his hand on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, finding a comfort – as he never has with anyone else, save his mother, so long ago – in his ability touch him. Even through his sleeve, the chill of his skin begins to bite.
“He is cold,” Lan Wangji states obviously. Jin Ling worries his lower lip.
“He has been since it happened.” Since you stabbed him. “I don’t know why.” You don’t know anything.
“Where was the daggered discovered?” Lan Wangji chooses this to say as he rearranges Wei Wuxian’s robe so it sits more comfortably on his frame and tucks him further under the sheets again, anything that might provide him more comfort.
“It was just a box,” Jin Ling holds up his hands to demonstrate a length of approximately his forearm. “It was made of wood. It wasn’t even locked or anything-”
“Bring it to me,” Lan Wangji demands, pulling himself up to his full height.
He’s uncertain whether Jin Ling intends to acquiesce or protest when an elderly woman comes bustling in, dressed in a maidservant’s garment and hair pulled into an efficient bun, but from which loose newly-silvering ink black strands fall to frame her handsome face. Her back has started to hunch under the weight of her years, but her head is held high as she closes the door carefully behind her before approaching them.
“Jin-zongzhu, Hanguang-jun,” she greets courteously if hurriedly, her breath coming in soft, quick pants as she offers them both a brisk salute before turning to Jin Ling. “Jin-zongzhu, another uprising, outside the Tower’s steps. It is Liao Zhiqiang again. The people are calling for your presence.”
Jin Ling groans in a decidedly un-sect-leader-like fashion and all but stomps his foot in a childish tantrum. “Tell the guards to drag him down the steps and feed him to my dogs!” He whines in a noncommittal rush of juvenile temper.
“Jin-zongzhu!” His nursemaid implores, huddling closer to him. They are clearly familiar, her having cared for him since infancy, and though doubtless either would ever admit it, it is apparent the maid holds his respect and appreciable sway in his decisions. Distantly, Lan Wangji is glad to see there is at least one source of good influence for the boy in Carp Tower. “He is respected by many of the minor neighboring clans! The people are rallying behind him in his demand for justice and transparency. If you respond with violence, you will have a revolution on your hands which goes beyond the scope of the Jin sect!”
Jin Ling groans again, and this time Lan Wangji does hear the muffled stomp of a high-quality leather boot against the polished floor. He mutters something to himself before turning back to Lan Wangji. “I have an important matter that must be attended to,” he says in what Lan Wangji suspects is his most-practiced politic voice. “I will return as soon as possible. You are welcome to stay with him, but I ask that you do not venture beyond this room. Your presence here and the reason for it must remain a secret.”
Lan Wangji says nothing but does not curtail his unhappy glare. He would not leave Wei Wuxian to wander the ostentatious halls of Carp Tower, but does not appreciate Jin Ling’s presumptuous order, even if he does technically outrank Lan Wangji.
Because Jin Ling seems to be waiting for some kind of response, Lan Wangji nods, and Jin Ling huffs before spinning and striding resolutely out the door in another uncanny resemblance to Jiang Wanyin, his nursemaid close at his heels.
Lan Wangji pulls an elaborate cushioned seat from the corner of the room to the bed and situates himself at Wei Wuxian’s side. He searches for his hand buried beneath the sheets – ice cold, as the rest of him, so cold that Lan Wangji is surprised his fingers are not blue and halfway to frost bitten. He holds them within his own hands, to offer warmth or comfort, he’s not sure, but his own restless heart settles somewhat to feel familiar calluses from abandoned years of sword work, and so he holds it tighter, raising it to press a reverent kiss to the chilled knuckles.
“Wei Ying,” he whispers quietly against them, and then nothing else.