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Lan Wangji knew many things across his thirty-something years of life.
Joy, —in the way the bunnies hop excitedly to him whenever he goes to visit them, in the way Sizhui still looks for his face first in a crowd whenever he accomplishes something, in the way his favorite osmanthus mooncakes turn golden the day after they’re made.
Pride, —in the way villagers breathe a sigh of relief whenever they hear that Hanguang-jun is on his way, in the way his son refuses to take Guqin lessons from anyone but him, in the way his golden core thrums with power far surpassing that of some of the most distinguished young masters of his generation.
Fear, —in the way Sizhui always dodges strikes a second later than Lan Wangji is comfortable with, in the way whips crack against flesh, in the way flutes sound in his dreams of wartime.
Anger, —in the way the poorer parts of the Jianghu continue to be ignored by the great sects, in the way people swirl that certain someone’s name in their mouths before spitting it out, in the way a certain sect leader is still chasing ghosts and punishing whoever bears them a passing resemblance.
Sadness, —in the way the offerings and incense he burns every year have no body or ashes underneath the gravestone he leaves them at, in the way his back still feels tight and raw, in the way every laugh sounds wrong to his ears.
Lan Wangji knows many things, but none quite as well as he does grief.
The grief he holds for Wei Ying, —the man who annoyed him to no end at first, then slowly but surely made Lan Wangji’s heart his home until every beat was to the rhythm of his laugh and every corner of his soul ached to have its other half by its side. The man who wasn’t a man yet when Wangji’s treacherous heart first tried to dance to the melody of Wei Ying. The man who represented the sun’s brightest rays and the moon’s most elegant reflection. The man who pushed him away time and time again until all Lan Wangji could do is clench a well-hidden fist and bite his tongue.
The grief he holds for the things he said to Wei Ying, —for the things he failed to say. The words that escaped him, be it because he hadn’t thought them through or because he couldn’t think of them. The song he could never play as a duet because the other player only ever wielded music as a weapon, a tool for harm and not one for love.
The grief he holds for a mother he cannot recall everything about, —only that he grieves her and wishes he could turn back time to commit her to his memory so she outgrows the grief he has for her.
The grief he holds for Sizhui and all the truths he can never unveil to him. —All the tales about a wronged family the boy doesn’t remember. All the little things that A-Yuan did before he became Sizhui, before he became the last part of Wei Ying that Lan Wangji has left.
The grief he holds for every soul he couldn’t protect, —every innocent he wasn’t brave enough to defend. Every discarded child of war. Every widow. Every slave serving a master rotten to their very core.
And finally the grief he holds for himself, —for the boy he was never allowed to be. For the boy who loved so hard that he couldn’t untangle that innocent infatuation from the mess of everything he was forced to be until his heart was caught in the tangles.
For the son he had been and the son he couldn’t be. The son of a mother whose funeral saw the burial of Wangji’s childhood and the son of a father who sired an heir but didn’t make him. But also for the nephew he’d been for many years until said nephew stopped being perfect and became too human for his uncle to be satisfied with. For the brother who once saw his Xichen dada as the one person he could turn to no matter what happens until the thing that happened weighed down on the string of fate between them.
’Wangji, I’m sorry. Wei-gongzi is dead.’
Why should he be sorry?
Lan Wangji finds out why when he sees the list of cultivators who went to see his beloved driven to his end.
Lan Wangji held so much grief in his tender heart until the small mass of mangled flesh could no longer handle it and the grief spilled over from the edges and seeped into his veins, his arteries, and eventually his blood and bones. It poured into every corner until it saturated him and became part of him. Inseparable. Indistinguishable. It kept flowing into him until it became him and he became it. —A demon taking over its host. Toxins oozing into water. Black paint spilling on a white canvas.
At least that’s how it felt when Lan Zhan was bound to a lonely and cold bed,— his back burning with the heat of his so-called mistake and his eyes molding the darkness of the deserted Jingshi into the shape of a man long gone from this world.
Back then, Lan Wangji only had himself and his grief and the occasional ghost of Wei Ying walking by his bed. Step. Step. Step. So how could he not believe the two had merged? How could he hold onto himself and convince it that the heartache will pass, that it would scab over and heal in time with the angry gashes on his back?
The only break he got from his downward spiral was when Lan Xichen knocked on his door in that way which meant Wangji should wrestle himself out of the tempest and slap on a face that wasn’t aged and ruined by mourning someone he wasn’t allowed to mourn.
So the Lan threw a robe over his injuries, both literal and not, then tied his forehead ribbon with trembling hands before the eager body of a small child slammed into his chest, right under the brand he chose to wear in remembrance of his beloved.
The child. The brand. The anguish. It was all part of him. Part of Wei Ying. And now it’s part of Lan Wangji too.
But for a short while each time he could focus on something else, —on telling stories whose main characters weren’t a shell of themselves, stripped of their vivacity by ruthless woes.
He could focus on keeping Lan Yuan’s pudgy fingers away from his nose and on the strings of a small wooden Guqin, —looking every bit like Wangji’s which lies forgotten in a corner of the Jingshi until it is time to desperately call and beg for Wei Ying’s soul to answer him.
He could turn his attention to tying up his son’s, his son’s hair, and smoothening his robes instead of thinking about the reflection that greets Wangji every time he is brave enough to look at his copper mirror. —That of a man who was once compared to Jade but now is barely worth being compared to a polished pebble.
Gusu’s most beautiful person now woke up to lumps of thinning hair on his pillow and flakes off dull and pale skin.
’How handsome er-gege!’
Now handsome stares back defeated.
That’s something else Wangji mourned.
When he could finally make peace with the bigger parts of his grief that took up the most space, —he turned to the ones that wear he deemed easier to manage. Like digging a tunnel through a mountain and starting by clearing the rocks near the entrance. The rocks to him were the robes he could no longer tie around himself without them dropping awkwardly where they’d once been tight. It was the once smooth hair that now fell without as much as a comb touching it. It was the cracked lips and hunched back that was always rod straight. It was the muscles that deflated and merely left stretch marks in their wake, painting the canvas of Lan Wangji’s body with yet another reminder of a time he longs to glimpse at again.
That old friend of his, the boy who had lost so much but not quite everything, —he missed him in a way one might miss a lover they parted from because the lover had been too tired of the push and shove. He missed him like the soil misses the rain until it pours and makes it muddy again.
He knew he would never come back, even as he trained his body and regained the muscle from his youth, —now even more defined. Even as he filled out his old robes and had to tailor new ones to fit around the shoulders. Even as he could count the hairs on his comb to be barely three or four. Even as his skin glowed under the moonlight. Even as he learned to straighten his back through the soreness that still resides in every curve of his spine. Lan Wangji would never truly come back. Both body and mind.
Lan Wangji is gone to everyone but a few who pretend that he remains unchanged.
Now he is Hanguang-jun to most, —a righteous cultivator strumming the strings of his Qin to calm evil and slashing away with Bichen to rid the world of it. He goes where the chaos is. Always showing up when the cries for help turn into sniffles. He is a breath of relief, a last hope, a beacon of light. Hanguang-jun.
As his grief blooms with the spring and dies with the fall once, then twice, and another five or six times, he learns to be Lan Wangji again.
He learns to be a nephew again, —not looking up at his uncle as his only guidance but merely one form of it he can still muster some respect for. He learns to be a brother again, not looking up at his Xiongzhang with wide innocent eyes and expecting Lan Xichen to decipher the galaxies behind them. He learns to be a disciple of the Gusu Lan sect again, not one of its puppets but a great mind that could bring forth change in the new generation of the sect.
He also learns to be a father, —be it by remembering what his son likes and going down to Caiyi to buy it for him after an exhausting day of classes, or by opening his arms when Sizhui is quieter than usual so the boy can safely tuck himself and forget about his whatever is ailing him for a while.
It is rewarding, —being Lan Wangji. Maybe even more so than just being Hanguang-jun.
But even as he reconciles the two, he can never bring himself to be Lan Zhan. Or maybe he feels undeserving of it.
’Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan! Look at me!’
He is Lan Zhan only when the days turn colder and the people go out to celebrate a demon’s death. A demon Lan Zhan has been mourning for far longer than he knew him alive.
During those times, he lets the cold of the Gusu mountains seep into his bones and join the tendrils of grievance in a sword dance. —Cold, yet fascinating.
He discards his restraints, —his forehead ribbon tucked where his eyes can’t catch the light. Then he takes off the last layer of himself that masks the ugly broken jade and sets it aside until Wei Ying’s death anniversary passes.
He weeps and plays until his fingers bleed. He prays and begs to the heavens above and to the demon below.
Raw. Vulnerable. Unrestrained.
’Lan Zhan, when you and I grow old, what do you think we’ll be most well known for?’
For the wrong things, he wants to say. But then he remembers Wei Ying never even grew old.
’Lan Zhan, you should wear blue more often! It suits you better than these mourning robes.’
Lan Wangji thinks he can never wear blue again.
’Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan! Are you annoyed yet?’
Yes. No. Please annoy me more. Annoy me from beyond the grave. Haunt me and stick to me until our souls become one. Annoy me until I can be Lan Zhan again.
Please.
Hanguang-jun to most. Lan Wangji to few. Lan Zhan to no one alive to call that name—
He enjoys tea even after it’s cooled. He likes to read the rules because they calm him, not necessarily because they are fun. He likes loquats but prefers peaches, ripe but not overly so. He enjoys reading Bai Juyi’s poems in the quiet of his room. He likes bunnies but also enjoys it when a stray cat cuddles up to him. He dislikes loud chewing and prefers eating alone. He always brings his own blanket during his travels. He loves the smell of rain after a storm. Petrichor, but bolder. He loves to see his son talk with his friends. He loves Wei Ying. He will always love Wei Ying. He hates being apart from Wei Ying. He will always hate it.
He wears his grief like a cloak now, —not entirely hidden from view but subtle enough to not alarm. He tucks himself into it every morning and doesn’t take it off until sleep.
He outgrew it when it used to outgrow him. But that grief shaped and carved his life with a sharp knife that he cannot throw away. Should not throw away.
’Whether something is right or wrong is for you to decide, to view it as defamation or honor is up to others, irrespective of what has been gained or lost.’
’Lan Zhan, tell me who is right, who is wrong? What is black and what is white?’
‘Who cares about the crowded, broad road? I’ll walk the single-plank bridge until it’s dark!’
The person who said these things to him called him Lan Zhan, so he will allow Lan Zhan to live. No, not just live but thrive.
All the things that hurt and beat him, that added to his grief and weighed him down like a mountain taming down a beast, —they’ve sharpened him into a righteous man who questions morality. Who respects rules and respects those who question them. Who weighs morality on a scale of pain and death.
He let the years take their course on his body. On his mind and wisdom. On his judgment. Until he was ready for rebirth.
Until he was ready to gather the three disjointed fragments of the person he became and carefully match every jagged edge to another, forming a formidable person he can be proud of.
Not without regrets. Not without history. Not without faults. But someone who doesn’t want to add to those regrets. Who doesn’t want to taint that history with more sickbeds and graves. Who attempts to correct his faults and helps others do the same.
Hanguang-jun. Lan Wangji. Lan Zhan.
Another year passes for them, red lanterns and upside-down Fu 福 characters still contrasting against the white snow despite the new year celebrations being over.
Another year goes and they all grow older, they all grow.
At thirty-two years old, they have all settled together inside a body marked by their mistakes and regrets but also their good deeds and pride.
When another year comes again, they will all have a body pressing against every raised scar and kissing every inch of sore flesh.
At thirty-three years old, they meet Wei Ying again.
They celebrate their birthday in the Jingshi, surrounded by warmth and love that seeps into their heart and overflows into their body. Warm. Warm. Warm.
Where there had once been grief now resides unconditional devotion. It is them. Part of them. All of them.
Part of him.
All of him.
Lan Wangji has always been his grief and sometimes not.
Now he is that but so much more. He is the love he feels. The love he shares. The love he receives.
He’ll always have that cloak of grief in his closet. A reminder. A promise. A trophy.
Hanguang-jun. Lan Wangji.
”Lan Zhan! Let’s go home!”
“Mn. Let’s go home.”