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Months pass without any contact.
Wangji buries himself in the rhythm of the Cloud Recesses as rumours of Yunmeng’s young yet ruthless sect leader spread in the cultivation world.
He’s not sure how to act around Jiang Wanyin the next time they meet, but he sees neither sign nor shadow of the man, not even with the disciples who show up on the Cloud Recesses’ doorstep. The Yunmeng Jiang Sect flourishes under Jiang Cheng’s strict training and the lingering rumours of Sandu Shengshou’s reputation. His disciples are good – they are well-trained in Yunmeng’s style of swordfighting, are as courteous and well-mannered as they are boisterous and energetic. They arrive at the Cloud Recesses every three years in small batches that slowly grow in numbers. Wangji watches over them with the same disinterest that he spares for people outside of his family, Wei Ying, and, ever since that night, Jiang Wanyin.
Wangji is rarely present to greet them when they arrive; that is the job of the senior disciples, not the sect leaders. And he has his brother’s paperwork to do. Night hunts to go on. Small villages to visit and problems to solve. He definitely doesn’t have the time to greet whoever has led the new group of Yunmeng juniors to the Lans’ doorstep.
(If xiongzhang catches his gaze pulled inevitably towards the Gusu gates one afternoon and shoots him a small, empathetic look, it’s not something anyone else has to know.)
Despite the steady supply of Yunmeng Jiang disciples, their sect leader has not made an appearance since that night. Not in the day, and definitely not anytime else. Wangji tries not to wait. He continues with the nightly routine. He plays the qin . He washes up. He sets out tea. By the time the pot is finished, the other cup still sits opposite him, long turned cold. Wangji feels as if he hasn't seen Wanyin for an indescribably long time.
The turn of the seasons brings with it a familiar melancholy.
As spring’s fragrance fades into the stale heat of summer, Wangji watches over the unruly assortment of disciples from other sects. Their laughing faces glow in the baking sun, robes sticking to their wet bodies as their roughhouse in the open despite Gusu’s rules, just like they do every year. Somehow, Wangji thinks he will miss this batch when they’ve graduated.
He retreats into the library when he isn’t in his brother’s office. It has become something of a solace, despite the lingering ghost of memory haunting the corners and lurking by the windows. Wangji has long become accustomed to this feeling.
The library is, as ever, devoid of life.
Shadows spill over Wangji’s desk as he pushes past the light curtains. His handwriting has changed over time, but the creases of the paper and the inky smell of mo remain as familiar as the back of his hand. Lately, he has been writing more often. He doesn’t remember when he began keeping diaries, but he still welcomes the feeling of relief whenever he manages to translate his errant thoughts into words. Writing has become a familiar routine.
xxxx year, xx month xx day.
The seasons change. It is now summer. I forget how long it has been since I saw his face. A part of me is terrified that if I reach into the depths of my memory, I will be unable to recall his visage. If I see him again, will I recognise him? Wei Ying never had his portrait drawn, and even if he did, nothing could capture the energy he held so effortlessly. In his
With a start, Wangji realises.
Why he sometimes watches over the disciples’ rowdiness without saying a thing. Why, every turn of the year, his chest burns with some unknown emotion as the new disciples spill into Gusu, uninitiated. Why he still plays the qin every night, long after Wei Ying died, long after his brother left seclusion. Why he writes diaries in the middle of the day, when he should be translating scriptures.
He realises what he’s been doing with Jiang Wanyin. To Jiang Wanyin.
The library, silent and cool, shaded from the sun’s piercing rays, suddenly feels unbearably stifling.
He’s not sure how to approach the topic, but his xiongzhang picks up on it quickly, to Wangji’s relief. It takes only a glance, the nod of a head, and Wangji finds himself seated in his older brother’s quarters, sipping on hot tea.
“What is it, Wangji?” xiongzhang asks.
The sun has disappeared beyond the mountain range, leaving streaks in the evening sky. Birds and insects call out to each other in the dusky forest, and the warm summer wind rifles through the trees. Beyond the open doors of the Hanshi , the disciples on night duty have already lit the lamps for the night. It’s a quiet evening.
“I have done something… deplorable,” Wangji begins. “To the Jiang Sect Leader.”
Lan Xichen’s smile turns concerned.
“Deplorable,” he murmurs. “What do you mean?”
“Between him and me… our relationship…” Wangji pauses. He’s not sure how to go on. Helplessly he picks up his cup and sips at the tea. His brother’s eyes suddenly take on an indescribably sad expression full of understanding.
“You are still grieving,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically low. “Are you not?”
“I am,” Wangji breathes. “But… he is, too.”
Xiongzhang nods. “Perhaps it is time for you to pay your respects.”
The thought of seeing Wei Ying’s altar fills Wangji with an indescribable emotion, but it’s not all pain. He’s too preoccupied with the thought of going to Yunmeng, where Jiang Wanyin will be, and the awkwardness and the tension that is sure to ensue. Wangji can already imagine the expression Wanyin will present to him before all his disciples, impassive and steady, as he directs them back to their duties. And then, in the privacy of the Jiang Sect’s private quarters, before the hidden altar that the cultivation world is not privy to, his eyes, shining with too many emotions to describe. Wangji doesn’t know what he should do then, once they are alone.
“You grew up with a sense of honour, Wangji,” Xiongzhang continues. “I believe you will be able to make a sound decision, no matter the situation between you and Jiang Wanyin.”
Wangji nods.
It still takes him weeks to make a decision.
The Gusu air begins to turn chilly at night toward the seventh month, and Wangji knows that summer is nearing its end. In the townships at the base of the mountain, people have already begun preparing for the Zhongyuan Festival. Lanterns and decor line the streets, and in the evenings offerings are left outside by the generous, completely with bright burning candles.
He catches his xiongzhang one evening before they retreat into their routines.
“I am ready now,” he says. “To go to Yunmeng.”
Xiongzhang nods. “I will send a messenger.”
Wangji stops him with a shake of his head. “No,” he says. “I am sure that Jiang Wanyin does not wish to see me. Visiting under the Gusu name will be misleading. I intend to visit Yunmeng Jiang in a personal capacity.”
Lan Xichen watches his younger brother. His face is set in an uncharacteristically determined expression. In the dim glow of this summer evening, Wangji looks a lot older than the stubborn, silent boy in Xichen’s memories. He’s sure that their parents will be proud of the man Wangji has become, wherever they may be watching from.
“When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow, at dawn.”
Xichen smiles. “Take a box of biluochun with you,” he says. “Send my regards to Sect Leader Jiang.”