Chapter Text
One evening, after he's finished all of his daily duties, Lan Wangji finds himself standing outside of the Hanshi.
The sun is at half mast and casts shadows over the ponds and bamboo gardens, spreading a pink glow over the grass. He knows his brother is inside, practicing the xiao or helping their uncle with some correspondence between them and the minor Sects. Since the fire, Qingheng-jun's death, and becoming Sect leader, he’s been especially busy, and they haven’t been able to spend much time together in a while.
Lan Wangji has been busy as well— trying to visit the Wens as much as possible while not getting punished too severely, and going into brief seclusions more and more often, meditating and trying to clear his mind. He feels a little regretful for having to disturb his brother for something unimportant, but as the days pass by, meditation isn’t working as well as it used to.
He’s stressed, his thoughts are swarming and his appetite has been worsening. His trips to the Burial Mounds somehow manage to make him feel even worse, despite being able to see Wei Wuxian. Maybe it’s the fact that Wei Wuxian doesn’t look well either, even worse than Lan Wangji and his brother combined.
The Yiling Patriarch has a significantly different appearance than Wei Wuxian ever had. He’s bone thin, and his eyes are dark and empty. There almost seems to be a permanent cloud of resentful energy at his feet. The sight of him makes Lan Wangji’s stomach stir uncomfortably.
So, he hasn’t been able to find many opportunities to speak with his brother. He stares at the Hanshi for a moment more before stepping over the small bridge and approaching the door to his brother’s quarters.
“Xiongzhang,” he calls softly, knocking his knuckles on the wall twice. While he waits, he folds an arm behind his back and stands ramrod straight, listening to the quiet sounds of the wind and rustling grass. The Cloud Recesses is always quiet. He’s grown used to it, tolerating it ever since he was a small child playing games silently and copying scrolls obediently, but at times, it stifles him.
There’s some shuffling from inside the Hanshi, then footsteps. The door slides open and Lan Xichen smiles at him. There are faint shadows under his eyes, and he looks a bit paler than he used to be, but the warmth in his eyes is the same. “Wangji,” he greets, “I’m glad to see you.” He gives him a discerning look, then his smile turns gentler. “Won’t you come in? Let’s sit and talk.”
Lan Xichen has always been able to read him better than anyone else. Their uncle, though he tries his best, takes Lan Wangji’s silence for granted and assumes he’ll follow every order he is given. Wei Wuxian, though the light of his life, seems to see him as something fun to poke at every once in a while, a fleeting fancy. Lan Xichen sees deeper than that. It’s why they’ve always gotten along, unlike Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian.
Lan Wangji nods and follows him inside. He gives the room a once-over, eyes falling on the letters stacked on a low table near the window. They’re marked with ink and a brush is set off to the side, still wet. “Apologies for the interruption.” He frowns, watching Lan Xichen disappear behind a paper screen and come back out with a small teapot and two teacups.
“Nonsense, I was just about to take a break anyway,” Lan Xichen says kindly, gesturing for him to take a seat at the low table in the middle of the room. Lan Wangji quietly sinks onto one of the cushions and waits as Lan Xichen sets the cups down.
Lan Wangji takes the pot from his hands and pours it, taking care to keep his sleeve out of the cups, with picture-perfect posture and discipline. He sets the empty teapot aside and takes a sip of the tea. It’s strong and slightly bitter, the kind they sell in Caiyi town’s market.
Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, come to Caiyi town with me! You, me, Nie-xiong, and Jiang Cheng could—
The taste lingers in his mouth long after he swallows. He focuses on this, and not on the sudden churning in his stomach.
“Did you want to talk about anything in particular, Wangji?” Lan Xichen folds his hands together and rests them on the table. He’s looking at Lan Wangji the way he always does when he’s trying to read his mind, with a sharp focus.
Lan Wangji inclines his head in agreement. “I should’ve visited sooner,” he admits.
Lan Xichen waves a hand in dismissal. “Nonsense, we’ve both been busy. It’s always good to hear from you, even if it’s something serious.” He smiles and takes a sip of his tea, tapping the side of the cup rhythmically.
Lan Wangji takes a moment to breathe, almost fidgeting as he tries to put his thoughts into words. He’s never been good with words, but he’s sure his brother will understand nonetheless— it’s why he’d only come to him to discuss things like this. He keeps his shoulders firm and tries not to suffocate under the weight of his worries.
“Xiongzhang,” he says, voice ringing heavily in the hollow of the Hanshi, “there is someone I wish to bring back to the Cloud Recesses.” He doesn’t say Wei Wuxian’s name- it feels like a finality, as if admitting it will make something terrible happen. Like a death sentence (whether for him or Wei Wuxian, he doesn’t quite know.)
Lan Xichen looks at him silently for a long while.
“But they… are not willing.” Lan Wangji finishes, trailing off as his throat closes up. Suddenly, he fully realizes just how tired he is. It feels like his heart has been pulled into his throat and has left him hollowed out; he’s exhausted, constantly fighting a battle he knows he’ll never win.
The wind making leaves and branches sway outside is the only sound for a brief while. They sit in the rigid, polite posture of the GusuLan Sect, and Lan Wangji tries to pretend time has stopped. He shifts, feeling his knees begin to ache.
“You plan to bring them back anyway?” Lan Xichen eventually asks, bringing the teacup to his lips again. It’s a practiced movement, something to help him hide; he’s always been expressive, sometimes to a fault, unlike Lan Wangji.
Mother in a small, dark cottage. Unable to take more than five steps out of the door before a disciple stops her. Holding her children in her lap and smiling, but watching the door close behind them with a far-off look in her eyes. Always so tired, a dove kept in a cage, a jewel locked away in a suffocating wooden box.
“… I will not force them.” Lan Wangji answers. His hands have started trembling; he brings them off of the table and onto his lap, fingers laced together on top of his robes.
“Of course not,” Lan Xichen says, contrite. He reaches a hand out to firmly rest it on Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “You want my advice, then?”
Lan Wangji’s brother is the person he trusts most in this world. Unlike the Elders, his uncle, and anyone else, he knows his brother only wants to help him, and never hurt him. He can trust him. He nods, thinking of a man surrounded by shadows and death.
“If they don’t want to come back, there is nothing more you can do other than stay by their side.” Lan Xichen’s hand squeezes his shoulder, still watching him intently. The words settle heavily in the air between them.
Lan Wangji doesn’t know if his brother knows who they’re talking about— he probably does. After all, there’s only one person other than his family that Lan Wangji cares deeply about, someone he would do anything to protect. Even if Lan Xichen does know, there’s not much to say. They can’t do anything at all.
Staying by Wei Wuxian’s side is practically impossible. He could abandon his Sect, leave the cultivation world behind, and burn his forehead ribbon. Even then, Wei Wuxian likely wouldn’t want him by his side at all, and Lan Wangji doesn’t know if he could bear to part from the place he’s lived all his life.
Come back to Gusu with me. No matter how many times he says it, it won’t work. Wei Wuxian will never see the Cloud Recesses in the way Lan Wangji does, as a safe haven, a home. To him, it’s boring, dull, and intolerable, and so is Lan Wangji. They can call each other by their birth names, and it won’t make them any closer.
Still, he won’t force Wei Wuxian to stay by his side. He won’t be his father. He refuses to be his father, he won’t keep Wei Wuxian locked up in a cage, a fierce flower wilting without the sun. Even if sometimes, he finds himself craving it.
If Lan Wangji were to give in to every dark urge he has related to Wei Wuxian, he’d be a horrible person. Maybe he is already, just for the fact that he thinks those things. Hanguang-jun is the paragon of justice and morality, but deep down, he’s only human. He feels animalistic, possessive, and insecure. He may never be good enough for Wei Wuxian, no matter how many daring night hunts he goes on, the number of fancy titles he receives, or how long he spends daydreaming.
Lan Wangji loves him and wants him by his side, but he knows Wei Wuxian could never feel the same. They’re just too different.
Tension has been building up for a long time, but on the day of Jin Ling’s one-month celebration, it all boils over.
Lan Wangji still isn’t sure what happened. He can’t trust much of what people say about Wei Wuxian anymore, after all. What he’s heard (from a meeting with the Elders and his uncle, which he guiltily eavesdropped on) is: Wen Qionglin went mad and killed Jin Zixuan after Wei Wuxian ordered him to. The Yiling Patriarch cast a curse on an innocent Jin disciple and, when found out, murdered the entire welcome party that was sent to escort him to the celebration.
Lan Wangji knows Wei Wuxian and Jin Zixuan never got along, but he doesn’t think he’d go that far. Their relationship was arguing, not hatred strong enough to make them want to kill each other; Wei Wuxian knew how much he meant to his sister. Also, Wei Wuxian never killed without reason— those men had to have done something drastic enough to make him lose control.
Consider all viewpoints before forming an opinion, Lan Wangji thinks as he and his Sect begin on the route to Nightless City. Look past bias and presumption. If only everyone else could remember these rules. Within all three thousand of them, at least half a thousand must forbid the actions of all the Sects and their treatment of Wei Wuxian.
The reason Gusu Lan’s strongest disciples are headed to Nightless City is clear, even if it goes unsaid: Kill the Yiling Patriarch! Make him pay for his crimes!
Lan Wangji goes with them without protest. His brother is shooting him worried looks, but Lan Wangji keeps his eyes firmly trained on the horizon and the gates of Nightless City in the distance. Shouting and fighting his own Sect members won’t do anything except prolong the inevitable. Also, he doesn’t want to fight them unless he has to; even if the way they’re acting is despicable, Lan Wangji grew up with them, and he still respects them at least a little.
He remembers another rule. Do not let injustice stand. Someone has to keep these rules in mind, to not get caught up in all of the hearsay. The Yiling Patriarch is human. He’s a man smiling at a child hugging his leg. He’s a teen on a rooftop, a jar of wine in his hand and a wide smile on his face.
Lan Wangji’s heart aches. His fingers tighten on the hilt of his sword.
As they approach Nightless City, they begin to hear screaming and jeering. There are thousands of people packed into the courtyard, armed and furious. Lan Wangji recognizes all of the Four Great Sects and most of the minor ones, thousands of bloodthirsty cultivators ready to kill. He feels sick with shame. There really is no one on Wei Wuxian’s side, is there? Even after the Sunshot Campaign, and seeing Wei Wuxian lead them to victory, they think it’s convenient to make up horror stories rather than admit that they're just afraid of Wei Wuxian having a stronger power than they can possibly fathom, or that he has a better sense of justice than they ever will.
“Damn Wen-dogs!” someone shouts. “Damn Wei Wuxian!”
“Burn him and his fucking Burial Mounds to the ground!” The crowd crows in agreement, so loudly it makes Lan Wangji’s ears ring. His uncle’s brows are tense and his hand is clenched tightly on his sword. Lan Xichen’s lips are downturned and his shoulders look painfully stiff.
The mob unsheathes their swords, shouting and chanting like eager children on their first night hunts. The sun is high in the sky, gleaming off of their blades and nearly blinding Lan Wangji’s sect as they watch the chaos from a little over a mǐ away. Lan Qiren’s eyes are twitching like he’s resisting the urge to shout the Lan Sect’s rules and scold the entire cultivation world.
“Wangji,” Lan Xichen speaks under his breath, and is barely audible over the chaos caused by the crowd, “are you alright?”
Lan Wangji notices that he’s shaking, his shoulders trembling where they’re held high. He grits his teeth and forces himself to go still. He nods his head, making sure his expression is flat and closed off. Lan Xichen frowns at him and opens his mouth again, but whatever he meant to say is interrupted by a new, lone voice.
“A welcome party. How kind.” Wei Wuxian says. He’s not louder than the crowd, but something about his cold, dark tone makes everyone go quiet. It’s bone-chilling, raising goosebumps all over Lan Wangji’s arms and sending a shiver down his spine.
Lan Wangji’s eyes are immediately drawn to him, but any relief he would’ve felt upon seeing him again is crushed by how exhausted he looks. Wei Wuxian has shadowed, undulating tendrils of resentful energy crawling over every inch of skin. His robes are pitch black and torn at the hems, and his pale, bone-thin fingers are spinning Chenqing calmly. No matter how unbothered he pretends to be, his eyes are carmine and his mouth is bloody like he’s been biting his lips hard enough to break skin.
“You wanted me to show up, and I’m here. Now what?” he asks, swinging his foot tauntingly off the rooftop he’s lounging on. At the prolonged silence, he laughs flatly. “You were so confident earlier. Tell me again, why are you calling for me?”
One brave cultivator finally manages to shout, “Wei Wuxian! How dare you act like you don’t know your crimes?!” He raises his sword like Wei Wuxian will come down and kill him at any moment. His voice trembles.
“That’s right!” Another man lifts his chin arrogantly. He crosses his arms over his gaudy blue robes. “Playing the fool won’t work, we know what you and those damn Wen-dogs have been doing!”
“My crimes?” Wei Wuxian sneers. “Trust me, I know them very well. But how do you want me to repent?”
He pushes himself up so he’s standing, and the resentful energy morphs and elongates to follow him. “Do you want me to kneel and beg? Lay down and let you treat me like your little lapdog?” He throws his hands into the air, then they fall to his sides again, clenched into fists. “Or do you want to kill me?”
Although it’s barely Mao Shi, the sky has turned dark. Ominous gray clouds are whirling and churning, gathering like they’re going to block out the sun. They move the same way Wei Wuxian’s resentful energy does; unsettlingly writhing and pulsing. Wei Wuxian cackles— a torn, ugly sound. “Then do it! Try to kill me, go ahead!”
Right as he finishes speaking, an arrow is shot and barrels toward him, lodging itself into his chest. Wei Wuxian gets knocked back a step and looks down, wide-eyed, like he didn’t expect anyone to actually try. Then he laughs again and tears it out, unbothered by his blood painting the arrowhead. “Good!” he cries, spinning it as he did to Chenqing for a moment before raising it over his shoulder and hurling it back where it came.
“Excellent aim, but weak!” He crows, and the arrow once again hits its mark. A young Jin cultivator is pierced right through his heart, and his legs give out. A man beside him shrieks and barely catches him before he can hit the ground. He presses his hands to his chest like he can stop the blood. “But that’s to be expected,” he goes on, acting as if he can’t see the man he just killed, “I do have wretched powers, after all. I’ve deflowered so many innocent maidens that I’ve become immune to any attacks.”
Lan Wangji’s heart drops into his stomach. Wei Ying, what happened to you? He’s grinning sharply as the Sects curse and ready their weapons, the resentful energy around him blocking the barrage of arrows that begin to fly at him. He plays several piercing notes on his flute and they seem to send out a red ripple of energy over the mob, waves of dense killing intent.
Lan Xichen sighs shakily as the Lan Sect finally steps into the fray. As fierce corpses begin to claw and burst out from the ground, they clench their swords and start swinging. Lan Wangji holds his qin in one arm and Bichen in another, slashing and playing in unison. From the corner of his eye, he sees Wei Wuxian watching them fight like a child watching a play, his flute raised to his lips and playing a haunting tune.
Lan Wangji makes it his goal to protect the young, inexperienced fighters and the disciples of his Sect. The number of corpses is overwhelming, their rotting hands trying to grab the ends of their robes and tear the flesh off of their bones with their razor-sharp teeth. Lan Wangi plucks at a string infused with spiritual energy and lets it resonate, knocking a few of the corpses down and crushing them into dust. With the hand holding his sword, he guards the sides his qin’s strikes can’t reach.
One of the quicker corpses runs at him and he has to spin to dodge it, his back arching and his arm twisting to strum the qin again, sending it flying. When he lands on his feet again, he makes Bichen fly forward and cut the heads off of the bodies lunging at a group of Nie cultivators, but they won’t stop coming. There are too many, bursting from the ground in droves. They move in unison with the sharp notes of Wei Wuxian’s flute, snapping the necks of their victims and making low, discordant sounds in the backs of their throats.
Over the chaos, Lan Wangji hears someone wail, “A-Xian!” At this, the fierce corpses jolt and hesitate. Wei Wuxian sits straight up, flute falling from his lips.
“Shijie?” he whispers, head snapping around to where the voice came from. “Shijie?!” he asks, louder. The color of his eyes begins to fade from red to silver. Still empty and numb, but slightly more human.
“A-Xian!” The woman— Jiang Yanli— cries out again, from the gates of Nightless City.
Jiang Wanyin has paused, too, from where he’s at the head of his Sect with Zidian sparking in his grip. Abruptly, he pushes everyone aside and, stumbling over rocks and fallen bodies, makes his way over to where Wei Wuxian is also running. Lan Wangji watches from where a gap has opened up in the horde of enemies; Jiang Yanli has tears welling in her eyes as both of her brothers come barreling toward her.
She seems weak in the knees and begins to collapse, but Wei Wuxian catches her before she can. He falls to his knees and holds her to his chest. Jiang Wanyin follows, kneeling in front of them both. “Shijie, why are you here?!” Wei Wuxian asks, trembling. “You shouldn’t have come!”
“A-Xian,” she smiles weakly at him, “please stop this. Please make them stop.”
“Yeah, yes, of course. Of course, Shijie.” He fumbles to remove his flute from his belt and raises it to his lips, blowing out two shrieking notes and making the fierce corpses crumple to the ground, lifeless once again. Lan Wangji has to lean against Bichen to keep himself upright, and he watches as the men around him collapse from low spiritual energy. It’s almost impossible to tell which of them are dead and which are only halfway there. When he casts a panicked glance around, he finally manages to find his brother and uncle, who are both as fine as they can possibly be. He lets out a small breath of relief.
Although their goal was to kill the Yiling Patriarch, they’re so drained that the only thing they can do is try to stay conscious. Even Lan Wangji, with his peerlessly strong cultivation level, is wavering. The suffocating dark energy in the air has dissipated, but they can’t even be relieved.
Jiang Yanli sighs shakily; Jiang Wanyin reaches out to hold her wrist and transfer what little spiritual energy he has left. She’s always been frail, Lan Wangji recalls. “A-Xian, it’s alright,” she hushes, as his whole body trembles. “You didn’t have to do all of this.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry Shijie,” he whispers, softly brushing a piece of her hair aside. “Why are you here? You should’ve stayed back, you’re hurt now.”
“I wanted to see you.” Her smile has always reminded Lan Wangji of his brother’s, it has the same gentle kindness. The soothing aura of an older sibling. “You ran away too fast last time, I didn’t get a chance to talk to you…”
Jiang Yanli’s mouth opens like she’s about to speak more, but the buzz in Lan Wangji’s ears drowns her words out. He’s frozen in place, fists clenching around Bichen’s hilt. He watches it happen, as if in slow motion. Wei Wuxian is looking down at Jiang Yanli with such focus and desperation that he seems to not be able to see anything else. Jiang Yanli is reaching up to touch his face, but she goes pale when she finally sees the same thing Lan Wangji does.
There’s a man behind Wei Wuxian, sword in hand, charging straight toward him. His eyes are fierce, but his hands are trembling. Jiang Yanli gasps— Lan Wangji can hear it even far away as he is, practically on the other side of the courtyard, like she’s right in front of him. All of the background noise is suddenly filtered out, leaving only the sound of ringing in his ears.
She lifts a hand as if to push Wei Wuxian away, with all of her feeble strength, and Lan Wangji suddenly realizes, that’s Wei Ying’s sister. That’s his favorite person.
Without her, will Wei Wuxian be able to survive? Will he want to survive? He already seems to be on the edge of insanity, and Lan Wangji knows how much he adores his sister. If it were Lan Wangji’s brother, he’d surely go mad, as well.
But the alternative to Jiang Yanli’s death is (selfishly) worse in his mind: Wei Wuxian getting stabbed. Bleeding out and dying with the cultivation world cheering and rejoicing at the sight of his lifeless, emaciated corpse, having proved them right by destroying himself. He’d die with only his siblings and Lan Wangji left to mourn him, in a world full of people celebrating.
Lan Wangji would be left alone to deal with it all, with no one but his brother and uncle at his side. He’d have to know that he’d failed, once again, to protect Wei Wuxian. He can feel his breaths speeding up, his head spinning.
Wei Ying, come back to Gusu with me. Let me play Cleansing for you. Wei Wuxian never listened. Why would he? They’ve never even been friends, stuck somewhere between companionship and just long-time acquaintances. It’s Lan Wangji who wants it to be more, and who ruins it with his desire and greed.
Now, Lan Wangji realizes that he may be able to finally do something. He can take away some of Wei Wuxian’s pain, even if only slightly. It’ll hurt less for Wei Wuxian to face the loss or injury of an old half-enemy rather than his beloved sister. It won’t end with an infuriated, ugly death.
Almost subconsciously, Lan Wangji runs. He runs faster than he thinks he ever has before, shoving and pushing others aside and practically gliding across the blood-soaked ground. He will make it in time. He won’t ruin this anymore.
Every one of his muscles is straining, worn out from fighting and cutting down hundreds of fierce corpses. He’s not wounded, but his spiritual energy is drained and he’s dangerously exhausted. His golden core is, at most, half-full, and any injury he receives now will be infinitely more dangerous.
Even just running is making his head swim, and his knees nearly buckle. His sword almost slips out of his hands with how loose his fingers are around its hilt. His white robes are stained with blood and dirt. He’s an inch away from collapsing. He’s sure that the only way he’s able to move is a combination of shock and determination.
Somehow, he gets there. Right before the sword swings down, and before Jiang Yanli can finish shoving Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji throws himself forward. It causes Wei Wuxian and Jiang Yanli to roll to the side, them both to gasp in pain, and Wei Wuxian to shout, “Lan Wangji!” in that cold tone he always seems to use these days.
It’s fine. Lan Wangji figures that it’s okay if his feelings go unreciprocated and unrecognized, as long as Wei Wuxian is happy. And as it is, Lan Wangji certainly isn’t contributing to his happiness.
The man who’d been charging at Wei Wuxian seems to process what’s happening at the very last moment, and his face goes alarmingly pale. It’s too late for him to stop, there’s too much momentum, and he’s already aimed and lined up the attack. Lan Wangji faces the sharp blade of the sword and feels it go directly through his stomach, just below his ribs.
God, it hurts. Ever since he started cultivating a Golden Core as a child, he can’t remember getting an injury that hurt this much. It’s like it sends bolts of electricity through every one of his nerves, lighting his insides on fire.
Lan Wangji thinks, hysterically, that it’s a well-made weapon. A beautifully engraved hilt and polished blade. With his strong cultivation, he’d usually be able to take it and heal himself quickly, but his energy is drained. The pain overwhelms his senses and sends him falling onto his knees, choking around a clump of blood in his mouth.
The air around him seems to still. It may be his imagination, but he thinks that all eyes are on the mighty Hanguang-jun, somehow fallen by a single sword, almost unrecognizable with his dirt-covered robes and pathetic posture. There’s a heavy silence. The cultivator who’d tried to stab Wei Wuxian is gaping, fumbling to remove the sword and startling at the low groan Lan Wangji lets out.
His stomach is burning, red-hot around the edges of his wound. His throat is clogged with a mix of panic and agony. It hurts! This is hundreds of times worse than when the Wens broke his leg, or when he got punished alongside Wei Wuxian.
His jaw is straining from how forcefully he’s gritting his teeth. The smell of blood around him is suddenly suffocating, filling his nose with every breath. Then, the calamity around him resumes— the corpses must’ve risen again. There’s so much shouting, clamoring, and panic; his ears go back to ringing, and a dizzying headache pounds so hard at his temples that he thinks he might vomit. Lan Wangji hears his brother scream, a louder and more devastating sound than anything he’s ever heard from him, even worse than his strangled sobbing after their home went up in flames.
From behind him, Lan Wangji hears a soft, trembling voice, as easy to single out as it’s always been. “Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian’s voice is weak, as if the words were ripped out of him against his own will, like he doesn’t fully process them even as he says them. Lan Wangji, through the waves of agony and buzzing in his ears, nearly smiles at how nice it is to hear his birth name from him once again. He doesn’t, though, because he thinks that if he did, he’d tear the corners of his mouth open. Or scream. He hasn’t screamed since he was very young, and he doesn’t want to hear how it’ll sound now.
“Wait no, I didn’t mean—“ the panicked cultivator’s eyes flit back and forth from his bloodied sword to Lan Wangji, then back again. It’s almost pitiful how he stumbles back and raises a quivering hand to his mouth. Lan Wangji knows that if Wei Wuxian was the one he’d stabbed, he wouldn’t react this way at all; he’d be celebrating.
Prejudice is forbidden, Lan Wangji recites mentally, and instinctually. He falls even further, bracing his elbows against the ground as he hacks and coughs against an onslaught of blood and tears. “Wangji!” his brother cries and runs madly toward him, immediately pulling him up and holding him against his chest.
Lan Wangji realizes, with a flash of guilt, that he hadn’t really thought about how his brother would react. They’ve always been especially close, so much so that they always seem to know what the other is thinking. Twin Jades. Spending their days together in the Jingshi or Hanshi, sharing small bits of conversation over tea and evening meals. Wei Ying doesn’t have to go through this, he chants in his mind, repeatedly. He doesn’t have to feel this pain, I took it for him, so it’s alright, he thinks, again and again, a mantra to keep him anchored to his own body.
Then there’s another wail, equally pained as Lan Xichen’s. Lan Wangji tries to blink the black spots out of his vision as Wei Wuxian suddenly kneels in front of him, an even wilder panic in his red eyes. Lan Wangji looks over his brother’s shoulder and sees a pallid Jiang Yanli held in the arms of a stunned Jiang Wanyin. They seem largely unharmed. Good, Lan Wangji thinks.
“Wei Ying,” he manages to say, dizzy and weakened. The arms around him tighten. “Xiongzhang,” he says, more softly.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian chokes, hands coming up to cup his face. “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, why did you do that Why the hell did you do that?!”
Lan Wangji blinks, every one of his breaths stinging his ribs. “He was aiming for you,” he says. It’s as simple as that. He watches as Wei Wuxian’s eyes widen, as his thumbs dig more harshly into his cheekbones.
“Wangji, you didn’t have to. You shouldn’t have,” Lan Xichen whispers from above him, cradling his head to his chest as if he were still a child. The rocks on the ground must be digging into his skin and tearing at his robes, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Lan Wangji swallows another cough, not quite knowing how to respond.
Even at the direst of times, he’ll never be good with words.
Wei Wuxian looks incredibly lost. His mad rage has melted away, leaving a shocked and empty shell behind. It’s a strange, unfamiliar expression. It doesn’t fit right on his face, even with his deep eyebags and sunken cheeks. He shouldn’t be so deeply sad. “Wei Ying deserves to be happy,” Lan Wangji says, feeling weaker and weaker with every passing moment.
Lan Xichen seems to realize this and scrambles to get a hand on his wrist, transferring him heavy amounts of spiritual energy. At this point, it won’t help. It’ll just keep Lan Wangji alive for a few more seconds. It’s alright, Lan Wangji forces himself to think, though he’s starting to panic.
He wants to live. Even with the heavy expectations on him as of late, the horrors of war, and Wei Wuxian’s hatred, he doesn’t want to leave all of this behind. He has his brother and his uncle; his Sect and his rabbits. He likes to watch the sunrise at Mao Shi and the sunset at Xu Shi, and he likes to teach the junior disciples new sword forms. They always smile at him and follow his lead like obedient little ducklings.
He wants Wei Wuxian to live, but he doesn’t want to die.
He’s going to anyway. Lan Wangji knows this, as the dark spots in his vision grow and his body becomes heavier. His stomach is bleeding heavily, dark red against the white of his robes. The ground is covered in corpses and people are still cursing and shouting, but miraculously, Wei Wuxian is looking only at him. Truly looking for the first time in years, without a hint of malice.
“Lan Zhan, don’t die,” he begs, his voice heartbreakingly weak, “not for me. Not for anyone. You’re too good, too good. Please, don’t die.” He tries to get even closer to Lan Wangji until their knees are pressed together. His trembling hands move to ghost over the wound on his stomach, not quite daring to touch.
“I’m sorry. It’s my fault, okay? I’ll come back. I’ll go to Gusu with you, and I’ll stop. I won’t do any of this anymore, you can have the flute, you can have it all, and you can punish me however you want. I’ll listen! I just… why did you…” He starts to cry, pale tears almost invisible on his paper-white skin. His fists clench as if he’s still angry, but all that’s showing on his face is grief and terror.
Wei Wuxian has always been expressive (or maybe dramatic is a better word, as he never seems to want to show any emotions that are negative, or serious). Now, though, he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve more clearly than he ever has— at least, when in front of Lan Wangji.
He cares about him, and he’s crying for him. Even if it’s not love, even if he doesn’t like Lan Wangji half as much as he likes him, it’s a blessing. To have even a bit of Wei Wuxian’s affection is a gift. His heart is a wonderful, kind thing, even to the undeserving. Lan Wangji stares at him, then tilts his head up to look at his brother. He sighs.
Tears fall faster and faster down his cheeks, but he doesn’t know if they’re from him or Lan Xichen, crying above him.
“Wei Ying. Xiongzhang. I’m sorry.” He’s been so afraid every time Wei Wuxian has said those words, but he supposes that sometimes, they’re inevitable. He truly is sorry, at least for some of it. He isn’t apologizing for saving Wei Wuxian’s and Jiang Yanli’s lives, though. Even if there may have been a better way of going about it, he can’t regret it.
His thoughts are slipping away like sand between his fingers. His brother is crying, beginning to shake with the force of his hitching breaths. Wei Wuxian’s shoulders begin to heave up and down with his harsh breaths, holding Lan Wangji’s hands in an even tighter grip. It may be bruising— Lan Wangji doesn’t know. He’s gone numb, tingly from the tips of his fingers to the hole in his stomach.
“Wangji, don’t do this,” Lan Xichen begs. They both know he has to. Here, on this single plank bridge, he’s on the edge. Hanging over the precipice, looking at the dark, thinking, maybe it was meant to end this way. There was only one way to go. One plank, cut off at the end.
From the moment Wei Wuxian decided to follow this path, he’d been doomed to a horrible fate. If it weren’t for Lan Wangji jumping in, he would’ve died instead. Maybe this is a lifetime always destined to end in tragedy, but Wei Wuxian shouldn't have to die for it.
Wei Wuxian is feared and hated when he used to be respected and loved. The Wens are monsters when they used to be legends. So much pain, so much worry- if Lan Wangji can take any amount of it on his shoulders, he’ll gladly accept it.
Even with Lan Xichen’s spiritual power flowing through his veins, his energy is reaching zero. He can’t feel the pain anymore, and the world around him begins to fade to grey. He no longer has the strength to speak, and even if he somehow did, he’d have no idea what to say.
He allows himself to close his eyes, and everything goes quiet. There's no more screaming.