Chapter Text
Perhaps Nie Huaisang is selfish for thinking so, but as lazy as he is, he still doesn’t want to be a tool in someone else’s hand. This, more than his refusal to cultivate the saber, or to pay attention in classes, or to focus on anything other than his birds and his friends, is what makes him a terrible second son.
To be a second son, his tutors claim, is awe-inspiring. He was born with purpose, has known since his birth that he is Nie Huaisang, Second Young Master of QingheNie and future saber of Nie Mingjue. If only, the same tutors would bemoan, Second Young Master Nie would focus enough on growing his cultivation level that he could transform into a saber.
Doesn’t he know about the other second sons of his generation? Doesn’t he want to be like them? Young Masters Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian wield each other easily, depending on if Jiang Wanyin’s whip form or Wei Wuxian’s sword form fits the battle more. Young Master Lan Xichen dual wields his younger brother with his own sword Shuoyue; how incredible that Second Young Master Lan Wangji cultivated into an identical sword, just for his brother! And who hasn’t heard of Jin Ziyao, slimmer than most swords but easy for Jin Zixuan to use. Doesn’t Second Young Master Nie want to be like them?
His tutors, Nie Huaisang notes, do not mention the rumors. They do not talk of how Madam Yu nearly whipped Wei Wuxian with Zidian when she first caught sight of him with the whip Jiang Wanyin in hand, or of how Jin Ziyao was only accepted into Koi Tower when he pledged his sword form to Jin Zixuan’s hand. They do not talk of the nonexistent whispers surrounding the Twin Jades of Lan, which Nie Huaisang still cannot tell means they actually have a good relationship, or are just that good at keeping secrets.
His tutors do not speak of Wen Xu and Wen Chao at all, or of how Wen Ruohan has forbidden them from taking each other up as swords after Wen Xu nearly broke Wen Chao in half. And they do not speak of Nie Huaisang’s own concerns.
Oh, he does not fear his brother, not like Wen Chao must fear Wen Xu. He knows Nie Mingjue would sooner break his own arm than harm him.
No—Nie Huaisang simply fears being used. His father’s illness taught him well, what happens when someone’s actions are no longer entirely their own and, while cultivators can communicate with their wielders while in weapon form, ultimately, it is the wielder who makes decisions. Who acts. Who has control.
Nie Huaisang trusts his brother—loves his brother—but he will not be just a tool in his hand.
This is Nie Huaisang’s philosophy from the time he was eleven years old, gripping the door with chubby fingers unused to war, peering through the crack into his father’s bedroom, watching his sixteen year old brother draw a plain white sheet over a body unnaturally still.
He does not expect to change. But as with many unexpected things, it happens anyway—and when it does, Nie Huaisang finds himself falling headfirst in the opposite direction.
The change, like too many things in Nie Huaisang’s life, begins with the ambitions of Wen Ruohan. Where once Nie Huaisang’s father returned from a night hunt in Qishan with a broken saber and a fatal wound, Nie Huaisang and the other sect heirs are summoned to Qishan for what the messenger calls “a unique opportunity to study the philosophy and methods of QishanWen.”
The Nie elders tell Nie Huaisang it is an indoctrination, and he must guard his mind, still so moldable at barely eighteen years old.
His brother tells him it is a hostage situation, and he must guard his body, lest QingheNie finally take up arms against QishanWen.
No one mentions anything about guarding his golden core, but when Nie Huaisang arrives at the Nightless City, it is to Wen Chao threatening everyone: Hand over their weapons and seal their golden cores, or face the Core-Melting Hand.
Everyone, that is, except Nie Huaisang.
“You are just a fan, after all,” Wen Chao laughs. “What harm can Nie-er-gongzi do?”
Nie Huaisang stands still, half-hidden behind Nie Zonghui and thankful for it. It means the way his cousin stiffens, hand going to the dual sabers strapped to his back, draws everyone’s attention, instead of the way Nie Huaisang’s own hands curl slightly, forming the clear shape of fists before he can stop them.
He is used to being underestimated, but not mocked. The disciples of QingheNie have watched him grow, and everyone else fears his brother’s temper.
Wen Chao, it appears, is too stupid to fear anything but Wen Ruohan.
And yet, he has given Nie Huaisang a chance to keep his golden core, and Nie Huaisang is not stupid enough to ignore it.
“Da-shixiong,” he murmurs, straightening his fingers and touching Nie Zonghui’s arm. “Biao-ge.”*
At the familial term, Nie Zonghui turns his head. Not enough to take his eyes off Wen Chao and Wen Zhuliu, but enough that Nie Huaisang can see his face.
His charcoal brown eyes, normally soft and kind when they look at Nie Huaisang, laugh lines at the corners crinkling, have gone hard and angry, laugh lines disappearing into the hard furrows of his brow.
“Biao-di,”* Nie Zonghui breathes, but says nothing else. There is nothing else to say, and they both know it. No matter the insult, no matter the threat to their person, as long as they are not physically harmed, there is nothing they can do but bear it.
Nie Zonghui’s hand falls from the pommel of one of his sabers and goes, instead, to the leather strap that holds them. He unbuckles it efficiently, wasting no time in handing the sabers, straps and all, to the Wen disciple waiting for them.
Only then does he turn from Nie Huaisang and face the front—face Wen Chao—again. Nie Huaisang can no longer see his face, but he sees the way his arm moves and knows he is jabbing his fingers into his meridians, sealing his golden core. All around them, the other Nie disciples do the same.
Nie Huaisang hands his own saber to the waiting Wen disciple. His saber is smaller than the others, to compensate for both his smaller cultivation level and his shorter height, and his brother had forced it on him before he had left, demanding in his usual gruff way that Nie Huaisang keep it on him at all times in the Nightless City.
For once, Nie Huaisang had intended to obey. He had gripped the hilt tight and imagined it was Nie Mingjue’s own saber form, hiding in plain sight but ready and raring to become human again, defeat Nie Huaisang’s enemies, and lift Nie Huaisang off the ground in a hug.
But he hands his saber over. And with his protection gone, only his small golden core left, Nie Huaisang thinks he feels something inside sharpen.
He cowers behind Nie Zonghui. Lets the Nie disciples encircle him. Lowers his eyes before Wen Chao, so no one can see the newfound sharpness within. Pretends he is the same useless Second Young Master Nie who arrived in the Nightless City just an hour before.
It doesn’t take long to fall into a routine at the Nightless City. For all Wen Chao threatens them, he doesn’t have much of an imagination, and so the disciples do the same things day by day: Read Quintessence of the Wens, attend Wen Chao’s tests, and do chores. Even Lan Wangji, with his broken leg, and Wei Wuxian, with his everything, don’t explode at Wen Chao and break the monotony.
Despite the routine, though, Nie Huaisang aches. He watches his friends and disciples seal their golden cores over and over, while his own churns helpless within his chest. He can pass along gossip, and watch their guards, and calm peoples’ anger—both Wen and not—but he can do nothing to fill the void that the seal leaves.
And in the end, when that anger finally spills over, he is not there to calm it.
Instead, he can do nothing but stand from his bed and hurry to Nie Zonghui’s side when his cousin enters the Nie barracks after their curfew started, a bloody line already marring his cheek.
“What happened?” Nie Huaisang hisses, pressing a spare block of silk—originally intended for a new fan—to the blood. When he pulls the silk back, the blood is wet, and so he presses it back to the wound.
In his head, he is imagining all sorts of trouble for the Nie sect. Nie Zonghui talked back to the wrong person, or overheard Wen Chao talking about one of the girls—something.
But Nie Zonghui just grimaces, takes the silk from his hand, and says, “Nothing happened. I was headed here when I passed Wen Chao, and I guess he was in a mood already, because he just unsheathed his sword and—”
Nie Zonghui whips his hand through the air, whistling between his teeth, and the Nie disciples who have crowded around them ooh in sympathetic unison.
But Nie Huaisang just stares at Nie Zonghui, and his brother’s first disciple stares back. It’s been almost a month of this indoctrination, of boring routine, but that routine has finally broken, and they both know it. The one thing they could fight back against has happened: Physical harm.
The wound is small, and already Nie Zonghui is tucking the silk block away because it’s stopped bleeding, but it happened because Nie Zonghui was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Because Wen Chao was mad. The Nie disciples have been perfectly behaved this entire time, and Wen Chao cut their first disciple across the face with a sword for no reason but anger.
The line has been crossed, and they have to prepare for what happens next. Nie Huaisang could think of only one thing.
“No one goes anywhere alone,” he commands, turning to face the disciples. “Don’t reciprocate, but don’t let each other be harmed, either. Understood?”
“Yes, Er-gongzi!” they chorus.
He turns back to Nie Zonghui, and his cousin nods, chin set. “Zongzhu would never forgive me if you returned home hurt.”
Nie Huaisang holds back a snort, flipping his fan out in front of his face to hide it. “That’s not my concern right now.” You and the disciples are, he doesn’t say, but Nie Zonghui nods, and he knows his cousin heard it.
Nie Huaisang fears many things, but physical pain is not one of them. He has faced too many of his brother’s training sessions, cut himself on his own saber too many times, to be afraid of the pain that accompanies them. It is hard to fear something when it is followed by worried disciples and a doting brother. He avoids physical pain the best he can, running from his saber and the training grounds, but he does not fear it.
So the disciples will have their buddies, and Nie Zonghui will have Nie Huaisang. His little golden core might not be able to do much, but at the least he can stand between his cousin and a sword.
He can do that much.
Of course, the day after this resolution, Wen Chao gathers all the disciples together and tells them to prepare for a Night Hunt.
Of all the things Wen Chao has demanded of them in the last month, this is the one that no one can help but protest.
Their golden cores are freshly sealed, Wei Wuxian cries.
They have no swords, Jin Zixuan yells.
They can’t switch forms, let alone wield each other, Jiang Wanyin screams.
Lan Wangji stands before his disciples and nods once, firm and defiant, with each point the others bring forth.
Nie Huaisang does none of these things. Instead, with the eyes of the Wens on the other sects, he drifts backward and lets his own disciples surround him.
“Don’t say a word,” he murmurs, loud enough only for Nie ears. “And use me only if there is no other option.”
For once, he’s not being selfish in his request. If Wen Chao figures out that the fan Nie Zonghui wields is Nie Huaisang, there could be serious repercussions.
And yet, without waiting for a response, he crouches down, wraps his hand around Nie Zonghui’s belt, and begins to change.
The best cultivators, the ones like Baoshan Sanren and Lan Yi, are said to be able to shift in an instant, to throw themselves forward as humans, strike as a sword, and rebound as human again, weapon and wielder in one.
Other cultivators, sect leaders and sect heirs and second sons, can shift in seconds. Nie Huaisang has seen Lan Xichen reach for Lan Wangji’s hand, and watched that hand become a sword hilt, his feet become the blade, by the time Lan Xichen has brought Lan Wangji into striking position.
Nie Huaisang has forever been a terrible second son. His golden core knows the last thing he wants to do is shift, and so it fights him—even now, when it is the one thing on his mind, his idea and his alone. But the other sects are still shouting, distracting Wen Chao, and the Nie disciples will never leave his side, blocking him from view of the Wen disciples, and so Nie Huaisang disappears safely, there one minute and gone the next.
It’s an odd thing, to become a cultivator’s weapon. His senses become limited to what he can feel—the wind against his silks, a hand around his guards—but he gains a mental connection with whoever his wielder is that lets him see through their eyes and hear through their ears, even as they talk mentally.
Nie Huaisang transforms holding onto Nie Zonghui’s belt, and so when he finishes shifting, a thick braid of forest green thread loops around the belt in place of his hand, dangling him by the rivet of his fan form.
Nie Huaisang has never seen himself transformed through his own eyes, but he has seen himself through the eyes of Nie Mingjue, so he is well familiar with his alternate form: His fan’s skeleton, his ribs and guards and sticks, are made of the strongest Qinghe steel, steel that the Nie use for their sabers, steel that is a dark shining silver with the barest tint of green; his actual fan, his leaves that catch the breeze, are of the highest quality cream silk that Nie Huaisang often buys to paint on himself, though much to his dismay, his fan form remains plain and unpainted, even if he paints his face before transforming.
He cannot see himself now, though. Nie Zonghui’s eyes are fixed ahead on the commotion between the other sects and Wen Chao and, Nie Huaisang imagines, he dares not glance down to take a closer look at Nie Huaisang, lest he draw attention to the new fixture at his side.
His fingers rub along Nie Huaisang’s ribs, though, warm and soothing against his cold steel, and Nie Huaisang sends him a spark of qi in return before turning his attention back to the commotion.
The argument is finally winding down, Luo Qingyang whispering in Jin Zixuan’s ear and Jiang Wanyin tugging on Wei Wuxian’s arm. Wen Chao stands smug before them all, arms crossed and laden with both his own sword and Wang Lingjiao.
With a sigh, Wen Zhuliu waves the sects towards a road, and Lan Wangji takes the first angry step toward it.
Wen Chao, it seems, has won the argument. The sects will Night Hunt together, but only the Wens will have their weapons and golden cores—with the one exception of Nie Zonghui.
Nie Huaisang whispers along the mental path between him and Nie Zonghui, holding his cousin physically in place for now, and so the Nie let the Lans, the Jins, and the Wens start down the path before following, only the Jiang behind them. Nie Huaisang would be more upset at how easy it was for him to disappear—sadness, perhaps, at how his friends don’t notice him gone, or fear that someone could make him disappear so easily, just snatch him away from the safety of his sect and family—but he is actively trying not to let them notice, and so he focuses instead on the road ahead.
The road leads them to the gates of the Nightless City and beyond, into a forest and down a smaller, less-beaten path. Lan Wangji falls farther and farther behind the front, until he is back with the Jiang, and Luo Qingyang follows him, slowly easing her own pace. A quick glance back from Nie Zonghui reveals the two together with Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin, and Nie Huaisang can only hope they’re doing something about Lan Wangji’s broken leg.
All too soon, though, they reach the entrance to a pitch black cave, and all of Nie Huaisang’s attention is on the fact that they have arrived at the home of whatever they’re hunting—that, and the way Nie Zonghui’s hand has gone tight around his steel guards.
The next moments pass in flashes: The clatter of stones as leather boots kick them in the dark, the disappointment at an empty cave, Wang Lingjiao’s jealousy spilling over. And then suddenly the moments pass faster, blurring together as Wei Wuxian cries out in pain at a red hot brand against his chest, Lan Wangji shouts with rage, Jin Zixuan and Luo Qingyang fall back to guard the Jin disciples, the Jiang disciples surge forward around Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian, Wen Chao draws his sword, the Wen disciples follow suit, the Xuanwu of Slaughter emerges from the water—and Nie Zonghui’s hand, which hasn’t left Nie Huaisang since they first approached the cave, tightens around his rivet.
His other hand falls on the knot of thread keeping Nie Huaisang to his belt.
It takes only one second to untie the knot, and then Nie Huaisang is drawn forth, his ribs spreading wide and leaves caught tight between them.
This is the first time Nie Huaisang has been in battle since his adventure with Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian after leaving the Cloud Recesses, and his first time ever in fan form. If he was in his own body, he knows his eyes would be darting each way, too much to focus on, let alone take in and process. He much prefers to take puzzles apart piece by piece, not dash them on the ground and hope they break the right way.
But his eyes right now are Nie Zonghui’s, and Nie Zonghui is not first disciple for nothing. He is older even than Nie Mingjue, and has been going on night hunts since before Nie Huaisang was born. His heart beats steady in his chest, his eyes take in the entire scene in a split second, and his mental connection to Nie Huaisang transfers that information at the same time.
Too easy for someone to get hurt, Nie Zonghui says.
Chaos, his eyes say.
Control it, Nie Huaisang replies. Protect.
After all, is that not the purpose of a fan? Whether someone uses it to hide their face, to cool hot skin, or to guide a sword away from drawing blood, the purpose is always protection. Nie Huaisang has spent his whole life protecting himself; now, his cousin wields him to protect his brother’s disciples.
Nie Zonghui moves swiftly around the other cultivators. With one hand, he pushes them out of the way of the giant snapping turtle; with the other, he catches sword blades on Nie Huaisang’s steel guards and turns them away from unarmed cultivators. He dual wields sabers for no reason but because he thought it would be fun, and his skill shines through even in the dark home of the Xuanwu of Slaughter.
In no time at all, the Wens have all fled.
In no time at all, the rest of the sects have been trapped in the cave with a giant man-eating yao.
With the Wens gone, Nie Huaisang could transform back into his human form. It’s no secret that he hasn’t cultivated a sword form yet. And yet, something holds him back.
The shivers running through his steel, perhaps; unused to battle, the sword blows had reverberated through him and shaken him, literally and metaphorically.
But as a fan, no one can see him shake. No one can tease him for it. And no one can judge him from soaking up the warmth and comfort from being held by his cousin.
No one can judge him for being useless in the escape. Nie Huaisang rests in Nie Zonghui’s tight fist as they swim out of the cave, leaving Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian behind, and he does not protest when Nie Zonghui bids farewell to the other sects, leaving Jiang Wanyin and his disciples to make the trek to Lotus Pier for help alone.
Home, Nie Zonghui says. It’s time for home. Images flash along the mental connection, of the Nie disciples behind the hard stone walls of the Unclean Realm, of the doors shut tight to any who would wish them harm.
Home, Nie Huaisang agrees. Unbidden, an image from his own mind flashes back to Nie Zonghui: Of himself, human again and wrapped in Nie Mingjue’s arms.
For now, he will be the useless Second Young Master Nie, hiding in his fan form, clutched tight and carried along by his cousin.
But soon he will be home. Soon he will be with his brother again. And in the back of his mind, far away from the mental connection to Nie Zonghui, he knows things are starting to change. The Wens have overstepped their bounds one too many times. War is coming—and Nie Huaisang will have to be prepared to face it, if he wants to see his family through intact.