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Chapter Text

The Burial Mounds stretch across the land like a shadow, the line where their twisted, curse-ridden soil meets Yunmeng territory sharp, distinct. On one side of the very visible border the trees are clean-limbed; lush, fertile. On the other they are gnarled, their growth stifled and their leaves wilted. Blighted.

Lan Xichen lands on the edge of the shadowed land, the land that formerly had belonged to no clan, no inhabitants. The land that now belongs to the Yiling Patriarch.

Wangji had told him about it. About the way the crabbed trees closed in over the sky, the dead air that pressed in close and choking against warm skin, the lifeless underbrush that crunched underfoot. About the gardens the Wens were trying to grow in unhealthy soil, the lean-tos they were erecting from rotting timber. That was what he had been willing to talk about, when he came back: the land, the colony. Not Wei Wuxian.

There is a path leading from the nearest town into the Burial Mounds. Lan Xichen sheathes his sword and follows it into this colourless, parched landscape. Dead branches creak overhead, dry leaves rustle in the moistureless wind. The air is hot and arid, like the breeze off a desert. It cloys close to him as he walks, against his face, his throat. There’s a feeling of hunger, and of malice. This place wants corpses, wants flesh and blood to feed its desiccated soil. It is a home of evil, all want and no give.

Lan Xichen clenches his teeth.

Up ahead, he senses rather than sees a barrier. As he approaches he is able to locate the talismans on the trees and stones that form it. It’s unorthodox, unique. Strong. The Yiling Patriarch’s skills have advanced to an unrecognizable degree, full of cunning and intelligence and innovation. Lan Xichen is not surprised the clans fear him; they have accepted very few innovations in recent memory. His is more guilty of this than most.

Wangji had spoken around Wei Wuxian, not of him, but he had been clear that Wei Wuxian was in control of his land. That he was aware of all that happened in it, and regulated it. At the time, Lan Xichen hadn’t been sure if his words were meant to reassure or to warn; he still isn’t. The idea that Wangji feels he must defend Wei Wuxian even from his brother is… difficult. But now is not the time to think on that.

Lan Xichen pulls out his qiankun bag and, from its depths, draws Wangji’s guqin.

He is not Wangji, of course. His spiritual energy is not identical. But they are brothers, trained in the same school by the same instructors. He can only hope it is close enough. He plucks the strings and sends out a burst of spiritual energy.

The barrier wavers, then thins. Lan Xichen grabs the instrument and runs through a moment before it firms up again. He breaths a sigh of relief and returns the guqin to the safety of his pouch.

Ahead the path is meandering, the light that filters through the trees dusty and bleak. He cannot see the end of the trail, has no idea how far it is to the Wen village. He is very tired, is in fact exhausted. But he has no choice other than to go forward. He cannot go home empty handed.

Up ahead something heavy crunches in the underbrush, and he pauses. Then a clear, familiar voice calls out – full of cheer and teasing. “Lan Zhan, ah, Lan Zhan – couldn’t you –”

Wei Wuxian comes around a bend in the path, and stops dead. The carefree smile falls from his lips, replaced not by fear but surprise.

He looks very different than the last time Lan Xichen saw him. Gone are his flawless silken robes, dark as night and perfectly tailored; gone is the leather and the metal. He’s dressed in thin, dirty linen and there is dust smeared on his cheeks and a long cut across three fingers of his left hand. His hair is combed but no longer sleek and oiled, and dust sits there too, turning the dark jet matte. His face is thinner, hollower, and Lan Xichen has no way of knowing if it’s his demonic cultivation that has done this, or something else.

“Zewu-jun,” he says. And then, belatedly remembering his manners, he bows.

Lan Xichen realises, abruptly, that he doesn’t know how to address this man. He has become known across the land as the Yiling Patriarch, but Lan Xichen doesn’t know if this is a title he chose, a title he prefers. He cannot risk insulting him.

He returns the greeting. “Yiling Patriarch,” he begins, and Wei Wuxian’s face clouds.

“Please. That’s not – you know me, Zewu-jun. What’s wrong? Why are you here?” He walks over and Lan Xichen sees he has no weapon, not even his flute. He came to meet Wangji unarmed, defenseless. With a smile on his face.

“I’m here to ask for your help. It’s Wangji. He’s ill.”

Wei Wuxian’s face tightens. “What happened? Ill how? Is it a curse?”

“No. A fever – intense, intractable. He has been delirious for several days now. If the fever doesn’t break soon, recovery is unlikely,” Lan Xichen forces himself to say these words, the words he rehearsed as he travelled here.

“How can I help?” asks Wei Wuxian, just like that. No bartering, no prevarication. “Do you want Wen Qing’s advice? Or –”

Lan Xichen looks him straight in the eye. “He is asking for you. In his fever dreams, all he speaks of is you. If you come, perhaps it will ease the fever.”

He sees Wei Wuxian’s mouth click shut, sees the way his face tightens like a child who has been struck. Not with pain, because before pain comes shock. Shock that Wangji would ever ask for him. Shock that Lan Xichen would come here to beg for his help. It’s an image that’s difficult to reconcile with the man who attended the cultivation conferences, who spoke back to Jin Guangshan and threatened his relative in front of all the clans.

“You want me to come with you? Where?”

“To the Cloud Recesses.”

Wei Wuxian stares. “I… Zewu-jun, you know who I am. I’m not someone you invite to your home.”

Lan Xichen looks at him, and feels he can almost read his thoughts. I’m someone who can only be visited furtively, shamefully. Is that what he thinks? Does he believe Wangji kept his visit secret? Does he not know Wangji accepted his punishment without complaint, and likely, without repentance?

Of course he doesn’t; Wangji would never tell him.

“Surely that’s my decision to make. It is my clan, my home. My brother, Wei Wuxian. I would do anything to save his life.”

Wei Wuxian takes a breath, his jaw tense and his eyes bright. “I…” he pauses, then looks back over his shoulder. “Zewu-jun, there are people here who depend on me.”

“It will not be for long. The journey is less than a day, by flight. No one knows I have come to you for aid. There will be no threat to your people. Wei Wuxian: please.” He joins his hands and bows, feeling the cruelty of it, of the position he’s putting Wei Wuxian in. He doesn’t care. He can’t care.

Wei Wuxian sucks in a dry breath, then nods shakily. “Alright. Alright. I – I’ll just be a minute. You can come –” he doesn’t even finish his sentence, just turns and takes off running through the twisted trees. Lan Xichen follows.

Not far from where they met the trees open out to a clearing at the base of the Yiling Mountains. Overhead the sky is full of swirling clouds, its colour strange, sickening. The ground here has been cleared and small plots of dirt cleared and planted with struggling plants. There are old men and women dressed in peasant clothes weeding and hoeing and doing menial chores. There is a rough wooden lean-to, and an ancient pavilion with rotting walls and a dangerously-sagging roof. In one of the earth plots, a tiny child – barely older than an infant – is playing with a toy made of sacking.

There is no army of fierce corpses. There is no army of malcontent Wen cultivators.

There is no army at all. There are perhaps a dozen elderly peasants, and a child.

Lan Xichen is, very suddenly, sickened.

He watches Wei Wuxian run over to a tiny woman in crude brick-dust-coloured robes, her face worn and her hands covered in dirt. Wen Qing, he recognizes after a moment. Wen Qing, a reportedly brilliant doctor, digging for turnips in the earth. They talk, then they argue. Wei Wuxian isn’t giving orders, isn’t speaking as a warlord. He’s pleading.

Wen Qing looks from him to Lan Xichen, who bows. She looks back to Wei Wuxian, her face dark. He shakes his head. She says something, and he shakes it again. Finally she turns away, arms crossed.

He jogs back to Lan Xichen. “Okay, let’s go. I mean – I don’t have a sword. Is that alright?”

Lan Xichen has heard this; like everyone else, he doesn’t understand it. But he was prepared. “I can bring you on mine. If that’s acceptable?”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t even seem to think about it. “Yes, fine, let’s go. It will be fastest if we leave through the main ward – then I won’t have to fix it after.” He takes off jogging down the trail. Lan Xichen catches Wen Qing looking after him, her face drawn, worried. Then he turns and follows.

***

At the entrance to the line of protection Wei Wuxian walks through without pause, and Lan Xichen follows him. He turns and does something quickly to the talisman, then nods. “That should keep it for a few days.”

Lan Xichen summons his sword from its sheath and steps atop it. Wei Wuxian looks up, then without waiting turns to present his back and holds up his wrist. Lan Xichen takes it, helping him to stand in front of him, one hand lightly on the man’s side to stabilize him. Wei Wuxian doesn’t react.

The sword rises, flying slowly at first, Lan Xichen waiting to see what kind of passenger Wei Wuxian will be. As it turns out, he’s a good one, making no attempt to control their flight and letting Lan Xichen keep a firm grip on him. Strange for a man who has always been so head-strong.

“Can’t we go faster?” shouts Wei Wuxian over the wind, as they head northwards.

Lan Xichen tightens his grip. They go faster.

***

It’s past nightfall by the time they make it to the Cloud Recesses. Unlike Wei Wuxian’s wards on the Burial Mounds, the protections on the Cloud Recesses are multilayered and ancient. They recognize the jade pass Lan Xichen carries as his birthright, and they are able to land right in the courtyard without bothering with the formal gate.

Lanterns glow beneath eaves and inside buildings, but the chill courtyard is empty. The cultivators will be at meditation, preparing for bed, while the servants will already be finished their work for the day. No one to see the clan head escort his clan’s most dangerous enemy through its home.

He leads him straight to the Jingshi, of course, where he left one of the more senior – and more sympathetic – cultivators to watch Wangji. They hurry up the steps and into the interior of the home that Wangji has recently taken for his own. Lan Xichen sees a white-robed, dark-haired figure kneeling beside Wangji’s bedside and steps forward. And then, as the figure turns, he stops.

It’s not Lan Lixin, who he had left here. It’s Lan Qiren.

His uncle’s eyes flick to him and, for an instant, show relief. Then they fall on Wei Wuxian, standing just behind his shoulder.

“Uncle –”

Lan Qiren stands, unfolding with the slow speed of unfurling wrath. “You,” he says, his voice barely controlled, barely contained in speech rather than snarl. “How dare you come here? How dare you bring your malicious, weak-minded evil here? Here, where we were generous and charitable enough to try to set you on the right path? A path you disdained and discarded for demonism, for necromancy!”

“Uncle, please, Wei Wuxian has come –”

Lan Qiren rounds on him. “And you, Xichen. Bringing the enemy of your clan – of all the clans – into your home. What do you mean by this? How can you –”

“I mean,” says Lan Xichen, firmly, “to save my brother. Wei Wuxian’s choices are complicated, and some are in conflict with our laws. But I do not believe he is motivated by evil, and I am not convinced he has done evil. And if he can save Wangji’s life, I will look the other way.”

“You would break this clan’s laws for sentiment? Even your father obeyed –”

Lan Xichen strides forward. On the bed behind his uncle, Wangji is breathing hard, fretfully. His muttering is low, inaudible, but Lan Xichen can guess at the words. Wei Ying. Where are you? I should have come. Wei Ying. Come back. “This is my decision, as Clan Leader,” he says. “It is final.” He turns behind him. Wei Wuxian is watching, silent, his hands fisted. “Wei Wuxian, please.” He raises his arm and moves his uncle aside, clearing a path for the younger man.

“If he brings his evil here, you will have damned your clan,” says Lan Qiren. He turns away and strides out.

Wei Wuxian is already at the bedside. He drops down sloppily, legs splayed beneath him, one hand on Wangji’s and the other resting carefully against his forehead to feel the heat of his skin. There’s no grace to his posture, his body seeming to fold over the bed – over Lan Xichen’s brother – like a blanket. Without stilted ceremony; heartfelt. Something unknown to their clan. “Lan Zhan? Lan Zhan it’s me. I’m here. I’m here and you’re going to be fine. Can you hear me? Lan Zhan!”

“I will summon the physician for an update,” says Lan Xichen. There is a small stack of talismans near the bed which can be used to alert the physician if he is needed; Lan Xichen burns one now.

Beside the bed is a bowl and cloth; Wei Wuxian wrings it out and begins to wash Wangji’s face, sponging away the sweat as he talks. His voice is soft but pleasant; comforting. He seems to have no aversion to sick-nursing, no pride that keeps him from tending to Wangji with diligence. Lan Xichen stands back and watches, and hopes.

The physician, an older man named Lan Yufei, appears a few minutes later with his hard-sided box of medicines and tonics. He bows to Lan Xichen, then glances at Wei Wuxian.

“Our guest has come to help Wangji recover,” says Lan Xichen. “How has my brother been since I left?”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t leave Wangji’s side, but he does turn to listen, dividing his gazes between the doctor and Wangji.

“There has not been any improvement I’m afraid, Clan Leader. In fact… in fact, he grows weaker. The fever is draining him. He has not responded to any of my medicines, and he accepts little liquid. If the fever does not break by the morning, I am afraid his chances of recovery are very slight.”

Lan Xichen feels as if the autumn chill has settled in his bones, radiating cold from within him. His golden core seems to be without heat, his body touched by frost. “Is there nothing you can do?”

Lan Yufei shakes his head.

“Then… then you may go.” He dismisses him without rancour, but also without hope. Medicine has failed, and now there is only Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian who has already turned back to Wangji, and seems to be telling a story. Something about home-made plum wine.

Lan Xichen walks over to the space Wangji has dedicated to music. There is a low table for his guqin, and a few books of music on a shelf behind. He settles on the low pillow and closes his eyes. Listening to the smooth sound of Wei Wuxian’s voice, he slips into meditation.

***

Lan Xichen doesn’t mean to sleep. There’s far too much happening to sleep. He needs to monitor Wangji, he needs to ensure Wei Wuxian behaves himself – and is left unmolested. He needs to eat, something he hasn’t done in a while. And then of course there is the whole other matter of his clan duties.

But he has only slept a few hours a day since Wangji’s fever became dangerous, and he falls down the well of exhaustion without ever feeling himself trip.

When he wakes soft, dawn light is filtering into the Jingshi. The lamps have all gone out, and a chill breeze is blowing. He sits up in panic, afraid that something has happened, that Wangji has – has –

On the other side of the room, Wei Wuxian is still talking. His voice is no longer soft, smooth; it’s rough now, gritty. He coughs once, then again. But he keeps talking, saying something about Brother Rich and A-Yuan, a story that makes no sense to Lan Xichen.

He stands and comes over, his body stiff and aching.

Wei Wuxian is bent haphazardly over Wangji, his back curved in what must be an uncomfortable position. He’s holding one of Wangji’s hands to his throat, his head bent, speaking softly to it. His words are no longer cheerful, upbeat. They’re desperate.

Lan Xichen can see, even from here, that the fever has not broken. Wangji’s face is waxy with sweat, the colour poor. But he is no longer muttering, no longer restless. He’s hardly breathing, his lips blue.

Dying.

Wei Wuxian turns, his story breaking off in the middle of a sentence, and Lan Xichen reads instantly in his face that awareness. His cheeks are hollow, his lips chapped. His eyes are red-rimmed and wild, like an animal’s. “He’s not hearing me,” he says, his voice wrecked. “He doesn’t know I’m here. He kept calling – calling – calling –” he can’t find the words or maybe the strength to finish. His voice breaks and his face contorts, flashing: pain/grief/terror before he controls it.

You tried, Lan Xichen should say, perhaps. You came. But those thoughts are febrile, flimsy as wet parchment, and disintegrate utterly in the face of his grief.

Wangji is dying.

His body curls inwards, his shoulders shaking; he presses his arms to his stomach and fights the urge to fold up and collapse.

“I need some air,” he whispers. Wei Wuxian has already turned away, back to Wangji, and doesn’t acknowledge him.

He slips out of the Jingshi. Out of the house where his mother died, alone, her life unnaturally shortened by the clan that denied her love or recognition or freedom. Just as it has denied Wangji, so used to prioritizing laws over love that he can’t even hear Wei Wuxian’s voice.

He doesn’t know where he goes. He just walks. Over stone, over grass, over late-blooming gentian flowers. His thoughts are a whirlwind of pain and grief. Wangji, curled outside the Jingshi in the snow. Seasons and seasons of studying the clan’s laws and principles, his uncle’s praise heartfelt only in recognition of their adherence to them. Wangji recognizing him at his inauguration, not as brother but as Clan Leader. Wangji sparring with Wei Wuxian, his face serene but his eyes so bright. Lan Xichen lying hurt and broken in the woods with the clan’s books, leaving Wangji to face the Wen’s wrath. Wangji’s face as Wei Wuxian stood up to take a drink for him. Wangji kneeling in the snow paying penance for visiting the Burial Mounds wordlessly, but also unapologetically. Wangji telling him he wants to bring someone home.

Lan Xichen believed for so long that if he could uphold the clan’s laws but also be kind, it would be enough. That if he showed Wangji he cared in little ways, if he supported him subtly, he wouldn’t be the man his uncle had become.

And now Wangji is dying, and he believes himself to be alone. Because Lan Xichen believed in compromise over compassion.

He is a failure. As a brother, and a nephew, and a clan leader. And his failure has cost him what he can’t even fathom, can’t yet bring himself to fully investigate. If he does, it will crush him.

***

Eventually he becomes more aware of his surroundings. He’s sitting on a stone in a garden behind his own quarters. Mostly he is brought back to himself by his stomach, which is contracting painfully. It’s been a day since he ate last. Which is, of course, unimportant. But it’s likely been a day since Wei Wuxian ate last, and as a guest he deserves consideration.

Lan Xichen goes along to the kitchens and has them prepare a simple tray of food; congee, tea, some dried fruit.

Walking back to the Jingshi, Lan Xichen’s thoughts are wrapped in a tight, painful twist of considering how to explain to Wei Wuxian that he brought food. Food, in the face of… what’s happening. Necessary, but also insultingly insignificant. It’s painful thinking about it, but this pain is infinitely less than turning his mind to the larger picture.

As he steps up into the small house, though, this awkward tangle is immediately forgotten in the face of someone shouting.

Lan Qiren shouting.

“You would make him one of your tame corpses? A mockery, an insult, a perversion?”

Lan Xichen drops the tray and runs in, to see Wei Wuxian on his knees with his back to the bed, facing Lan Qiren. Lan Qiren, who is holding his sword.

“I will punish you now as you should have been punished long before – as you deserve –” the sword slashes down towards Wei Wuxian and he dodges, flattening himself against the floor and drawing his knees up under himself. He reaches for his side, and his face falls.

He has no weapon. No sword, not even his flute.

He came to the Cloud Recesses, to the seat of one of the clans allied against him, with no weapon.

Lan Xichen reaches for his own sword, and pauses. Was Wei Wuxian truly intending to corrupt Wangji? To make him into an undead puppet?

On the bed Wangji is still breathing. His light sleeping robes have been pulled open, exposing his throat and chest. There’s no sign of demonic cultivation, no black veins or broken skin.

His uncle makes another strike; Wei Wuxian dodges this one too, but it is closer, the blade shearing open his sleeve. Lan Qiren pulls back, panting. “I will not let you corrupt him,” he snarls, and stabs the blade forward.

In a split second, Lan Xichen sees Wei Wuxian glance back and realise the same thing as he does. If he dodges, the blade will stab Wangji.

Lan Xichen bolts forward, summoning his own blade, but it’s too late and the angle is impossible and –

And Wei Wuxian sits, unmoving, as the blade slides into his abdomen. In the instant that follows both Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen pause, frozen. Wei Wuxian reaches up and presses the palms of his hands against either side of the blade, holding it still.

“Now,” he says, voice guttural, looking up with blood-wet lips, “you’re going to listen to me. Lan Zhan is cursed. It’s a small curse, tiny. In his heart. It’s stopping him from hearing me – and you. I can’t tell why exactly. And I can’t remove it if I’m dead. So please take the sword out, and I’ll try to save his life.”

Lan Xichen sheaths his own sword, then puts his hand over his uncle’s on the grip. Lan Qiren’s face is white, his teeth clenched.

“Uncle, please.”

“Xichen –”

“He came here to help. Let him.”

Lan Qiren frowns tightly, then with a smooth movement withdraws the sword. Blood pours out, soaking Wei Wuxian’s faded robes; he presses one arm tightly to his stomach. “Ah – fuck – ngh.” His eyes flicker closed momentarily and Lan Xichen wonders if this is the right thing to do, if he shouldn’t bring him to the infirmary now. If he’s risking Wei Wuxian’s life for Wangji’s.

He needs Wangji to live. Needs it. So he walks over and burns a talisman to summon the doctor, but does nothing else. His uncle stands with his sword pointedly still unsheathed, dripping blood onto the floor.

Wei Wuxian raises the hand not putting pressure on his wound, and presses his palm flat to Wangji’s chest. His eyes close again, purposefully this time. “It’s small,” he says again. “Not surprising you missed it. Small, and cruel. Hard to distinguish…”

Around his hand, small puffs of black smoke are rising. Cursed energy. What his uncle saw, undoubtedly, when he entered the Jingshi. He keeps talking, his voice tight with concentration. “There’s a trick… I can’t read it… but I think I can…” his voice fades away and his fingers tighten, the tips pressing into Wangji’s chest. He’s silent for more than a minute, then he lets out his breath and raises his head.

“Wei Wuxian?”

Wei Wuxian looks back over his shoulder. His face is wan, tight with pain. “I couldn’t dispel it,” he says. “Not fast enough. But it’s okay now. He should hear us again.” He turns to Wangji and brushes his fingers over his forehead. “Lan Zhan? Can you hear me? I’m here. I’m here, Lan Zhan.”

“What did you do?” demands Lan Qiren, the sword trembling in his grip. “What have you done, Yiling Patriarch?”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t turn. “I transferred the curse to me,” he says.

Lan Xichen feels adrift, like driftwood on the ocean, out of sight of anything of familiarity. He realises that he doesn’t understand anything about this man sitting in front of him, quietly bleeding onto the floor. And, what little his brother chose to hint at of his feelings, he failed utterly to support. The boys he knew have grown into strangers, strangers he’s done nothing to help.

“Uncle,” he says quietly, looking down at the sword. Lan Qiren twitches his mouth into a tight line of displeasure, but takes the sword to the wash stand and cleans the blade before sheathing it. Lan Xichen goes over to stand beside Wei Wuxian, watching as he talks quietly to Wangji and touches him – his face, his throat, his hand. Wangji, who hates being touched. Wangji who, he can’t help but think, would not object to this gentling.

There’s a clatter from outside as Lan Yufei arrives and encounters the tray of spilt food outside. He hurries in and comes over. His face, once he sees Wangji, becomes grim.

“See to Wei Wuxian, please,” orders Lan Xichen.

“I’m fine,” says Wei Wuxian, tightly, not moving.

“He isn’t. Wei Wuxian, unless Lan Yufei orders it, I will not ask you to leave. But please let him take care of you.”

Wei Wuxian takes in a breath, then lets it out. He turns without releasing Wangji’s hand, so the physician can see his blood-soaked side. Lan Yufei unceremoniously pushes Lan Xichen out of the way and kneels to inspect the wound. Lan Xichen watches as he unwraps the stained linen robes to reveal a thin chest. Too thin, ribs prominent beneath his skin, the muscle of his stomach begun to give way to the stretch of starvation.

“This is a very serious injury,” says Lan Yufei.

“It’s fine,” replies Wei Wuxian. “I’m fine. I heal fast. Look – nothing’s even fallen out. Hear that, Lan Zhan? I’m fine, so don’t worry, you concentrate on getting better and maybe giving me a sign because it’s tough here without you.” He gives the physician, and Lan Xichen, a clear look: Do not upset Lan Zhan.

So Lan Yufei frowns and packs the wound with healing moss and herbs to prevent infection, and then binds it tightly to stop the bleeding. So tight that Wei Wuxian has to stop slouching and sit up straight, which he complains about to Wangji. When the physician is finished he asked when Wei Wuxian last ate or drank, and isn’t rewarded with an answer. Lan Yufei’s frown gets, if possible, deeper. He stands.

“He needs water, and food. I will have some brought. Make him eat it.”

Lan Xichen nods. “And… Wangji?”

Lan Yufei’s face softens; his look is helpless. Lan Xichen turns away.

***

Wei Wuxian’s voice is giving out.

Lan Xichen is sitting across the room doing paperwork, because there is nothing else for him to do. His uncle comes and goes, silent and disapproving. Every few hours, Lan Yufei makes a visit.

Wei Wuxian seems to have an endless supply of light-hearted tales, which by this point Lan Xichen has to assume are made up. He has no way of knowing. All he knows is that Wei Wuxian is convinced Wangji will hear him, and wake up.

As the sun passes its peak, though, he’s coughing more and speaking less. His voice is dry and rasping, like a sponge out of water. He’s hardly slept, hardly eaten. Just talked. His uncle always complained about Wei Wuxian’s smart aleck mouth, his fresh comments and his insatiable need to hear himself speak.

Now, it may be the only thing keeping Wangji alive.

“Do you remember the lantern, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian is saying, gritting out in his rough voice. “I remember… you got mad at me. But you loved that rabbit. So cute. We promised… to uphold what was right. I wish I could’ve done more with you. Fighting with you… fighting alongside you… it’s always the best. Lan Zhan? Please. Please. Be okay.”

There’s a quiet sob, then silence.

Lan Xichen closes his eyes.

***

He’s supposed to be reviewing the foodstuffs budget. Or perhaps the equipment and supply budget? Lan Xichen isn’t sure anymore. He can’t focus. He needs sleep, and hot food, but what he needs most of all is for Wangji to recover. He looks down at the rows of characters on the sheet in front of him; they blur.

Across the room, there’s a soft sound. Wei Wuxian, gasping. Then: “Lan Zhan? Lan Zhan!”

Lan Xichen stands so fast he knocks a book off the table. He crosses the room to kneel beside Wei Wuxian, who is white-faced with ugly shadows beneath his eyes. Eyes that are hawk-bright.

On the bed, Wangji’s eyes are open. His fingers are curled around Wei Wuxian’s.

Lan Xichen’s heart feels like it might burst. “Wangji!” He presses the back of his hand to Wangji’s forehead. It’s cool, the fever gone. Lan Xichen lets out a breath that almost turns to laughter, his relief dizzying, incredible.

Wangji licks his lips softly. “Wei Ying.” His voice is tender.

Wei Wuxian frowns. “I – did he speak?” he looks at Lan Xichen. Who looks back at him, confused.

“He did.”

“I – okay.” He turns back to Wangji. “Lan Zhan. You’re gonna be fine. You’re doing great. So great. Maybe have some water, though.” He lifts the small cup to Wangji’s lips, trickles a stream into his mouth with care. Wangji takes a few sips, then closes his eyes. “Yeah, that’s good. Rest. You need rest.”

Wei Wuxian puts the cup down with a trembling hand, then pushes himself away and stands. His face is very white. “So, I think I know what the curse does,” he says.

Then he faints.

Chapter Text

Lan Xichen accidentally burns two of the alert talismans together, his fingers made careless by the rushing wave of relief and concern. Then he bends to see that Wei Wuxian is still breathing – he is. He’s shivering slightly, his robes thin summer linen; Lan Xichen never even considered asking him if he was comfortable in the cold mountain air. He fetches a blanket and drapes it over him, aware that he has been not just an inattentive host but a dangerously lax one.

He hasn’t bothered with the curse Wei Wuxian took on, has been happy to trust him to manage it rather than worrying about it when his mind was already too full of concern for Wangji. He hasn’t bothered with Wei Wuxian’s clothes, or his comfort, or his health and safety.

Wangji will be furious. He feels shameful at the brief spark of joy that thought causes – Wangji will live to be furious. It’s cause for celebration. But right now, he needs to remember he is more than Wangji’s brother.

Wei Wuxian presents a problem. He was much less of one when he arrived and could be counted on to remain discreetly hidden away in the Jingshi, off limits to nearly all clan members. Ill, requiring care, he is much more dangerous. Much more liable to be seen and identified as the Yiling Patriarch, enemy at large and monstrous demonic cultivator.

The obvious thing would be to have him treated here. But Wangji will hopefully be recovering, and Lan Xichen can’t risk his recovery being impeded by concern for Wei Wuxian. Until he’s stronger, he must stay somewhere else. Not the infirmary with its frequent traffic, and certainly not a room in the dormitories.

Which leaves very few options, other than Lan Xichen’s own free-standing home.

From outside there’s the sound of heavy footsteps running. Lan Yufei comes haring in, his medical box in hand, his face strained from the rushed trip across the Cloud Recesses. “Clan Leader?”

“Wangji woke up,” he says. “And Wei Wuxian needs help.”

He sees Lan Yufei glancing between the two men; his split-second decision favours Wangji, of course. Wangji is Gusu Lan, he is the Clan Leader’s brother, he is their most important cultivator. Wei Wuxian is a traitor dealing in the dark arts. Lan Xichen feels a throb of guilt, but doesn’t object.

Lan Yufei is checking Wangji’s temperature and pulse. He does it several times, then turns to Lan Xichen. “Clan Leader… the fever has broken. He is weak, but his heartbeat and breathing are steady. If he is carefully tended, his chances of recovery are much improved. He must have someone with him at all times; it is important that he receives regular fluids and nourishment. I will send my assistant.”

Lan Xichen nods, and the physician stands and comes over to where he’s tried to make Wei Wuxian comfortable on the floor. He frowns at the colour of his face, and kneels to check his functions. His face goes strange and he shifts his fingers on Wei Wuxian’s wrist, before looking up. His report is confident, but the strangeness remains. “His heartbeat is weaker than I like, but considering he has a deep abdominal wound it isn’t surprising. He needs rest, and food. He is malnourished and exhausted, and has lost too much blood in his weakened state. He is very vulnerable to infection or other illness.”

Lan Xichen reaches out to rest two fingers on Wei Wuxian’s wrist, intending to try to identify the curse. He closes his eyes expecting to feel the brightness of Wei Wuxian’s spiritual energy and feels – nothing. Emptiness. His eyes snap open. He looks to the doctor, who nods. “He – his golden core is…”

“Gone. Destroyed.”

“I don’t understand.” Lan Xichen looks down at Wei Wuxian’s sleeping face, the strain of injury and exhaustion still visible. “He was one of the foremost disciples of his age. He turned the tide of the war. He is the Yiling Patriarch.” He is the Yiling Patriarch. Even to him, who knew Wei Wuxian as a carefree teenager, the words have a surprising gravity. He has become known everywhere for his power, inventions, abilities, and intelligence.

The man who has become famous, envied, dreaded for his cultivation has no golden core.

“Wen Zhuliu, perhaps,” says Lan Yufei, matter-of-factly. “I understand he and Jiang Wanyin killed him.”

Lan Xichen shakes his head slowly. Does Wangji know? He can’t – he had commented on Wei Wuxian having no sword. Because, of course, he can no longer wield one. Lan Xichen feels lost, as if the earth has tipped under his feet and is no longer the same.

“Clan Leader. He needs rest and a proper bed. Food, and water. That, at least,” prompts the physician. Lan Xichen pulls himself together.

“Yes – of course. But first. He said Wangji was under a curse. That he transferred it to himself.”

Lan Yufei frowns and takes his wrist again. “I sense nothing untoward.”

“It was very small, he said. In Wangji’s heart.” He rests the tip of two fingers against Wei Wuxian’s chest and closes his eyes. Concentrates, pushing past the dead hollowness inside him. There is no tarnish, no taint of evil – whatever the demonic cultivation may require of him, it hasn’t left a stain on his body. But there, deep in his heart, Lan Xichen feels something. Small, twisting. Like a worm inside an apple, fattening itself on… what? His spiritual energy? There is almost none of that.

He opens his eyes. “Do you feel it?”

“Yes… it’s nothing I’m familiar with. I can’t tell that it’s hurting him, but it certainly must be removed. We will have to study it.”

Lan Xichen nods. “He said he thought he knew what it was doing.”

Lan Yufei raises an inquiring eyebrow. “He passed out immediately afterwards,” adds Lan Xichen. “But he did say – Wangji called him, and he didn’t hear it. He was right there, there was no reason for him not to have.”

“Interesting,” says Lan Yufei. And then: “Shall I have another bed made up here, Clan Leader?”

“No. Have him taken to my room. Discreetly.”

Lan Yufei nods. “Very discreetly,” he says.

***

Lan Xichen stays with Wangji for some time, sitting beside him holding his hand as Wei Wuxian had. It feels slightly uncomfortable. Like a trespass. Not of his feelings, but of Wangji’s. Wei Wuxian had been so confident in his closeness, had lavished tenderness on Wangji so easily. Lan Xichen envies him that.

His uncle is summoned as soon as Wei Wuxian is removed, and appears to nod down at Wangji in approval of his improved condition. As though it were Wangji’s doing and no one else’s. He tells Wangji he is pleased with his recovery, and that his fortitude is impressive. Which is kindness itself coming from Uncle, but still feels lacking. He finishes his visit by chiding Lan Xichen about his duties.

Wangji wakes once more, only for a few moments, taking a little water and frowning. “Wei Ying?” he says, looking around with unfocused eyes.

“He will return later,” says Lan Xichen. “Rest now. Rest, Wangji.”

Wangji does, folding his own hands across his chest in his usual sleeping position for the first time in days. Lan Xichen smiles down at him. He turns, making sure the physician’s attendant, a young woman who often sees to the disciples when they accrue training-related injuries, is present and attentive. Then he leaves the Jingshi.

It’s late evening now, the compound quiet once more. He ate a light dinner earlier, but he stops in the kitchen and is quickly provided with some pickle-topped rice to make up for his several missed meals. Thinking of the ridges of Wei Wuxian’s ribs pressing against his skin, he requests some broth and congee – easily-digestible foods – and takes them with him back to his quarters.

Lan Yufei has had a second bed made up at the far end of his home, in the space he usually uses for meditation. Wei Wuxian is lying down, staring at the ceiling. He’s not sleeping. His breathing is light, a little rapid; unhealthy. It appears he has been dressed in a Lan sleeping robe, the white fabric stark against his skin. He looks over as Lan Xichen enters and starts to rise.

“Please. Rest,” he says. He brings over the food.

“Lan Zhan?”

“He is resting also. He woke again, long enough to take some broth.”

Wei Wuxian sighs and drops his head down onto his pillow. His dark hair is unruly, fanned out like a sea of ink instead of carefully combed beneath him. “That’s great.”

Lan Xichen sits down at the bedside, depositing his tray and picking up a small pot with water. He pours some for Wei Wuxian and watches him drink it. “Zewu-jun, I’m not an invalid,” he says. His voice is harsh, raw from too much speaking. “I just lost a bit too much blood. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

Cultivators do heal fast, although usually due to their golden cores; it’s possible that Wei Wuxian is not overly exaggerating in this regard. But they don’t recover from starvation with one or two good meals.

“I must apologize to you, on behalf of my uncle,” he says. “Although I believe he was acting to protect Wangji, his actions were taken without the acceptance that you are a guest, and a friend of Wangji’s. In hurting you, he disgraced us all.” He raises his hands together and bows.

Wei Wuxian tilts his head. “I’m guessing you’re saying something nice about how your uncle speaks for himself and only himself, but I can’t hear it.”

Lan Xichen frowns. “Can you not hear me at all?”

“I can. Just not when you’re being kind to me. That’s the curse. No kind words, no affection, no tenderness. If I really listen, I can hear it, now that it’s here.” He taps his chest. “No one loves you. No one cares. Not a single soul. Creepy. And, for Lan Zhan, cruel. Not to cause offense, Zewu-jun, but he’s always been so alone. Not because he wants to be, but because he doesn’t know how not to be.”

Lan Xichen curls his fingers tight, his knuckles painfully tense. Wei Wuxian is correct; Wangji is… reticent, with his feelings. He doesn’t seek out comfort, and he often does not know how to react to it. Which is not to say he doesn’t need it. He does. But, Lan Xichen thinks, he so rarely expects it. He so little realises how loved he is. For the course of his fever he has believed himself to be alone, dying unloved. “How do we destroy it?” he asks, his jaw tight with anger.

Wei Wuxian shakes his head. “I don’t know yet. I intend to find out. And I hope it involves breaking the neck of whoever cast it, because I’m going to do that too.”

This must be what the Yiling Patriarch sounds like. Cold, unforgiving cruelty. The demon who lives in the Burial Mounds, threatening the whole of the cultivation world. Except that the only person he’s threatened has been the one who hurt Wangji. No evil magic, no army of fierce corpses, no vendettas backed by malice and greed. Not even a golden core to protect himself with. Only compassion. Only love.

“Wei Wuxian,” he says, softly, “I fear I misjudged you. I fear I, and many others, have done wrong by you.”

“Yeah, didn’t catch that. Let’s just assume you agree,” says Wei Wuxian. He coughs again, and Lan Xichen pours more water for him.

There is a conversation to be had here, but not now. “I will set some disciples to research this curse,” he says, instead. “When Wangji is further recovered, he may be able to shed some light. I…” a cold thought grips his heart. “How long could this curse have been present?”

Wei Wuxian looks grim. “I can’t tell. I think… it can’t have been there when he…” he stops, looking at Lan Xichen uncertainly.

“I know he visited you,” says Lan Xichen gently. “He shared it with me.”

“Okay, well. He seemed normal then, and I think I would have been able to tell.” He doesn’t expand on this, and Lan Xichen finds himself wondering just what he and Wangji talked about. What he could have said that makes him confident Wangji would have acknowledged his kindness, his affection. Wangji, who had been so unwilling to talk about their conversation. Wangji who had asked – had begged – for Wei Wuxian in his delirium. Wangji who had once spoken of bringing someone home to the Cloud Recesses.

Wangji who had walked away from his punishment for visiting an outcast looking like he would do it another time, another ten times, another hundred, without regret.

All this, Lan Xichen saw. And he realised little. And he said less. And he did nothing.

He bows his head.

“Zewu-jun?”

“Wei Wuxian.” He looks up. There are few things he can say that would be heard. “You saved Wangji’s life.”

Wei Wuxian tilts his head to the side. “I’m guessing this is a thank you?”

Lan Xichen nods. “If I may ask… why did you come?”

Slowly, propping himself up with his elbow, Wei Wuxian sits. His hair tumbles down in heavy clumps, still thick with dust from the Burial Mounds. His face is still too pale, his lips colourless, but his eyes are bright. “Because Lan Zhan is Lan Zhan. Because he’s more important than anything I have, than anything I could be. Because we’re both living in cages of our own making, but I think that maybe, he could escape his.”

“And you cannot?”

Wei Wuxian’s smile is smooth and simple and heartbreaking.

Lan Xichen lets out a rough breath. “When this curse has been dealt with, we will talk more,” he says. “For now, please eat.” He sees Wei Wuxian’s brow crinkle, so he picks up the tray and places it gently on his lap. “Eat,” he says, with more command and less concern. “I will visit Wangji once more, then return to sleep.”

Wei Wuxian frowns, looking around. “Wait – this is your room?”

“Yes, Wei Wuxian. I could not have the Yiling Patriarch put up in my clan’s guest quarters. Please stay here unless escorted by me or someone acting under my orders.” He is careful to use a tone of requirement, not request.

“I understand,” says Wei Wuxian. Lan Xichen stands and leaves.

***

Lan Guiying, the physician’s assistant, is sitting quietly beside Wangji’s bedside when he returns. She rises immediately, bowing and retreating.

“How is he?”

“He took a little more broth, Clan Leader. His sleep is undisturbed. My master visited not long ago, and was pleased with his progress.”

Lan Xichen nods, smiling. He sits down beside Wangji, touching his hand lightly. His skin is warm now – healthily so, no longer fever-hot. “Wangji? It’s me. I just came to say goodnight. Wei Wuxian is here; he is safe. As are you. Safe, and loved. I have not always been as… explicit, as I should have. With my thoughts; with my support. I will try harder, Wangji. You are not alone.”

***

He is woken from darkness by a muffled shout.

Lan Xichen sits up and lights the candle beside his bed. The sky is still black, just the first hints of pre-dawn blue at the horizon. He stands, slipping free of his warm bedding and onto the cold wooden floor, and pads across the room.

Wei Wuxian is rolling in his bed, breath tight, mouth clenched. He looks worn, the lines of his face, his throat showing heavy strain. Dark shadows are licking at his hands and wrists, thin, insubstantial as smoke.

“Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian!”

There is no answer. The shadows twine tight around him, making no move towards Lan Xichen. He bends, putting down the candle in its brass dish, and reaches out to shake him awake by the shoulder. His eyes fly open, irises burning red, gasping for breath. The sound is hoarse, desperate. The shadows twist, strengthening.

“Wei Wuxian. You’re alright. It was a nightmare.” He tightens his grip.

Wei Wuxian turns to stare at him, the red light dying in his eyes, replaced by black. The shadows fade to nothing, gone as though they never were. “What – Zewu-jun?” He sits up and looks around, the room black save for the flickering circle of candlelight. He stares for a moment, breathing hard, eyes darting back and forth warily. Then he seems to remember where he is. “Shit. Sorry. I’m sorry. I woke you.”

“Please. It’s no matter.”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth quirks. “I’ll take that as a kindly rebuttal,” he says. Lan Xichen nods. “I guess I’m just prone to nightmares. When I was little, it was dogs. Now…” he shrugs and his eyes – black, normal – drop.

Lan Xichen finds himself wondering what could give the Yiling Patriarch nightmares. Which, he realises almost immediately, is a foolish question. No. A cruel question. What little he knows – knows, not has heard as third-hand gossip – is more than enough to fuel any man’s terror. And Wei Wuxian, he has seen, is most definitely a man. Not a monster, not a demon. A man of flesh and blood and heart.

“Are you alright?”

Wei Wuxian makes no sign of having heard him. Of course.

“Will you sleep now?” he asks, instead. In the flickering candlelight, Wei Wuxian shrugs.

“Maybe. I hope so. You should go back to sleep, Zewu-jun. I’m sorry for waking you.”

With the shadows close all around them and his face half in shifting swathes of darkness that bend and lick with the flame as though it were living, breathing, wrapped around Wei Wuxian, Lan Xichen feels a sudden pull of vulnerability from him. Feels suddenly afraid to lose him to the darkness, which is silly, except. Except that Lan Xichen has now seen more than a few hints that Wei Wuxian is close to the edge of disaster. Very close.  

Wangji is an anchor to him, he thinks. He said so himself. Someone Wei Wuxian cares for above all others.

“Wei Wuxian… Wangji…” he sees Wei Wuxian’s head pop up, eyes sharp, but realises he doesn’t know how to frame his words in a way that isn’t kindly, isn’t compassionate. “Wangji is very precious to me. I want you to know…” I want you to know that what’s important to him is important to me.

Wei Wuxian’s face freezes, for an instant stiff, unnatural. Then it loosens into a carefree smile, all flashing teeth and falseness. “I understand, Zewu-jun. I won’t do anything to get him into trouble. As soon as I’m better I’ll slip away, and no one will even know I was here.”

Lan Xichen takes his arm, and shakes his head. “No. You misunderstand. What Wangji supports, I will support.”

The smile slowly disappears, replaced by something harder. Grittier. His breathing is harsh, his voice raw. “Will you? Have you?” His hands – long-boned, with a healing cut over his fingers – tighten on the edge of his blanket. His back is straight, now, no more of the softness he showed Wangji. “Because I’ve seen Lan Zhan break his heart for his clan, I’ve seen him trying to straddle the divide between what is right, and what you’ll support. I’ve seen it tear him apart. Where have you been, Zewu-jun, while your brother is forced to choose between the vows he made to his clan, and the vows he made to himself?” His voice is like a whip; mercilessly cutting. “Your clan believes in ideals, in harmony through relentless, rigid definition. And when those definitions come up against someone’s real, beating heart? They run it right over, crushed by the weight of 3,000 laws. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me your laws have brought happiness.”

It's an argument he’s heard before, of course. Not so eloquently, or with such experience or such passion. Most of the foreign disciples who come here for education question the laws at some time or another; the answers are rote. The laws bring harmony through uniformity, peace through clarity. He’s spoken the words many times, to many people. To Wangji even, when he was young. When their mother was still alive.

Tonight, in the face of Wangji’s near death and Wei Wuxian’s sacrifices to come here, they die on his tongue.

“What they have brought,” he says slowly, “is stability. Time for our clan to establish its strength in scholarship and stewardship of knowledge. Time for us to find ourselves, and our place in this world. I value them for that. But they have also forced poor choices. Cruel choices. I admit that.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to decide,” says Wei Wuxian. “Between who you’ve been, and who you want to be. Because I don’t think you can have both.”

For just an instant, Lan Xichen thinks he sees a flicker of red in Wei Wuxian’s eyes. The candle goes out. For the first time, Lan Xichen feels a beat of fear. But then:

“Good night, Zewu-jun,” says Wei Wuxian, blanket shifting as he lies down.

Lan Xichen picks up the snuffed-out candle, stands, and walks slowly back to his bed.

He does not go to sleep.

***

Lan Xichen rises early, as always. There is already a breakfast tray waiting for him in the entryway to his quarters with a warming talisman; he brings it over for Wei Wuxian, who is sleeping heavily. He can find his own food.

Rather than going to visit Wangji, he heads for the communal dining hall, where most cultivators and disciples will be gathered eating their morning meal. He picks out some of the more studious ones – the more discreet ones – and assigns them the task of researching the curse. They finish their meals quickly and file out to the library. Lan Xichen has some rice and tea while listening carefully to the low murmur of conversation as men and women come and go. No rumour of a guest, no stories of the Yiling Patriarch. Lan Lixin sees him and inquires after Wangji; Lan Xichen tells him his condition appears to be improving. He feels the room lighten; a dozen cultivators who should not be listening are not doing a very good job of pretending not to have heard. He does not mind.

A little after sunrise – late, now, that autumn is beginning to turn to winter – he slips into the Jingshi. Lan Guiying is still there, quietly reading a book at Wangji’s bedside. She rises to greet him. “Hanguang-jun slept through the night, Clan Leader. He woke early and drank nearly a whole bowl of broth.” Her smile is bright.

He settles in by Wangji’s side. He is sleeping, but his breathing is deep, regular, and his colour is much improved. He looks like a different person from the pale shade he had been yesterday morning.

Lan Xichen can’t help his thoughts returning to Wei Wuxian’s impassioned speech the night before. Despite his accusations, it had been in fact restrained. He had laid the blame for Wangji’s hurt at the feet of Gusu mountain, its face carved with their laws. Not, as he easily might have done, at Lan Xichen’s feet.

He wonders what, specifically, Wei Wuxian was referring to. He wonders how he could ever convince Wangji to tell him.

On the bed, Wangji’s breathing eases. His eyes slip open. Tired but focused, they look up at Lan Xichen.

“Wangji.” He smiles and presses his brother’s hand.

“Brother.” He blinks, waking gradually. “I… what happened?”

“You were ill. The fever has passed; you’re recovering now. Take it easy.”

Wangji’s eyes fall from his to look over his shoulder, then past him. His face falls. He says nothing, his disappointment silent.

“Wangji?”

His brother shakes his head, expression smoothing to one of serene indifference. An emotionless mask, hiding what? “Nothing. A dream.”

“If you’re looking for Wei Wuxian, he’s resting. He sat up with you for over a day.”

Wangji’s eyes flash back to him, bright, startled. “Wei Ying is here? How?”

“He came at my request. You… it was clear you would rest easier, if he were here.”

Wangji seems to think about this for a few moments. His breathing slows, sleep creeping up on him. “You asked, and he came?” he says eventually, as if trying to fit these facts into an order that makes sense.

“Yes, Wangji.”

Wangji’s eyes close, his indifference giving way at the corner to a small stretch of his mouth: disappointment, maybe, or sorrow. “He never does what I ask,” he breathes. Lan Xichen blinks, taken aback, but Wangji’s already asleep.

Lying in his bed this morning as the sky lightened outside, Lan Xichen had started planning. Building castles in the sky, perfect solutions to his brother’s problems, to Wei Wuxian’s problems, to his own clan’s mistakes. They had been pretty and purposeful and perfect, unworried by the messiness of human emotions.

Forgetting to consider human emotions – in fact, choosing not to consider them – is what has gotten them here, though. And Wangji has just reminded him that nothing about what lies ahead will be straightforward.

Still, he stands and stretches, and thanks Lan Guiying for her diligence. Then, walking out, he heads down the path that leads to Caiyi. He wants to speak to the village head.

***

Lan Xichen returns after the noon hour, feeling cautiously optimistic, a large package under his arm. He stops in to see Wangji first, and finds him sleeping having woken several times to take water and some congee. He eats his meal in the meal hall, then picks up some papers at his office and takes them with him to his quarters.

Wei Wuxian is sitting up in his bed, reading a book. His hair is sleek and damp, newly washed. He’s still wearing the white sleeping robe, and while he had of course once worn white in the Cloud Recesses before now it looks wrong. Like a prison, rather than an honour.

He looks up as Lan Xichen steps in, closing the book. “Lan Zhan?” he asks, immediately.

“He is doing well. Waking regularly, and eating. The physician is pleased,” reports Lan Xichen, coming over. He sees the book is from the library, a high-level text on curses. He wonders who fetched it for him; probably Lan Yufei. “I have told him you are here. He needs much more rest, but when you are further recovered I’m sure he would be – that is, you may visit,” he amends, carefully rephrasing.

Wei Wuxian picks up on the sentiment regardless; his pleasure is flame-bright, evident, infectious.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I can go now – today.”

“You may go when Lan Yufei agrees you may,” replies Lan Xichen, and is met with a dissatisfied curl of the mouth, the kind more common to children than grown men. “I have been too cavalier with your health, Wei Wuxian. From now, I let myself be guided by my physician.”

Wei Wuxian looks mildly mutinous, but he doesn’t object. “However,” says Lan Xichen, setting down his parcel wrapped in cheap cloth. “I have brought you this. In recompense for the clothes that were ruined.”

Wei Wuxian unfolds a corner of the bundle, enough to show the wealth of rich black and red silk within. He runs a thumb over it, taken aback, then looks up. The shock – the disbelief – in his face is painful. The Yiling Patriarch has likely received plenty of insults, and very few gifts. “I – this is too much, Zewu-jun. My robes were worth nothing. I can’t accept this.”

“I cannot tell you what I would wish to,” says Lan Xichen. “So you must accept that I have my reasons. Wangji… Wangji should see you looking well.”

In his hands, the silk gleams like onyx. Wei Wuxian bows his head overtop it. “Zewu-jun is generous,” he murmurs. Lan Xichen can hear the faint tinge of sarcasm there. Zewu-jun is kind to cover up his uncle’s mistake, perhaps, or Zewu-jun is understandable in not presenting the Yiling Patriarch in his own colours. If this is what Wei Wuxian is thinking, well, he is justified.

In fact, all Lan Xichen wants is for Wangji to see Wei Wuxian looking well cared for and healthy. But he can hardly tell him that, clearly implying he has been unable to care for himself. And even if he could, Wei Wuxian would not hear it. So he simply gives a tight-lipped smile, and stands.

“I will have a meal brought for you,” he says, careful to keep his words and tone factual. “I will be working here this afternoon, if there is anything you require.”

Wei Wuxian glances up and nods.

***

Lan Xichen spends the afternoon working – properly working, not struggling with half his attention to understand the questions and decisions presented to him and reply appropriately, as he has been for the past several days. Every hour or so he gets up and walks over to the Jingshi to check on Wangji. Mostly he sleeps; occasionally he wakes long enough for a short conversation.

Conversations which are almost entirely about Wei Wuxian.

“He is truly here?” asks Wangji, after drinking barley tea and eating some tofu. Lan Guiying has provided a variety of small, sustaining dishes for him to eat when he wakes; currently she has retreated politely to the back of the Jingshi to give them their privacy.

“Yes, Wangji. I promise, you may see him soon.”

“Why does he not come now?” his tone might in other circumstances be petulant, but Lan Xichen recognizes it for what it is: fear, distrust. Wangji does not believe that Wei Wuxian is here.

“He is resting. I insisted – as a guest, his welfare is my responsibility.”

Wangji turns away, towards the ceiling. “Wei Ying is guided by his heart alone.”

“He is very stubborn,” agrees Lan Xichen. “Like others I could name. Wangji, please. Believe me; I will bring him soon.”

“I do not need to be humoured, Brother,” says Wangji, then closes his eyes. Lan Xichen sighs.

***

Lan Yufei is in his quarters when he next returns, examining Wei Wuxian. “- admit, the recovery is surprising,” he is saying.

“I told you,” says Wei Wuxian, “I heal fast. I’ll be fine in a couple of days.”

“Your wound may be fine. Your overall condition is a concern.”

Wei Wuxian takes the edges of his sleeping robe and bundles it closed. “That’s not your problem. You’re the Lan doctor, fixing the Lan problem, which is Lan Zhan’s uncle stabbing me. End of story.”

Lan Yufei gives him a very dry look. “Master Wei, I’m not sure whether you take me for incompetent or merely lazy, but I assure you my duty does not begin and end with injuries conferred by my clan. It begins and ends with your health as a whole.”

“Fine. You can worry about that for as long as I’m here. Feed me your tasteless broths and your goopy stews. But as soon as I see Lan Zhan, I’m leaving. I’ve been away too long already.”

Lan Yufei frowns. Lan Xichen walks over, both men turning to him. He looks at the physician. “Wangji wants to see Wei Wuxian. When may he visit?” He tries, very calmly, to project the fact that this is important. My brother doubts my word, he does not say. Nor, I have never seen him want something as much as this.

Lan Yufei gives him an unimpressed look. “Both of these men need rest. Not before tomorrow, at the very earliest.”

Wei Wuxian immediately begins to protest, and the doctor turns on him. “If you cannot think of yourself, think of Lan Wangji. He has just begun to recover from a life-threatening illness, and your presence can hardly be described as restful. He needs peace and calm. Restrain yourself.”

Wei Wuxian opens his mouth, then closes it. Finally he gives a little bob of his head, his body twisting in surrender. “Do you know Wen Qing? I think you two might be distant relatives. Or maybe soul mates. Angry, judgemental doctor soul mates.”

“Have you considered that you are the common factor?” replies Lan Yufei.

“This is why I don’t like coming here,” says Wei Wuxian. “See if I come back.” He turns away, tying up his robe in wide, overdone gestures.

“Wangji will be pleased to see you,” says Lan Xichen, with some idea of being conciliatory.

Wei Wuxian, of course, does not hear him.

Chapter Text

Lan Xichen is fairly certain that Wei Wuxian is actually feeling better, because he becomes increasingly restless and vocal about his complaints as the evening wears on. Naturally, he hears almost nothing that Lan Xichen says to try to appease him. Which would be taxing, except that every now and then he lets his guard down and Lan Xichen sees right through to the heart of his anxiety: fear for Wangji, and fear for the Wens.

Wei Wuxian’s complaints, for the most part, border on nonsense. They certainly have none of the targeted criticism of his late-night attack on the Gusu Lan philosophy.

“What if Lan Yufei wants to keep me here until I’m round enough to roll down the hill? Who will grow brothers and sisters for A-Yuan then? I don’t see him taking responsibility. He’s probably never grown anything in his life. I hope his radishes die.”

Or,

“I told Wen Qing I’d be back in four days at the very most, and she looked me stone-cold in the eye and told me if I wasn’t back in three she would personally pour out every last jar of alcohol in the Burial Mounds. Will Zewu-jun give me new alcohol? Of course not – it’s not allowed. So I’m already cursed to a life of sobriety and I can’t even drink in preparation.”

Or,

“The lotus greens are starting to come up and A-Yuan is hungry for seedling slaughter. Who’s going to stop him murdering all my flowers? Wen Ning? Wen Ning would bring him a trowel to help him, if A-Yuan asked. Wen Ning is a complete push-over. Wen Ning is spineless. Wen Ning once sold all the turnips and bought a spade instead of fireworks because Wen Qing told him to.”

The longer he complains the hoarser he grows, his throat drying out again. Lan Xichen pours him water and brings it to him, giving him a firm look. Wei Wuxian quiets down for a while, then starts muttering. His fingers work over the fringe of his blankets, restless, relentless. He is a bundle of nerves, his energy dark, snapping. Occasionally tiny whisps of smoke gather at his wrists, his throat, before blowing away into nothingness. His struggles with stability are apparent, his control over himself waxing and waning unpredictably.

Lan Xichen has seen Wangji reach out to him, in times like these. Has seen his brother’s influence calm Wei Wuxian, when nothing else could. It’s somehow very fitting. Wangji gifts Wei Wuxian with restraint, and Wei Wuxian gifts him with exuberance.

Lan Xichen’s presence does not have the same effect. But when he presents water, or some honey jelly or a hard candy to suck, Wei Wuxian stills. For a while.

***

There is no nightmare this night, nothing to wake Lan Xichen before his habitual early hour, the sky a soft pink in the east. He rises and combs his hair, cleans his face and dresses. Wei Wuxian is sleeping – finally, thankfully, after a long night of restlessness – so he slips out to the meal hall to eat again. The hall is ordered, calm. Still no worrying rumours. Lan Yufei and his assistant are keeping their peace admirably.

He brings back breakfast for Wei Wuxian, and although he’s still sleeping when Lan Xichen enters he wakes up when the tray is put down beside him. He sits up right away, his body quicker, stronger. His colour has returned to normal, the alarming paleness just a memory. “Can we go?” he asks.

“Eat,” says Lan Xichen. “I will speak to the physician.”

Wei Wuxian makes a face, but scoops up the bowl of congee. Lan Xichen picks up a talisman and lights it.

Lan Yufei is not long in coming. He looks irritable when he appears with his medicine box and a dark cloth bundle under his arm, lines already forming on his forehead. “I’ve just come from Hanguang-jun,” he reports. “He is not pleased with me. Or you, Clan Leader. He demands Wei Wuxian be produced, or that we conduct ourselves in a manner befitting the clan.”

“Meaning what?” asks Wei Wuxian, already pulling open his robe so the physician can check him.

“No lying,” says Lan Xichen, softly.

“What?”

“Wangji is not convinced you are here,” he says. “In fact… he is quite convinced you aren’t.”

Wei Wuxian stares up at him, face tightening. “And you just… kept me here?”

Lan Yufei pulls at his bandage with more force then necessary, and he winces. “One full day of rest is not a hardship,” he says flatly, baring the wound and examining it, with his eyes, his hand, his nose. Carefully checking for any hint of infection.

For the first time, Lan Xichen notices a scar along the low flatness of Wei Wuxian’s belly. Neither old nor new, it is very clean. Surgical. Just below the navel, where golden cores sit nestled in the heart of a body’s qi.

Not Wen Zhuliu, then. Lan Xichen wonders what it means, and if he will ever know.

Lan Yufei is focused on the sword wound. “Your recovery is satisfactory. Which is not to say that you are healed. You are not; the wound is still closing. But. You may visit Hanguang-jun, so long as you keep your time walking or standing to a minimum and are thoughtful of his limitations.”

Wei Wuxian stands immediately, before Lan Yufei has even finished re-wrapping the bandage. “Okay, great, let’s go.”

“Wei Wuxian,” says Lan Xichen, looking at him with slightly raised eyebrows. “You cannot see my brother in your sleeping robe.”

A guilty smile races across his face. “Ah. Aha. Yes, right. Just – just give me a minute.”

Lan Xichen takes the physician to the side to hear his update on Wangji – much improved, eating regularly, golden core rapidly achieving balance and taking care of his remaining weakness – while Wei Wuxian hurriedly dons the clothes Lan Xichen procured from Caiyi.

The man who emerges from behind the screen partition is striking. The red under-robe is flattering to his skin tone, bringing out warmth and health. The several layers of ink black are sharply cut, broadening his shoulders and emphasizing his slim waist. The clothes speak to wealth, power, influence. At first glance, he looks very different from the man in faded, dirty linen that Lan Xichen picked up in the Burial Mounds.

But his face is no different – high cheekbones; intelligent, expressive eyes and a mouth that’s quick to show joy or anger. Wei Wuxian’s personality is irrepressible; he doesn’t need clothes to speak for him. It shines through, undiminished. “Alright. Can we go? Let’s go.”

He’s already at the door before Lan Yufei says, “Wait.”

Wei Wuxian turns, twitching with impatience. Lan Yufei lifts something dark and heavy from the floor by his medicine case. “Remember yourself, please. Remember where you are.”

It’s a heavy cloak with a broad hood. Wei Wuxian takes it and nods, chastised. He pulls it over his shoulders and raises the hood, cloaking his hair and face in shadows.

“This way,” says Lan Xichen, and leads him forward along the most secluded route possible.

***

Inside the Jingshi, Lan Guiying sees them coming and rises, bowing and retreating. Lan Xichen motions to her to go, and she slips out the door. Wangji is awake, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. Conserving energy; recovering.

“Wangji,” he says, softly. “I brought him.”

Wangji turns. Lan Xichen steps aside, and Wei Wuxian comes into the room, still shrouded in the heavy cloak, his face nothing more than a pale jaw and kind mouth. Wangji frowns. Then, as Wei Wuxian reaches up and pushes the hood back, he sits up. His face falls slack with shock.

Wei Wuxian darts forward, calling his name, laughing, and dives down in front of him to grab him tightly by both shoulders. “Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, you’re awake – you’re okay – you look good – I knew you’d be okay –” he leans forward and hugs him.

Lan Xichen watches as, his chin resting on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, Wangji smiles. His eyes are so soft, soft as Lan Xichen has never seen them. He reaches up and actually touches Wei Wuxian, his hand on his shoulder as if to feel the strength of it. Wangji, who he’s never seen touch anyone in affection. “Wei Ying. Wei Ying. You are here. How are you here?”

Wei Wuxian sits back, straightening with a stiffness that Lan Xichen recognizes as unnatural for him; Wangji doesn’t notice it. “Zewu-jun brought me. All the way from Yiling. I – he was pretty worried about you. I wasn’t, though. Lan-er-gege is the strongest of all his clan,” he says, his voice full of laughter and brightness. Lan Xichen isn’t sure he can ever think of a time that such a voice has been heard here, in this house of shadows and sorrow. Wangji seems to lean into it, like a flower towards the sun.

“You came here,” says Wangji again, his voice still quiet. Disbelieving. “For me.”

“Who else should I have come for? Your uncle? Your brother? No offense to Zewu-jun, but Lan Zhan is much funnier. I appreciate people who can make me smile.”

Wangji’s mouth twitches. “Shameless,” he mutters, but his tone is… teasing? Lan Xichen stares, amazed. His brother’s eyes fall to take in Wei Wuxian’s figure, the sheen of silk and his upright posture. “Wei Ying is alright? My brother said…”

There’s a pause. “Ah – Lan Zhan – did your brother tell you… there’s this thing…”

Lan Xichen steps forward, sees Wangji’s eyes flicker to him, suddenly concerned. The transition to fear is instant, his gaze sharp. Lan Xichen opens his mouth to explain, and there’s a knock at the door. “Clan Leader?”

It’s one of the disciples he assigned to the library.

Wei Wuxian turns. Seeing Lan Xichen’s sharp look, he pushes himself to his feet and slips off to lurk behind a cassia-wood partition. “Yes?” calls Lan Xichen, once he’s out of sight.

The disciple, a young woman named Lan Susu who is among the most studious of her year, comes in with a folded paper in her hand. “Clan Leader, I believe we may have identified the curse.”

“Curse?” says Wangji, his tone quiet. Dark.

She glances at him, uncertain. “Please, continue,” says Lan Xichen. She bows slightly.

“It is an old curse, and an uncommon one. The colloquial name is Love-Me-Not. It’s rare because the circumstances in which it can have a significant impact are uncommon. It prevents the victim from hearing any words of kindness or compassion. Its footprint is tiny, making it difficult to detect. This allows it often to pass unnoticed for some time.”

Lan Xichen nods. “How can it be dispelled?”

“The texts were not exact,” says Lan Susu, dropping her eyes. Faint circles of colour come into her cheeks. “The lore reads that the curse may be shrivelled by an act of sufficiently strong affection.”

Lan Xichen thinks he hears something like coughing from behind the partition. He keeps his focus on his disciple. “Meaning?”

“It didn’t say, Clan Leader,” she replies miserably. “We’re continuing to search, of course.”

“Of course,” he echoes. “Thank you, Susu. You may go.”

She presents him with the paper, presumably her notes, and bows herself out.

“What does this mean?” demands Wangji, as soon as she’s gone. Wei Wuxian slinks out from behind the partition, his smile guilty.

“Lan Zhan, don’t worry about it. It’s just a little thing. Nothing major.”

Wangji gives him a narrow look. He smiles winningly, which cuts no ice. “It’s just. You were kind of. Cursed. And then you caught a fever, and it got worse, and the curse kept you from knowing that you were safe. That we were here.”

“I am not under a curse,” says Wangji.

“No,” agrees Wei Wuxian, shiftily. “Not anymore.”

“You dispelled the curse?”

“Um. No. It’s – it’s still here. Here.” He taps his chest.

“Wei Ying.” He makes to get up, and Wei Wuxian and Lan Xichen both step forward. Wei Wuxian gets there first, dropping to his knees beside the bed.

“Lan Zhan, please. Lan Yufei will tan my hide if you catch a chill. Rest. I’m fine, I promise. You heard the girl – all the curse does is stop me from hearing people be nice to me. Wen Qing would probably kill to learn it – she says my head’s too big as it is.”

Wangji reaches out for his wrist. Wei Wuxian pulls back, silk whispering as he shrinks away. Wangji’s eyes catch his, his look confused. Hurt. Wei Wuxian laughs awkwardly. “Really, no need to worry. I – uh – I can write to…” his voice peters out. Awkwardness settles over them, thick in the air.

The Yiling Patriarch is the enemy of all the clans. Including his own. He cannot reach out for help to Jiang Wanyin or Jiang Yanli. He can expect no help from anyone.

“I’ll figure it out,” he says, softly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin the moment. Lan Zhan – you’re recovering. That’s great. Really. I’m glad. But I have to go; I’ve been gone too long.”

Wangji looks at him blankly. “Go?”

He nods. “Back. To the Burial Mounds.”

“Wei Ying. Stay.”

“Uh – I didn’t hear that, but –”

Wangji reaches out and catches his sleeve. Holds it firmly. “Stay,” he says. “You have been cursed, and –” he tries again to slip his hand down, to feel Wei Wuxian’s pulse point, his energy.

Wei Wuxian pulls his hand away, standing. “Ah, Lan Zhan. Please. This is the most insignificant thing that’s happened to me all year. Really. It’s been –” he swallows audibly, “good, so good, to see you. But I do have to go.”

Wangji’s face is hard, his eyes flinty. “Wei Ying is hiding something,” he says. “What? Why did you not come, yesterday? A whole day, to recover from a night awake? Ridiculous.”

“Lan Zhan, you know me, burning the candle at both ends. It’s nothing – I’m fine.” He spreads his arms in demonstration.

“Then prove it. Allow me to investigate the curse.”

Wei Wuxian crosses his arms. “Lan Zhan, you’re still recovering. You can’t be trying to hunt down dumb curses that hide like sad little worms. Trust me, I –”

“You could come here when my brother asked,” says Wangji, his voice deceptively cold. “You could stay away, because Lan Yufei told you to. Why can you never do what I ask? What do you hide from me?”

Lan Xichen hears, solely in his own mind, the sound of something breaking. Wei Wuxian is breathing heavily; he’s been standing almost the whole time he has been here.

“I – the things I did, I did for you, Lan Zhan. But this…” he draws away, his wrist hidden against himself. He seems to grow distant; cold. Lan Xichen feels the shift in his mood, like a cloud passing over the sun. “This is my concern.”

Lan Xichen feels suddenly prescient. Wei Wuxian will keep his secrets. He will go back to the Burial Mounds alone, empty. He will lead a life of hardness and starvation. And he will die there.

“Tell him,” he says, suddenly, breaking into the conversation. “Wei Wuxian. You have been stubborn long enough. You have stood alone long enough.”

Wei Wuxian turns, and Lan Xichen has to fight not to step back. His eyes shine wildly, his mouth a sharp slash. There is fury there, unconstrained, uncontrolled. And there is outrage, just as bright, bright as a falling star. “You make it sound like a choice,” he snarls. “You make it sound like I could ask and the clans would welcome me back. Where were they when I asked for clemency for the innocent? Where were you when I asked? If you tell what you know – what you have no right to know – they will kill me. They will kill us all.”

One moment he is there, ablaze with wrath. Then he’s gone, running, out the door and up the path. Wangji hauls his legs over the side of the bed, his face contracted with confusion and fear.

Lan Xichen turns to him. “Wangji. I will bring him back. You will stay here.” He leaves no room for disagreement. Then he’s running too, scooping up the black cloak and emerging into the bright autumn morning.

Morning is the busiest time in the Cloud Recesses, disciples hurrying to lessons, servants raking or sweeping, cultivators travelling to assignments or discussing plans for the day. The courtyard is busy with figures in white robes, and as Lan Xichen reaches the courtyard he dreads the sight that may greet him – horrified crowds, a figure in black fleeing, or perhaps even challenging them.

But there is none of that. Wei Wuxian has not headed for the main courtyard. Which leaves very few options. Lan Xichen’s first thought is that he may have decided to seek safety and solitude in Lan Xichen’s quarters, and he turns that way taking the back paths that wind between buildings and trees. But there is no sign of him here, either, no dark figure up ahead, and Lan Xichen stops before he gets all the way to his home.

Wei Wuxian is not the type of man to retreat, to sneak into a hole and hide. He hasn’t gone to the safety of Lan Xichen’s quarters. He’s gone exactly where he said he would. Back to the Burial Mounds.

Without a sword, without a golden core, his only choice is to go on foot. Lan Xichen cuts back across the stone-paved trails and to the stairs that lead down the mountain. He takes them three at a time, running down the long stone stairway towards the main gate. He is vaguely conscious of a weight on his shoulders, no running in the Cloud Recesses. He ignores it.

He finds Wei Wuxian halfway down the slope, leaning against a tall pine. His body is hunched, arms wrapped around his stomach. He’s breathing hard, shuddering. He looks up as Lan Xichen approaches, eyes dark, so dark, like an animal’s.

“Wei Wuxian. You are hurt. You need rest. Come with me.”

Wei Wuxian stares at him, no sign of understanding in his face. Lan Xichen holds out his hand – his eyes flicker down to it, then back up.

“I’ve been gone too long,” he says.

Lan Xichen takes a step closer, his hand still extended.

“I have to go back. There’s nothing else, for them or for me.”

Another step, Wei Wuxian pulling back against the tree.

“They’ll die without me. I won’t let that happen. I won’t.” He doesn’t sound certain; he sounds exhausted.

“Wei Wuxian,” says Lan Xichen, flatly. “They will die with you, too. You cannot continue as you have.”

Wei Wuxian stares at him, sucking in breath after breath, unmoving. Lan Xichen can see his pulse throbbing in the hollow of his neck, can see sweat beading along his hairline. Can see how thin his skin is, pulled taut over bone.

From the top of the stairs comes the sound of voices, of footsteps. Lan Xichen looks up; a group of disciples is descending.

When he looks back to Wei Wuxian, his head has rolled back against the tree, his eyes closed. Lan Xichen steps forward and spreads the cloak around him, pulls the hood up. “You will stay,” he says. Wei Wuxian’s eyes flicker open; he stares up, silent, mistrustful but without recourse. At the edge of his strength.

Lan Xichen picks him up bodily, and he grunts. “Wait – I –”

Lan Xichen ignores this, simply carries him back up the stairs. The disciples stare as he passes. “A personal situation,” he says to them. “Be discrete.”

They chorus their agreement and he keeps going.

By the time he’s reached the courtyard his body is tiring from the steep climb. Wei Wuxian may be on the verge of starvation but he’s still a full-grown man, and Lan Xichen has not been as active as he should. He cannot bring him all the way back to his quarters, on the other side of the Cloud Recesses, on foot.

So he takes him the only place he can; the Jingshi.

***

Wangji is waiting for them. He remained in bed, as ordered, but he is sitting on the edge and Lan Xichen suspects he was on the verge of leaving when he returns, Wei Wuxian worryingly quiet in his arms.

Wangji shifts hurriedly, making room on his own bed for Lan Xichen to lay Wei Wuxian down. Wei Wuxian who is awake but breathing hard, his face having lost some colour, his skin waxen. Wangji watches, silent and upset, as Lan Xichen lights a talisman, then begins unwrapping the wide black sash cinching Wei Wuxian’s robes.

Layers of black silk fold aside, revealing the red underrobe to be stained, sticky over his abdomen. Wangji makes a low noise in the back of his throat. Wei Wuxian is watching him, his head resting on the bed, his body weak. “Don’t look so worried, Lan Zhan. It’s just a little cut. I’ll heal up fine; I always do.”

“How did this happen?”

“It’s not really important.”

Wangji puts a hand on his upper arm, squeezes. “How.” It’s not a threat, although it sounds like one. It is, Lan Xichen thinks, a plea. Why can you never do what I ask? Wei Wuxian lets out a breathy sound. “Your uncle and I had a misunderstanding,” he says, his tone light.

“My uncle did this?” Wangji’s voice is low. Quiet. Lost. He looks to Lan Xichen for confirmation; Lan Xichen inclines his head.

“It doesn’t matter, Lan Zhan. It was a mistake. He thought… it doesn’t matter. He was wrong, but I understand. I’m… my reputation is well-known.” He grins, his lips tight, pained. “He was worried for you. In thrall to the Yiling Patriarch.” His laugh makes no one smile.

Lan Xichen folds back the red silk, exposing Wei Wuxian’s skin, the red blood staining it, the white bandage already scarlet. And, below, the smooth line of a scar. Lan Xichen wonders if his brother will notice.

Lan Yufei arrives then, bustling in; his industriousness shifts quickly to irritation. “What’s this – you were told not to over-exert yourself. The wound was only just closing.” He hurries forward, shuffling Lan Xichen to the side, and begins to unwrap the soaked bandage with a tight mouth.

Wangji is frowning at the wound. “Why should this be a secret from my brother?” he asks, and Lan Xichen sees Wei Wuxian’s eyes flicker. “Why should such a wound risk your settlement? Wei Ying is strong; he recovers quickly, even when he behaves foolishly.”

“Lan Zhan – it’s –”

Will he see? Wonders Lan Xichen. Will he notice?

But this is Wangji. Wangji who is observant to a fault. Wangji, who clearly knows Wei Wuxian inside and out. His fingertips are already trailing down, through blood, across naked skin. Over a long, raised scar above Wei Wuxian’s empty core.

Wei Wuxian’s body jolts. Then, instead of joking, or protesting, or distracting, he turns his head away silently. Lan Xichen sees it for what it is: surrender.

Wangji frowns, his fingers pressing gently against the old wound.

A moment later his body stiffens and his eyes flash to Wei Wuxian.

Wei Wuxian, who is crying. Not volubly, not with sobs and sniffs. There are simply tears trickling from the corners of his eyes, his cheeks and nose pinkening.

Lan Xichen feels a very strong urge to leave, to give him his privacy, his peace. But Wangji is recuperating and Wei Wuxian is both a threat and a vulnerability, and Lan Yufei has attention for nothing more than the stomach wound. So he stays, silent, unmoving.

“Wei Ying,” whispers Wangji, his voice choked. “What happened? Why did you not tell me?”

Wei Wuxian makes no sign of having heard.

“Wei Ying – who did this to you? How long…” His brother’s voice fades, and Lan Xichen knows he is doing the calculation himself. Tracing back to the point at which Wei Wuxian gave up his sword for the flute. Almost two years ago, before the end of the Sunshot Campaign. “Wei Ying.” He is quiet, appalled. Grieved. Wei Wuxian doesn’t move, facing the other way still.

Wangji reaches out and catches his cheeks, turns his head gently. Wei Wuxian stares up at him, eyes wide, reddened. Scared. “I would have stayed,” says Wangji. “Wei Ying. I would have done more – I would have done anything.”

Wei Wuxian just stares, unsure, confused. His tears wet Wangji’s fingers, but Wangji doesn’t move, his breathing deep as a man desperate for air. “You give and you give and you give and all you let them see is that you take. You let them doubt you. You let me doubt you.” He closes his eyes momentarily, his lips softening. “No. It was my failure. My lack of trust. Wei Ying… let me help you.”

“Wangji,” says Lan Xichen, quietly. “He can’t hear you.”

Wangji looks down at Wei Wuxian, silent, suffering.

Without any appearance of thought or hesitation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he leans down and presses a kiss to his lips. There’s no appearance of calculation, of action constrained by the desire to break the curse. Wangji simply seems to have decided to express what he couldn’t say.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes snap open wide, staring. Then his lashes flicker, and he calms. Astounded, but accepting.

Lan Xichen feels his heart leap in his chest, shocked and awed at his brother’s audacity – his brother’s love. Wei Wuxian is still for a moment, then his body shivers.

Wangji rises, looking serene except for a pinkening of his ears where they show between his dark tresses.

“Um,” says Wei Wuxian, his voice catching. “It – I think – the curse is gone. You…”

“I will come with you,” says Wangji, placidly. Wei Wuxian blinks.

“What?”

“When you return. To the Burial Mounds. I will come with you.”

Wei Wuxian makes a very inelegant noise, something between a sob and a sniff. He pulls his sleeve across his face, scrubbing away his tears. “Lan Zhan. You can’t.” He tries to sit up, and Lan Yufei pushes him down with his elbow. Wei Wuxian doesn’t even look at him, just stares up at Wangji. “You belong here, with your family and your clan and –”

“You left your family, and your clan. You gave up everything to do the right thing. I held back out of fear to confront an orthodoxy I doubted, and that is repulsive; it is shameful. Wei Ying shames me with his bravery.”

Wei Wuxian’s face crumples. “Lan Zhan, no. Never. You’ve never done anything deserving shame – mine, or anyone’s.”

“You gave me the choice of coming with you. I made the wrong one. Even after seeing your home, the people living there, A-Yuan…” He gives a small shake of his head. “I will not abandon you again.”

“Lan Zhan… I didn’t tell you about my – this – because I didn’t want you to do something crazy, something foolish. I know what I’m doing, I’ve got it handled. I know you’re surprised, and worried. But one of us is enough. I don’t want – you can’t throw your life away for this.” His voice is very small.

Wangji gives him a look that is entirely familiar to Lan Xichen: unrelenting stubbornness. “Wei Ying may throw away his life, but I may not?”

Wei Wuxian opens his mouth, then closes it again. His lips thin and he shakes his head in silent protest. He looks strained, his skin pallid, the muscles of his jaw tight.

“Wei Wuxian,” says Lan Xichen, stepping forward. “I think we are getting too hasty.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes flicker to him, his gaze hardening.

“I intended to wait until the curse was broken and, ideally, you had recovered, to discuss this. But you two have pre-empted matters. Wangji,” he looks at his brother, who is sitting still, watchful. “I too have been to the Burial Grounds, now. I have seen the people who live there. I have seen the life they lead and I find it reprehensible. When Wei Wuxian spoke on their behalf to the clan leaders, the Lanling Jin protested that these were the guilty, or at least the unsafe. Those who could not be welcomed into our territories. I let myself be swayed by those arguments. I said nothing on Wei Wuxian’s behalf, because he spoke for our enemies, and because his cultivation is in conflict with our laws.”

Lan Xichen comes to stand at the foot of the bed where both men can see him easily. Lan Yufei is re-wrapping the wound, blood flow staunched once more. His eyes are on his task. Wei Wuxian is breathing hard, his muscles tense, his tendons strained.

“The people I saw in the Burial Mounds are not dangerous. They are vulnerable, and they are starving. They may survive through the fall; they will not survive the winter. Wei Wuxian has raised no army of fierce corpses; he has shown loyalty and perseverance and sacrifice. I know the clans fear him; they fear his cultivation, and they fear the Stygian Tiger Amulet. In other circumstances, he would have had no need of it. We know the truth there, too, now.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes narrow, his lips drawing back to show the tips of his teeth. His expression is rigid; dangerous.

“I have spoken, generally, to the head villager in Caiyi about taking in a group of refugees. If I speak to my sworn brothers, I believe I can convince them to permit the remaining Wen members to come to Gusu. They will be safe here.”

Wei Wuxian laughs. Throws his head back and chortles. It’s not pleasant; it’s full of teeth, of blood. A touch of red gleams in his eyes. “So now that Lan-er-gege would come to my home, you’ll grant pardons? Spare your brother digging for turnips in the dirt? Is that all it took? One precious person? One person who matters?”

“Wei Ying,” says Wangji, quietly.

“No. I want to know, Zewu-jun. I want to know what convinced you in three days to offer your bounty, your beneficence, to these people when we have struggled and starved for two years because the clans didn’t care to look beyond their own noses.” His voice is high, tinged with hysteria. Black smoke begins to twine at his wrists, encircling his forearms. “Is all it took seeing me bleed for your brother? Seeing him break my curse? Should I have offered a better sacrifice than my position, my wealth, my good name?” His face is pulled into a mocking mask, his lips very thin. He’s trembling like a man suffering from ague. Lan Xichen stares, feeling like he’s been struck in the face by an open palm.  

Wangji reaches out and takes Wei Wuxian’s hand, folding his long fingers into his grip, unconcerned by the smoke that weaves around them. “Wei Ying. Be calm. I am here; control it.”

Wei Wuxian is panting, his body shivering. Lan Yufei has stopped tending him, his hands carefully held above Wei Wuxian, not touching him. Wangji squeezes his fingers, murmuring quietly to him, soothing him. Wei Wuxian lets out a shuddering breath through his teeth and his body relaxes, his face losing its cast of cruelty to be replaced by exhaustion. The smoke vanishes. The tension in him disappears rapidly, leaving him limp on the bed. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, wretched, turning his face towards Wangji – away from Lan Xichen. “I’m sorry, Lan Zhan.”

“Do not be. Wei Ying, do not be. You have given too much, for too long. Bring your people here, and we will guard them. You do not have to give of yourself anymore. You do not have to be anyone other than Wei Ying.”

For a moment there’s no answer, just the sound of Wei Wuxian’s ragged breathing. Then he speaks, voice low, tired, without looking over. “Do you mean it, Zewu-jun? You will bring the Wens here? To live, free of persecution?”

“I do. I will,” says Lan Xichen. “The responsibility for their treatment rests on my shoulders. I will make amends, as best I can.”

“Not just the Wens, Wei Ying,” says Wangji quietly. He glances up, at Lan Xichen; he nods to his brother. Wei Wuxian stills, even the sound of his breath disappearing for a moment.

“I – can’t. Lan Zhan. I don’t belong here. You know that. You know what I am.” He closes his eyes. “What would people say?”

Wangji looks unconcerned. “Then where does Wei Ying belong? In Lotus Pier, where people will say the Jiang clan are harnessing the power of the Stygian Tiger Amulet to strengthen their decimated ranks? In Yiling, where people will say the Yiling Patriarch is raising an army of fierce corpses? Wandering homeless, like his grand-master, so that people say he is dangerously unstable, seeking to make trouble?”

Lan Xichen isn’t sure he’s ever heard Wangji say so much at once before. Wei Wuxian seems equally taken aback. “Lan Zhan…”

“We are known for our rectitude. My brother is respected and trusted by the other clans. We openly bring disciples from all families into our home to learn our ways and see that we behave with honour. Who else has proven so well that they can be trusted?”

Wei Wuxian snorts softly, his voice amused. “Lan Zhan. You sound like you’re inviting me to live with you.”

“Wei Ying,” says Wangji, entirely seriously. “I am inviting you to live with me.”

In the silence, they all hear Wei Wuxian suck in a breath. Lan Xichen feels his own heart flutter in sympathy with his brother’s. “I… but… what? That’s – as what?”

Wangji looks down calmly. “In whatever capacity you choose,” he says. “You will have your freedom, always.”

Lan Xichen swallows, hearing echoes of the past. Echoes of the sadness in this house, this place of silence and sorrow. But Wei Wuxian, of course, is unaware of that past.

“Lan Zhan, don’t say such ambiguous things. You can’t just offer that. You have no idea what you’re suggesting! What if I was some, some ogre who would take advantage of generous Lan cultivators of pure morals?”

“You may stay as my guest, or as my companion,” says Wangji, ignoring this levity, “or you may stay so that I may court you.”

Wei Wuxian chokes. “Lan Zhan,” he hisses, when he recovers. “In front of your physician? In front of your brother? You can’t just – you – unfair. Unfair, Lan Zhan. I’m supposed to be the shameless one.”

“Wei Ying. Will you stay?”

Wei Wuxian looks up at him, shifting his hand so his fingers intertwine with Wangji’s. “Let’s… let’s get the Wens settled first. Then… we’ll see. Okay?”

Wangji nods, eyes only for Wei Wuxian, his gaze intense. It makes Lan Xichen feel proud, but also lost, seeing this side of his brother. Seeing that he has found a way to give of himself that Lan Xichen never even suspected.

Lan Yufei leans forward, and resumes wrapping the wound.

And Lan Xichen starts to consider how he will explain this to his uncle.

Chapter Text

It’s entirely evident to Lan Xichen that neither Wangji or Wei Wuxian will permit Wei Wuxian to be taken back to Lan Xichen’s quarters so they may each recuperate alone. Wangji – who two months ago objected to sharing his qiankun pouch with another cultivator in Lan Xichen’s hearing – has no qualms about sharing his bed. Wei Wuxian is too exhausted to protest even if he were minded to.

No one is quite prepared for the stern and unnecessarily detailed warning Lan Yufei gives them about refraining from any activity of a sexual nature for at least a week. Wei Wuxian chokes quietly; Wangji stares at the floor, his ears red. Lan Xichen smiles like this is an obvious and everyday conversation to be having with his younger brother and his younger brother’s beau, a man known across the world for being a demonic cultivator.

When Lan Xichen finally does leave, after Lan Yufei has packed up his kit and disappeared with a final stern look, Wei Wuxian is lying with his eyes closed while Wangji combs his hair. It’s shockingly domestic and intimate in a way Lan Xichen has never thought he could associate with his brother. The long tresses slip past his palms, his fingers occasionally tightening to catch them; to caress them.

Lan Xichen doesn’t think he can take anymore surprises today. Which is not to say that he cannot deliver some.

He asks a disciple to inform his uncle he would like to speak in his study, then takes the time to brew a cup of the jade-hued first-pick green tea his uncle favours. By the time the steaming cups have been poured, his uncle has appeared to take his usual seat.

“Xichen,” he says, accepting his cup. “I see you’ve returned to your duties. I understand Wangji is practically recovered.”

“He is on the mend,” replies Lan Xichen diplomatically.

His uncle nods. “Then you may send Wei Wuxian back to Yiling.”

Lan Xichen puts down his teacup. “I will be returning with Wei Wuxian to Yiling, when he is sufficiently recovered,” he says. “While I am there, I intend to speak to the Wen settlement. About returning with me to Gusu.”

Lan Qiren’s eyes rise, sharp, black. The long line of his mouth is very lean. “Explain yourself. Please,” he adds, jaw tight.

“I have seen them, Uncle. The refugees living in the Burial Mounds. They are peasants; many elderly, infirm. There is a small child. They are not cultivators; they are not dangerous. They are subsisting on plots of land that could not support a single family, carved out of earth not fit for harvest. They live in a shack, exposed to the elements, without livestock or equipment. This is the life we have driven them to, because the Jin prison keepers spoke out against them. Because no one – including myself – bothered to investigate their crimes or their circumstances. And because Wei Wuxian championed their cause, and the clans do not understand him, and they hate what they do not understand.”

“They hate him because he has gone against the path of righteousness, Xichen. He has wrapped himself in perversion, in delinquency, in evil.”

Lan Xichen is careful to keep his tone stable, without any inflection of emotion. “He has done what he has done to protect himself, and others. Without him, innocents would have died. I do not say that I do not disapprove of his cultivation. But I begin to understand his choices.”

Lan Qiren snorts. “Because he has enough heart left to hear the appeal of a worthy cause, you believe him to be redeemable?”

“Because I see that his heart is good, I believe him to be worthy of respect. You saw him come here alone, unarmed, for Wangji’s sake. You saw him take the curse, and take the blade’s thrust.” Your blade’s thrust, he does not say. “Uncle, I have told him that I will bring his refugees here. I will settle them in Caiyi. If he is not backed into a corner and made to be the sole guardian of those who would die without his aid, he will not snap at the clans.”

“You credit him with too much,” says Lan Qiren. “And the Wens. Have you forgotten who it was who burned the Cloud Recesses and slaughtered our disciples? Who sent you fleeing like a beggar? Who crippled your brother?”

Lan Xichen stares back across the table evenly. “I do not assign guilt based on name alone. Our own laws teach good judgement and fair consideration. I have employed both, and I find these people to be blameless. If our inaction results in their deaths, we will be far guiltier than they.”

His uncle takes a drink of his tea. “Have you considered the other clans? As clan leader, you may not act solely to appease your own conscience.”

“I have, Uncle. I will speak to my brothers. I believe they will support me. All were willing to be swayed by Jin Zixun, for the reasons you have given. But they had no firm belief in the guilt of these people, and my experience will supersede the word of their jailors. Besides, we are asking nothing of them. I seek no gift of land; no reparations.”

“Well reasoned as always,” comments his uncle. He shrugs. “Do as you will, with regard to the refugees. If they are truly innocent, then you are correct that they are deserving of the means to make decent life. But as to Wei Wuxian…”

Lan Xichen meets his uncle’s eyes calmly, his posture immaculate. In his chest, though, his heart is twisting.

“He, surely, cannot be planning to settle in Caiyi.” His uncle’s words are not a question. They are a declaration.

“He has not yet decided what he will do,” says Lan Xichen, truthfully. “But Uncle, Wangji and I have both made it clear that he would be welcome here, should he decide to stay.”

Lan Qiren puts down his cup with a small clack. In the stillness, it sounds like a whipcrack. “He will not be welcome here, Xichen. Not him, not his cultivation, and certainly not the Stygian Tiger Amulet.”

“Is that your decision to make?” replies Xichen, evenly. Lan Qiren stiffens. “If you feel it is, you must then make a further one. Would you exclude Wei Wuxian and lose Wangji with him? Or will you find it in your heart to accept him, for the sake of your nephew?”

His uncle’s mouth goes slack for a moment, then tightens like a bow-string. “What are you saying?”

“Wangji has offered to return to the Burial Mounds with Wei Wuxian. Permanently. He has been struggling, alone, unsupported, with the conflict of our clan’s requirements and his own heart. I believe he has made his decision, now.”

“Ridiculous. Impertinent. Wangji knows his place, and if he does not, he must be reminded.”

Lan Xichen folds his hands in his lap and allows them, ever so slightly, to curl. “As you have reminded him, again and again, when he showed leniency to Wei Wuxian? When he allowed himself, momentarily, to follow his heart? Has steeping him in reproval and recrimination changed the course of his feelings?”

His uncle scowls. “I suppose you would have him bring Wei Wuxian here, then. Lock him up in the Jingshi, so that Wangji may have both his heart and his loyalty to the clan. A fine son to a fine father.”

“No.” The word slips out before he can stop it, sharp, stark. His leg slips, striking the table, and his cup tips over with a quiet porcelain clink. It spills the dregs of his tea, a dark pool on the table’s clean surface. “Not that. Never that again. Uncle. You will not suggest that to him.”

Lan Qiren takes a deep breath, his slender shoulders rising and falling. “You judge so easily, the both of you. You consider your father was wrong. But had he acted differently, you would not be here.”

“Had he acted differently, our mother might have lived. Who can say which is better? But I know that Wangji will turn his back on us all, rather than repeat our father’s choice. I am not prepared to lose him.”

“If you break our laws for the sake of your brother, you will be worse than even your father,” replies his uncle, his voice harsh as a crow’s. He looks old and frail, suddenly, his skin wrinkled, papery. “Have I not taught you better, Xichen? Have I not done everything I could to protect you from his mistakes?”

Lan Xichen takes a deep breath, so deep he feels his ribs creak with it. “Uncle. The clan rules teach us how to demonstrate politeness, how to keep order, how to cultivate to the highest degree of perfection. They do not teach us how to love. And they do not teach us how to honour the ones we love. No textbook can teach that. The heart cannot be defined, and it cannot be restrained. To think otherwise is sophistry. And it is cruelty. That is what I believe.”

His uncle stares at him for a moment, his face flat, closed. Then he stands and, without another word, walks out of the room.

Lan Xichen closes his eyes and sighs.

***

He eats his midday meal alone in his office, diligently reviewing letters and petitions from the other clans, proposals to bring forward to the next conference, suggestions for mutual partnerships on small projects.

In the afternoon he takes a walk which, not surprisingly, brings him past the Jingshi. From inside he hears the familiar hum of the guqin; he steps up onto the porch but does not enter, listening. The song is unfamiliar, but beautiful. Not a cultivation tool, simply a melody.

A love song, in fact.

He glances inside. Wangji is sitting on the bed, his qin on his lap, his movements practiced and perfect. His face is calm, but there’s an incline to his head that Lan Xichen hasn’t seen from him before while playing. His attention is focused not on his music, but on the man beside him.

Stretched out on the bed, long and languid, Wei Wuxian lies in a rumpled sea of white. His robes have been changed to ones that look like Wangji’s, far untidier on him than they ever were on Wangji. His eyes are closed, but even from the door Lan Xichen can tell he’s awake. Listening, his face soft.

Lan Xichen slips away, back to his office.

He has letters to write.

***

“We will have to speak to Uncle,” says Wangji that evening.

Lan Yufei has allowed him out of bed, but he’s sitting on the edge with his white sleeve close to Wei Wuxian’s fingers, Wei Wuxian having failed to earn the same privilege of mobility. Dinner is finished, two trays brought and removed, and the sky outside is dark. The Jingshi glows with soft candlelight, lanterns casting a tallow-warm light.

“I have already spoken to him,” replies Lan Xichen. “He agrees that the Wens may come to Caiyi, so long as we receive the support of the other clans. I have written to my brothers – I will speak to them as well, if needed.”

Wangji nods. “That is progressive,” he says.

“It is. Unfortunately, his views on Wei Wuxian are less so.” There’s no holding this back. Better he hears from Lan Xichen than Uncle directly. “I have been clear that I support Wei Wuxian coming here – making a home here, if he chooses to. Uncle does not have the right to refuse this, Wangji.”

“He does not have the right,” agrees Wangji, slowly. “But he does have the ability to make his feelings felt. By the clan, but foremost by Wei Ying. I will not have him come here to be met by intolerance and insult.”

“I will speak with Uncle again,” says Lan Xichen. “He is set in his ways; it will take time for him to see other perspectives. There is no rush; bringing the Wens back by road will require several days of travel once all is ready, and Wei Wuxian is not yet well enough to leave.”

Wangji looks doubtful, his expression that of one who has too much experience to hold onto hope.

Wei Wuxian says nothing, and Lan Xichen can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“Uncle is rigid in his ways, Wangji, but he loves you. I believe we can find a solution. I believe that he has no more wish to see the mistakes of the past repeated than we do, deep down.”

Wei Wuxian shifts at this, just slightly, his gaze curious. But he holds his silence, and Lan Xichen is reminded that his manners are often better than he’s accused of. Just not those expected of a head disciple, a clan leader’s right hand. But perhaps that is less a question of manners and more one of diplomacy. And, Lan Xichen thinks, reflecting on the settlement in the Burial Mounds, on Jiang Yanli, on Wangji – the people he has thrown his reputation to the winds for – a question of justice and compassion.

Wei Wuxian has been willing to do what no one else, and certainly no one from the Gusu Lan has: to confront the orthodoxy for the benefit of an individual. For the first time, Lan Xichen is starting to realise that is perhaps a laudable trait – certainly, it is a bold one.

Wangji makes no answer to his statement; they both know there is none to be made. Lan Xichen shifts his attention to the invalid. “Wei Wuxian,” he says, his voice kindly. “Would you wish to send news to the Burial Mounds? I know you have been delayed longer than you anticipated.”

“That would require a messenger,” replies Wei Wuxian, “and they wouldn’t pass the barrier. So thank you, but it’ll have to wait. Which means Wen Qing will have her needles ready for me, when I get back.” He shivers gently, theatrically.

“You are lucky, to have such an esteemed physician,” says Lan Xichen politely.

“You might call it luck. You aren’t the one who has to bargain with her. She could be employed as muscle at a gambling den. Knocking out skinflints and breaking their kneecaps.” His words are dark but his tone is teasing, self-pitying. “Aiya, she’ll skin me alive when I get back.”

“I am sure she will welcome the news of your safety.”

Wei Wuxian smiles pityingly at him. “Nice of you to comfort me, Zewu-jun,” he says.

***

Two days later, he receives replies from both Nie Mingjue and Jin Guangyao. His older brother’s letter is short and blunt as always; he is willing to consider Lan Xichen’s request, but wonders about Wen Ning. Is the Ghost General safe, and if he is how dependable is that safety?

Jin Guangyao’s letter is far more circumspect. Full of praise and appreciation for Lan Xichen’s selflessness in considering the plight of those aligned with his clan’s enemies, and personal assurance of his devotion to Lan Xichen, which makes him smile – A-Yao is as always too forthright with his praise. But there is an undercurrent of concern which Lan Xichen picks up on immediately, and which runs deeper than that of his older brother. Concern about two high-ranking Wen clan members, who were known to take orders directly from Wen Ruohan. And, more subtly still, concern about the Stygian Tiger Amulet. A-Yao is extremely careful in his phrasing; there is no suggestion that Lan Xichen or the Gusu Lan would consider exploiting the Amulet, but there is a caution that perceptions are important and that the cultivation world has its eye on the Amulet.

Lan Xichen sits looking down at the two letters with a thin mouth, considering.

Then, slowly, he folds them away and rises. He leaves his office, with its stack of petitions and letters and lists, and walks through the chill afternoon. Along the stone paths to the Jingshi.

When he arrives his brother is seated on the other side of the room from the bed, meditating. Wei Wuxian is curled up beneath heavy covers, unmoving. Wangji opens his eyes and Lan Xichen catches his gaze. He rises and comes over, glancing once at Wei Wuxian as he passes and seeming to be comforted by what he sees.

“May we speak?” asks Lan Xichen. Wangji inclines his head. They walk around the outside of the house, past the wide grass verge that holds gentian flowers in the spring, and around to the back of the house where there is a small moss garden. They sit on the veranda the way they used to long ago, back when Mother would be seated between them.

“We have not had the chance to speak together on recent events,” says Lan Xichen. There is no need to elaborate further; they both understand.

Wangji sits silently, looking out at the garden. There are stone lanterns overgrown with moss, and a dry rocky creek full of it. Small trees turning red with the autumn cold, their delicate trunks wrapped with grey lichen. “Thank you,” he says after a few moments. “For bringing him here.”

“I didn’t know – that is, I didn’t realise. How you felt. How strongly you felt. You gave your heart away to another, and I never even noticed.” Lan Xichen feels the embarrassment of that – the shame of it – still, twisting in his chest like a willow root scraping against his ribs.

“I was not sure that he did, either,” admits Wangji.

Lan Xichen blinks, surprised by this. Wei Wuxian, in the little he has seen of him, has not been subtle about his enduring affection for his brother. “And now?”

“I am still unsure whether he noticed, but I know now that he felt the same. Feels the same. It is… strange, being given something you did not dare to hope for. I did not know how hopeless he had become. How hopeless we both had become.”

Lan Xichen remembers Wei Wuxian’s smile in response to the question of whether he could escape the cage he had become trapped within. The pain in it, and the utter despair.

Wangji turns to him, his face for once showing naked emotion – sorrow, misery. “If you could have seen him, when we last parted. Choosing to take the narrow bridge, rather than the wide road. Working so hard to show himself to be safe and healthy in that empty place, when inside…” his fingers twist in the silk of his robes, crumpling it. “I should not have turned away from him. I was afraid, which is no excuse at all.”

“Afraid to go against the teachings?” asks Lan Xichen.

Wangji takes in a breath, the movement small, shivery. “That, in part. But also, afraid to make the same choice our father did; to trap Wei Ying somehow, to constrain him.” He swallows. “I began once to fall into that snare without even realising it. When I did… it terrified me. But I could see no other way to keep him safe. I have felt… very lost,” he admits.

“I will listen, Wangji,” says Lan Xichen. “If you need me, I will always listen. I know it is difficult, with Uncle. With the way we are. You and I have much in common, and our bond is strong, but… we have both of us learned to prize independence over assistance. It is not always the best way. I see the same in Wei Wuxian, and that is perhaps not ideal.”

Wangji’s head raises, his face sharpening immediately at the perceived slight. Lan Xichen suppresses a smile. “Wei Ying is guided by his heart. It has not led him astray.”

“I agree that his actions have been upstanding – self-sacrificing, even. And for his own sake as well as yours, I would welcome him here. I will welcome him here. But…”

Wangji’s face is still, inscrutable.

“But the Amulet will be a difficulty, Wangji. A large one. A-Yao has said, as clearly as he could, that the clans will not look favourably on it remaining in his possession if his intention is to attempt to reintegrate with society. If he brings it here, it may damage our relationships with our neighbours. Do you believe there to be another way?”

In the garden, a small wren hops from perch to perch in a plum tree, its tiny weight enough to make the dark branches tremble. Wangji watches it for a moment. “I cannot speak for Wei Ying. He has been clear, in the past, that he would not entertain giving it up. I did not realise why. That it was his only source of strength. That without it, he would be largely defenseless. I hope that he will be willing to rely on me, instead. But I make no guarantees. If he will not, I will not risk the stability of the Cloud Recesses. I would sooner leave, Brother.”

“If he does not give it up, are you still willing to join him?”

Wangji looks at him with calm conviction. “Loving Wei Ying is not a choice. The only choice is whether or not I am with him. I have tried one way, and realise now my mistake. I will not repeat it.”

Wangji is always serious and always thoughtful; when he makes a statement, it is backed by intentionality. But Lan Xichen doesn’t know that he’s ever heard him be this certain of anything. He inclines his head. “Whatever can be done to find a solution will be done,” he says.

In the sky, dark clouds are beginning to creep across clear blue. They sit in silence, watching them. Nothing more needs to be said. They both know that they mean their words.

They both know the cost of making mistakes where the heart is concerned.

“It looks like snow,” says Lan Xichen, eventually. Wangji rises.

“I will fetch another blanket for Wei Ying.”

***

Lan Xichen returns to the Jingshi that evening. The air is decidedly colder. Wei Wuxian is sitting on the bed and has been bundled in another layer of robes, a thick padded jacket usually worn in the depth of winter. But then, Yunmeng never gets very cold; he is not used to this weather. Wangji is beside him, polite, placid, wearing just his usual silks. He has completely recovered, cleared by Lan Yufei to resume his usual activities. But thus far, he has remained in the Jingshi, tending to Wei Wuxian like a cat with one kitten.

They chat about minor matters for a while, the conversation mostly between Wei Wuxian and Lan Xichen, his brother quiet as usual. Wei Wuxian has his hands folded in his lap, his skin very pale, and occasionally chafes his fingers. If he had a golden core, he could warm  himself better. But that is no option. Lan Xichen offers to make tea, an excuse to light the fire in the hearth and hand around warm cups. Wangji swiftly rises to take over the menial task, but he waves him down. It gives him an occupation in this home where he never used to feel out of place, but now does. Already, after less than a week, Wei Wuxian is changing this space. He has a gift of warmth, of vitality that brightens the places he stays. The Jingshi is becoming a home for him and Wangji, and Lan Xichen a visitor in that home, a guest rather than a resident.

Still, he knows where everything is, and he fetches out the celadon pot and cups while the water boils. He seats himself at the low table and spoons out Wangji’s tea, less expensive than Uncle’s but just as carefully chosen. He pours the water in, one hand holding his sleeve carefully out of the way, an excuse to keep his eyes on his task.

“There was something I came to discuss,” he says, as the tea leaves unfurl in the steaming water. “I have received replies from my sworn brothers. They are cautiously supportive. I have spoken so far on the behalf of all the Wens. I believe my words; when I said that they were innocent, and wronged, I spoke no lie. But the question of Wen Ning has been raised. And of Wen Qing also. Their connections to Wen Ruohan. And Wen Ning’s identity as a weapon rather than a man.”

Wei Wuxian’s shoulders pull back, his body bracing itself as if to give – or take – a blow.

“So I would like to ask, Wei Wuxian, for the whole of the truth. Why did you act on behalf of these two, who served Wen Ruohan? And why did you resurrect Wen Ning?”

Wei Wuxian’s fingers curl inwards. “Why do you ask? Do you ask for yourself, Zewu-jun? Or for your brothers? Or for all the clans to hear?”

Lan Xichen takes a breath. “I ask for myself, that I may advocate for you. You have Wangji’s trust, and that means a great deal to me. You have my respect and my gratitude, and that means more. But it may not be enough.”

Wei Wuxian isn’t like him and Wangji; he’s not a creature of comfortable silences. Even now, as the quiet stretches, he shifts beneath the thick padded jacket, silk rustling. Wangji moves to sit closer beside him, there to support him as he settles himself. He doesn’t fuss, but he stays close, ready for Wei Wuxian to lean against. Seen rapidly, seen from afar, they could be two disciples here for tutelage, wrapped in their white robes. But no; those days have passed. They have grown into something more refined, and more hardened.

“Zewu-jun, I’ve been as open as I have because you’re Lan Zhan’s brother. I think you’re an honourable man, and Lan Zhan says you keep your word, always. I’ll tell you what you want to know, if you promise that the pieces which pertain to me and my choices alone will never pass your lips. If the choice is between providing convincing proof of my character and guarding my secrets, I choose the latter. That isn’t negotiable.”

Wangji’s jaw is tight, but he doesn’t object. Lan Xichen nods. “I understand,” he says. “That is your right.”

Wei Wuxian takes a breath and settles himself, like a man finding a place of comfort beside a fire.

“Wen Qing and Wen Ning came from a branch of the Wen family close to Wen Ruohan, but known for their skill in medicine rather than hunting or martial arts – in saving lives, not taking them. Wen Ruohan required Wen Qing’s service as a physician, a service he commanded by threatening her younger brother. If Wen Ning had been safe, she would not have served him. But he wasn’t, and he was her only family. I was sympathetic to them, and I once saved Wen Ning’s life. They knew me, a little. And they trusted me, a little.” He shifts, some of the looseness slipping from his shoulders.

“After the siege of Lotus Pier, Jiang Cheng was captured by the Wens. I went to rescue him and met Wen Ning. He was the one who freed Jiang Cheng from his own clan, and he took me to his sister in Yiling to hide. Wen Qing took us in; she sheltered us despite the danger, out of the goodness of her heart and her dedication to saving lives. She tended to Jiang Cheng as best she could. But.”

Here he stops, his voice disappearing abruptly. Wangji shifts, moving his shoulder so that Wei Wuxian can rest against him. His breaths are sharp, shallow.

Lan Xichen picks up the teapot and pours out three cups. He rises and brings them over, offering them to his brother and Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian takes it, his hands shaking slightly. He stares down at the flawless celadon glaze, the colour delicate as ice. “Wen Zhuliu was there, when they caught Jiang Cheng,” he says, looking at the teacup cradled in his palms. “He… his golden core was destroyed. Jiang Cheng spent his whole life preparing to be Clan Leader. His parents had just been murdered, his clan slaughtered. He had nothing. Nothing. No life, no future, no hope of avenging his family. That’s how he saw it. And so I asked Wen Qing for another favour. She didn’t want to. But I was stubborn, and she has a good heart. I put her in an unfair position; I know that. What we did… you can imagine for yourselves.” He drains the cup in one long motion, his hand shaking.

“Then Jiang Wanyin,” begins Lan Xichen, shocked by what he’s heard. By both the fact of it, such a thing unheard of, and the sacrifice. But if Wei Wuxian is telling the truth, the implication is unmistakable. Jiang Wanyin, without a doubt, has a golden core. And Wei Wuxian does not.

Wei Wuxian turns on him, face sharp. “He doesn’t know. He can never know. Understand that.”

“Wei Wuxian… to give another your golden core…” he has been trained from childhood to clear articulation of his thoughts, to persuasiveness tempered by rationality. He still finds himself unable to finish his sentence.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes glint in the low light. “You have shown you would give anything for your brother, Zewu-jun. That’s why I’m willing to tell you this. Because I’m also willing to give anything for mine. I hope you can understand that.” He takes a breath.

“Many things happened that don’t matter right now. Later, after the Sunshot Campaign, Wen Qing found me, or I found her. Either way, she told me her brother was missing, had been taken to Qiongqi Road. We went there, and I found the remaining Wens in a death camp. They had been sent there to die, Zewu-jun. Out of the way, where it would be nice and convenient for everyone. Most of them were already dead. It was raining. That’s what I remember. The rain, and the mud. It was everywhere, soaking everything. The world was drowning in it. It felt so…” his voice dies and he shakes his head, shivering. Wangji’s fingers are at his elbow, squeezing gently. “The mud was sown with corpses; rotting, bloody. She searched each and every one. Digging through the muck, falling in it. I did too. It was in our skin, our ears, our mouths. The rain was endless. We dug out corpse after corpse with our bare hands. Until we found him. He was dead, of course.”

He's turning the teacup over and over in his hands, the motion smooth, repetitive. His fingers pull over the surface, his gaze distant. “I could say that it was an exchange; her brother’s life in return for my brother’s. I owed her at least that, without a doubt. But in truth… it wasn’t a choice of logic. It was a choice of grief, and pain. I gave Wen Ning a chance to take revenge for his murder, the murder of his clan. And then I realised… maybe he could be more than a puppet. If I could bring back his body, why not his mind? The Amulet might make it possible. I guess I really never forgot what I learned as a child: attempt the impossible. Wen Ning didn’t deserve to die; Wen Qing didn’t deserve to lose her brother. So… I tried. And in the end, I succeeded.”

Wei Wuxian is still shivering. Wangji takes a blanket and wraps it more tightly over his lap. This isn’t the unrestrained anger that Lan Xichen has seen from him before when conversations turn to his cultivation. It’s something else. Exhaustion, perhaps. But Lan Xichen is inclined to think it’s not that, either.

He’s inclined, in fact, to think that it’s grief. For Wen Ning, possibly. Or, equally possibly, for the person Wei Wuxian could have been.

“If you want to know if Wen Ning is safe, then yes. He is. If you want to know if I control him – I can, if I choose to. But he is his own person, and I want him to be free to live his own life, such as it is. He is still the same Wen Ning who came to the Cloud Recesses for instruction, who saved Jiang Cheng’s life, who helped his sister care for us. He has his memories, and his mind.”

He looks up from the teacup and catches Lan Xichen’s eye. “There’s something else you want to ask me. Isn’t there?”

“Wei Ying,” says Wangji, quietly. “You’re tired. You should rest.”

Wei Wuxian ignores him; continues to look at Lan Xichen.

“The Amulet,” says Lan Xichen. Wei Wuxian doesn’t move, waiting. “Do you intend to keep it?”

Slowly, his movements crabbed, stiff, like an old man’s, Wei Wuxian reaches within his robe. What emerges appears at first glance to be a blackened, twisted lump. As the light catches it it gleams like oil; sickly, strange. The shape is, broadly, that of a tiger curling towards its own tail. It floats above his hand, rotating calmly, complacently in his control. “Do you want it, Zewu-jun? Touch it. See what it will tell you.”

He looks to Wei Wuxian, trying to see whether this is a jest, or a trap. But Wei Wuxian’s gaze is watchful, assessing. He reaches out slowly, two fingers extended, and brushes them against the rough-hewed surface.

The world bursts into darkness, red light flaring like lightning across his vision. Knives tear across his skin, blood leaping forth, wet and crimson. Bone snaps, ripped from his flesh and crunched into shards, marrow dripping. The air is full of screams; tortured, horrific. They’re louder than anything, as though a thousand ghosts were beside him, shrieking inside his own head.

Lan Xichen wrenches his hand back, falling to his hands and knees. His body is shaking as if with fever, his skin damp with sweat. He’s panting, his stomach roiling. He looks up, his face drawn with horror.

Wei Wuxian’s smile is a skull’s smile, the grin of one walking in the shadow of death. “Do you think they would all be so eager to harness it, if they knew? The jealous rabble, the ranks of my enemies who want more than anything for me to surrender my prize?” he asks, voice wry.

Lan Xichen pulls himself up; the effort of it feels like scaling a bare cliff-side. “Wei Wuxian. It is evil. It is evil, and it must be destroyed. Or it will destroy you. No man can tame that.”

Wei Wuxian pulls it back, tucks the blackened shape inside his robes. “I’m glad to hear you don’t covet it for yourself, Zewu-jun. Don’t. As for what happens to it… I had once committed myself to living alongside it, both slave and guardian. Now… now, maybe there are other possibilities. I make no promises,” he says.

Lan Xichen can tell, both from Wei Wuxian’s wan face and Wangji’s tight mouth, that he has pushed far enough for tonight. He bows his head in acknowledgement. “Thank you, for your honesty in speaking with me,” he says. “I will do what I can on your behalf.”

He politely takes the teacups back and tidies up, while Wangji chivvies Wei Wuxian into lying down and being wrapped up against the night’s chill. Lan Xichen puts out the extra lamps, then gives a quiet goodnight.

“Don’t ask me that, Lan Zhan,” he hears Wei Wuxian murmur as he leaves. “I’ll never let it touch you.”

Wangji’s response, if there is one, doesn’t reach his ears.

Chapter Text

It takes a mixture of promises – of oversight, of impartiality – and an exertion of his influence over A-Yao to secure agreement for the Wens to come to Caiyi. Using his position as older brother and a figure of respect to coerce A-Yao makes him feel unsettled, uneasy. But he tells himself it is for the greater good, and that A-Yao would not want to be party to an injustice any more than he himself would.

By the time the week is out, they have the permissions required and have made the arrangements for housing in Caiyi. And Wei Wuxian, freed from bedrest after three days, is almost entirely healed. Well enough to return to the Burial Mounds to speak with the refugees.

It’s decided that four of them will go: Wei Wuxian, Lan Xichen to offer political immunity, Wangji because he will not leave Wei Wuxian, and Lan Lixin to assist with securing transport and providing additional security.

In the morning before they go, he hands off his duties to Uncle, who is quiet and sour-mouthed as he stands in the clan leader’s office and receives updates on the latest correspondence. When everything urgent has been discussed, Lan Xichen folds his hands into his sleeves and looks up at the pristine calligraphy scroll mounted above his desk. Be righteous.

“This is the right thing to do, Uncle,” he says.

“As our clan has taken in orphans and the needy in the past, so may we take in these refugees, if that is what they are. As long as they pose no risk to our people, I allow it is a generous act. Taking in a demonic cultivator, however, is to invite disaster in by the front door. It is unlawful, and it is folly. If he does not destroy us with his evil and his puppet corpses, the other clans may well do it for him out of jealousy and fear.”

“Wei Wuxian has been here for a week, Uncle. In that time he has done nothing other than save Wangji’s life, risking his own. He brought no puppets with him – he brought no weapons with him. I find his explanation of his past actions to be satisfactory, and while his comportment has not always been civil, his motivations have been driven by compassion and honour.”

Uncle gives him a flat, intractable look. “If he is such a pure, honourable gentleman, why does he cultivate using resentful energy? Why does he raise corpses to fight for him, insulting the dead and laughing in the face of propriety? You saw him as a boy, Xichen. Even during his tutelage here he was contemplating the forbidden, so pleased to break our laws as though they were nothing at all to him. This is the man you wish to invite into our home? This is the man you are happy for your brother to bring into his bed?”  

Lan Xichen takes a deep breath, feeling his blood heating in his veins. He and Uncle have always maintained a respectful, open relationship – in part due to his deep understanding of Uncle’s interpretations of the clan laws and his preference to concede in the face of conflict. But there is no concession possible here. With Wangji and Wei Wuxian’s futures in his hands, he cannot fold. Unfortunately, he also cannot share the truth behind Wei Wuxian’s need for demonic cultivation.

He certainly cannot share his own reservations about the Amulet.

“Have you truly seen nothing from him that would speak to the goodness in him?” asks Lan Xichen.

Lan Qiren’s mouth twitches. It isn’t an outright rebuttal.

“Uncle,” he says, softly. “He makes Wangji smile.”

“If Wangji wishes to be amused, there are any number of –”

“There are no others like him,” says Lan Xichen, with complete certainty. He doesn’t have to think of Wei Wuxian speaking his throat raw, or taking a blade to the stomach, or running through the dead lands of his territory with a smile on his face.

All he has to think of is the way the Jingshi is, for the first time in Lan Xichen’s life, a place of warmth and light.

“Please,” he says. “Try to keep an open mind.”

Uncle snorts. “I would say the same to you,” he says.

***

They fly their swords to Yiling, Wei Wuxian riding with Wangji, Wangji’s arm wrapped around him far more tightly than is necessary. Although they leave early, the sun is low in the sky by the time they are skirting over the gnarled, blackened trees. Wangji takes the lead, Wei Wuxian speaking in his ear to direct him; they land not far from where Lan Xichen had, a week ago.

Lan Lixin is sent to the town to find carts and horses, his white-robed figure hurrying away through the gloom. Dusk falls heavy here, the air fetid, the trees filled with a strange buzzing sound. Night insects, perhaps. Or something less innocuous.

Wei Wuxian only has to touch the barrier for it to admit them. As they walk up the path towards his tiny settlement he points out things to Wangji. “That’s the tree Uncle gets plums from for his wine.” And, “There’s where we get some of the earth from for the gardens, it’s more fertile here.” And, “Oh, I taught A-Yuan to dig for worms there; now all he wants to do is find little friends in the dirt. Wen Qing may never forgive me.”

His tone is up-beat, light-hearted. As though he were touring a sun-drenched orchard with sweet fruit and verdant trees, rather than a land of shadows and hunger and corpse-filled earth.

When they come around the final corner and out from under the dark leaves into the clearing at the foot of the mountain, the land is silent. There are no people, no sounds; nothing is moving. Wei Wuxian stops, and Lan Xichen sees his face pull taut with fear. “Wen Qing? Wen Ning? Granny? Uncle? A-Yuan?” His voice grows tighter, more frantic as he calls out. He takes one slow step forward, then starts running, heading for the ramshackle shelter the Wens must have built from rotting wood and broken slats.

Wen Qing emerges from the shadowed doorway of the shelter, her face white and strained. Behind her others appear, old men, mostly, with farm implements in their hands.

“Wei Wuxian! Do you know how long you’ve been gone for? Where have you been? What were you thinking?” Her voice is sharp, familiar, like an older sister perhaps. Full of scolding, and fear.

Wei Wuxian trots up to her, the tension bleeding from his shoulders. “Sorry, sorry. Things got away from me a little. But I’m here now. Is everyone okay?”

Her eyes have shifted over his shoulder, taking in Lan Xichen and Wangji. She nods without taking her eyes off them, her voice curt. “Everything is fine.”  

The people in the shelter start to come out, postures relaxing and hoes and spades being put down. A little boy dressed in too-big clothes wriggles out between their legs and comes running forwards. “Xian-gege!” He throws himself on Wei Wuxian’s leg, holding him tightly. “Xian-gege came back!”

Wei Wuxian looks down. “Of course I came back. Who said I wouldn’t?”

The little boy shakes his head, rubbing chubby cheeks against Wei Wuxian’s thigh. His hair is rough, tangled, his cheeks dark with dirt. His little arms, where they protrude from his sleeves, are thin as sticks.

Wei Wuxian bends down, perhaps to pick up the boy, and like that Wangji is there, a restraining hand on his shoulder. Wei Wuxian looks up at him, face falling into a pout.

“Do you remember me?” Wangji asks the boy.

“Rich-gege!”

Lan Xichen knows his brother well enough to see the tiny smile. Wangji bends down. “Do you wish to be picked up?” he asks. The little boy raises his hands immediately, his face suddenly sunny. Wangji picks him up and stands, resting him against his side so that he can reach out and carefully tug at Wei Wuxian’s bangs.

“Xian-gege came back,” he says, happily. It’s all Lan Xichen can do not to show his shock on his face. The child is incredibly familiar with both Wei Wuxian and his brother; unafraid, affectionate. As are they with him.

In the Cloud Recesses, Wangji does sometimes step in to teach classes for the youngest children; all the senior cultivators do, if required. He is conscientious and thoughtful in this duty. But not affectionate, never less than distant. He stands now beside Wei Wuxian with the boy held tight in his arms like it’s an every day occurrence, like he’s been raised to it.

Lan Xichen doesn’t think it’s the child, particularly. It’s the fact that he is Wei Wuxian’s. Not his son, clearly, but in his care. In his thoughts, and in his heart. And therefore somehow now in Wangji’s, also. He looks at the three of them: Wei Wuxian in his dark robes with his bright smile, Wangji all in white and very upright but standing so close by, the little boy tucked in between the two of them reaching upwards.

He knows now how Wangji took his punishment for visiting the Burial Mounds without remorse.

“I had to come back, A-Yuan,” Wei Wuxian is saying, with a dramatic face. “Who can imagine the kind of trouble you would get into without my outstanding guidance?”

Wei Wuxian is truly terrifying, he thinks. Not for his demonic cultivation, or his refusal to bow to the clans’ orthodoxy. But because without conscious effort, without any intention on his part, without anything more than the sheer force of his personality he’s thrown order into chaos. Has broken the Jiang clan, has pitched Wangji down from his lofty perch of aestheticism, has in this desiccated wasteland created a family, a home.

He is unique, and unique things have only two fates: to be prized, or to be destroyed.

Lan Xichen sees movement in the trees off to one side of the clearing and turns, pulling his thoughts out of this profitless reflection. Wen Qing notices and looks over. “A-Ning, you can come out.”

A very pale young man emerges from the trees, his robes the same faded grey linen as the other Wens, his skin smeared with dirt. His eyes are black and bright.

Creeping up his throat, across the lower planes of his face, are ink-black tendrils.

Wen Ning stops beside his sister and performs a shaky bow. “Zewu-jun,” he says, his voice soft and hesitant. Beside him his sister bows also, much more correctly.

“Clan Leader Lan. Thank you for bringing Wei Wuxian back. Your diligence is far more than was necessary.” Why are you here? He reads in her eyes. To assess the danger we pose? Or to plan an attack?

He returns the greeting. “Wei Wuxian saved my brother’s life. It was the least I could do.”

All around them, darkness is falling. There’s a small, flickering glow from within the shelter; no lanterns, no other light or warmth. Wei Wuxian notices them talking and looks up from where he’s been talking to A-Yuan.

“Let’s go inside,” he says. Wen Qing raises her eyebrows at him, and he nods. “Yes, all of us. We need to talk.”

She stares at him for a moment, then turns and gestures the other Wens to the larger, older pavilion that sits in the shadow of the mountain. It certainly was here before them; it may have been here before the Burial Mounds received its first corpse. It is grey and grimy and somehow eerie, not quite right. He is not surprised they chose to build another structure to live in. Wen Qing and her brother follow, with Wei Wuxian and Wangji.

Lan Xichen enters last.

Inside there are rude stools and tables, a cooking hearth, and some mostly-empty sacks and crates. The only light is the fire that flickers in the hearth, but when they enter an old woman quickly pulls out stubby candles and starts to spread them about, brightening the dirty shadows.

On the tables are half-full bowls of what looks like vegetable scraps and gristle; no white rice, no fruits or nuts or proper cuts of meat. The Wens crowd into the back of the room, quiet, docile. Waiting. Wei Wuxian makes a snorting noise.

“Sit, sit,” he says with an impatient gesture, and suits his words to action, dropping onto a stool. “C’mon, no one’s going to bite. The Lans are very well-behaved – they have special classes for it. Let’s go, gather up.” He chivvies the Wens until they slowly creep back to the tables, sitting quietly. Wangji sits beside him, straight-backed with A-Yuan on his lap. Wei Wuxian glances at him. “I’m sorry, Lan Zhan, we still don’t have any tea. There’s water, though.”

Lan Xichen produces his qiankun pouch and pulls it open. From inside he calls out a large cannister of tea, a sack of white rice, several smaller bags of autumn vegetables, a small case of spices and flavourings, a pot of cooking oil, and a haunch of cured pork.

In the silence, a pin drop would be audible. No one moves to touch the food, a rich bounty compared to what they’ve obviously been eating.

Wen Qing looks to Wei Wuxian. “What is this?” Her voice is flat, but underneath Lan Xichen can hear the suspicion.

Wei Wuxian is staring at the food stacked neatly on the floor, equally surprised. “Um, I didn’t – this is thoughtful. Very thoughtful. Thank you, Zewu-jun.”

Lan Xichen inclines his head, twitching his lips into a smile of recognition.

“Wei Wuxian, what exactly is happening?” says Wen Qing. And then, her voice bright and brittle: “What have you done? What have you sold?” Lan Xichen can understand her mistrust. She’s seen some of the sacrifices Wei Wuxian has made, after all. Has, in fact, been a party to them. He can tell she isn’t fearing for herself.

Wei Wuxian looks around. “This is Clan Leader Lan Xichen,” he says. “Lan Wangji some of you know. They come from Gusu, in the mountains. They offered me tutelage there, when I was a boy. They fought with me in the war. They were there when I spoke out on your behalf. They didn’t act then, because they didn’t know you. Because their home was razed by Wen Ruohan and his sons in the war, and trust takes time and effort. Now they know you, a little. They know you through me. The Gusu Lan have always been virtuous, and generous. They’ve seen that our settlement is struggling, and that you’re innocent of the crimes you’ve been accused of. They are offering to bring you to Caiyi, a river town beneath the Gusu Mountains, with proper houses and opportunities for work and fishing and farming. A chance of a better life, a fair life.” He pauses, swallows. The Wens shift, their faces a range of expressions – considering, fearful, hopeful. “I’ve made no decision on your behalf. This is your settlement, and your choice. If you prefer to stay here, I’ll stay with you.”

It's not at all the conversation Lan Xichen had been anticipating. Although he has come to realise that Wei Wuxian plays no role akin to the Yiling Patriarch as he is described in rumour and legend, he is still undoubtedly the head of this settlement. Leaders make decisions for their people; they don’t give choices like these to peasants.

The Wens are whispering now in small groups at the tables. Wei Wuxian makes no move to join them, or to intervene. Occasionally, one of the Wens will look up to ask a question. “How far is Caiyi?” or “Can we earn livings there?” or “Will we be resented?”

Wei Wuxian and Wangji answer the questions factually, each time the buzz of chatter closing in over them again once they’ve explained. Wen Qing and Wen Ning provide a few thoughts, but they mostly hold their silence too.

The conversation takes time; at one point Wen Qing boils water for tea, making enough for everyone in chipped, uneven cups. When she reaches Lan Xichen, she looks up at him. “May I speak to you outside?”

He nods, and they step out into the gloaming.

The air is hot, the breeze uncomfortable as it brushes past his skin like an unwelcome caress. All around withered leaves are rustling; a dry, thirsty sound. Lan Xichen feels unwelcome in this place, feels himself watched and resented.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” she says, smoothing down the wrinkled skirt of her robe. “The Gusu Lan were kind to me, when they had no reason to be. When, in fact, they had every reason not to be. I remember that still, and if I can repay that obligation I will. But. Clan Leader Lan, Wei Wuxian is our benefactor. He is our protector, and our advocate. He is also deeply impractical, stupidly kind, and dangerously giving. So I would like to know what, exactly, he has done to earn this offer of patronage.”

Lan Xichen nods gently. “You worry for him.”

“I worry for us all. But him particularly.”

“Wen-guniang, you have been honest with me, so I will be honest with you. What I saw here when I came in search of Wei Wuxian greatly disturbed me. I withdrew my objection to your ostracization because I was told that the men and women here were rogue cultivators, members of the Wen family who had committed crimes in the war. That is not what I see here. I cannot in good conscience do nothing for you, when my own passiveness has in part led to your situation. And, even if I were not prepared to speak on your behalf, Wangji is. His judgement means much to me. The offer we make comes from us, of our own volition. It was not requested, or bought, by Wei Wuxian.”

She bows her head. “Your offer is kinder than I can say. The people here deserve better lives; I hope they may find them. But I must be clear – my brother and I have a more complicated history.”

“I am aware; it has been raised. Wei Wuxian has provided proof of your commitment to saving lives. For you, I foresee little difficulty. For your brother… we have secured support for him to come with the refugees to Caiyi. Whether that support will be maintained will depend in part on his behaviour.”

Her eyes are flinty in the deep dusk. “And on what else?”

He lets out a breath. “On Wei Wuxian’s behaviour,” he says.

“Meaning, on whether Wei Wuxian uses my brother as a tool? On whether he makes him fight, makes him murder? He won’t. Not without provocation. He didn’t bring A-Ning back to be a weapon.”

“Why, then?” asks Lan Xichen.

She looks up at him. Standing here before him she is tiny, her body fragile, her face all delicate bones and soft angles. But there is a steel in her voice, a certainty harder than the Gusu mountain. As if a sword would break against her. “He brought him back for me. I will never allow that gift to be squandered. Never. Do you believe me?”

He nods. “I do.”

“Then you can trust that we will do nothing to jeopardize this chance.”

“If your people accept it,” says Lan Xichen.

For the first time, she smiles. “There was never any doubt of that,” she says. “Given the choice between life and death, we will all of us choose life. That’s why we’re still here.”

***

By the time they go inside again, it has been decided. The Wens will come to Caiyi, abandoning the Burial Mounds. The old woman Wei Wuxian calls Granny and some of the older men are cooking a second, far superior dinner from the ingredients Lan Xichen brought. A-Yuan is sitting on Wangji’s lap, showing him a butterfly made from dried rushes like it’s a jade prize. Wei Wuxian is drinking something that smells strongly of alcohol and not much else, watching Wangji and the child with dark eyes – mostly Wangji, Lan Xichen thinks.

Seeing the two of them slip in, Wei Wuxian raises an eyebrow at Wen Qing, who gives him a repressive look. He rises and skirts the table Wangji is sitting with his back against, standing on one side of Wangji to face Lan Xichen. “You should make your way down to the town for the night. There are a couple decent tea houses; they can put you up.” He directs his comment into the neutral space between Lan Xichen and Wangji.

“I will stay,” says Wangji, without waiting to consider. Wei Wuxian frowns.

“Lan Zhan, I sleep in a cave. With dirt and spiders and a pool of resentful energy that smells like blood.”

“I have seen it,” says Wangji, unconcerned.

“Lan Zhan. There was a snake once. With a little lump in it where it had eaten something. Even I don’t know what!”

“Shake hands with snake!” demands A-Yuan, still cuddled on Wangji’s lap, waving his little hands.

“If Wei Ying stays, I will stay,” says Wangji.

“It’s just for one night – I’ll be fine and you can come back all pristine and perfect and –”

“Wei Ying,” says Wangji, tilting his chin to look up at him. “I will stay.”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth clicks shut.

“A-Yuan wants to shake hands with snake!” A-Yuan reaches for Wei Wuxian’s sleeve, curling his fingers in the black silk.

“Too bad for you, then, because they don’t have any,” says Wei Wuxian, glancing down at him. “And besides, isn’t it time for you to go to bed? The adults are talking.”

The oldest woman in the group seems to hear this from afar and hurries over to take A-Yuan from Wangji. The little boy suddenly turns clingy, turning his face in against Wangji’s chest and holding him. “Rich-gege doesn’t go. Rich-gege doesn’t go!”

“Oh now who’s showing his true colours? You didn’t cling to me crying when I left,” says Wei Wuxian.

A-Yuan turns his head, eyes wet. “Xian-gege is going?” he wails, and Lan Xichen sees shock flash across Wei Wuxian’s face. The little boy squirms out of Wangji’s grip and tumbles into Wei Wuxian’s arms, curling into his body. Wei Wuxian raises a hand to press against his back, rocking him slowly. Wangji has one hand upraised, poised to leap in if he feels Wei Wuxian is being strained too far.

“Alright, alright. No one’s going anywhere. A-Yuan, no one’s leaving. I’ll be here, and Lan Zhan will be here. We’ll still be here tomorrow. And then we’re going to go on a trip together, to somewhere nice.”

“Xian-gege went away,” hiccoughs the child, his face still buried against Wei Wuxian’s shoulder.

“And now I’m back again. I’m right here, A-Yuan.”

Eventually the boy is disentangled and handed off to the old woman to be taken away and tucked in. Wei Wuxian looks a little wrung out, and Wen Qing clicks her tongue at him. “You don’t think he’s seen enough people leave and not come back?” she says, which makes Wei Wuxian go pale. “Be more considerate of our A-Yuan. He needs his big brother. Both his big brothers,” she says, her eyes flitting to Wangji. Although Lan Xichen hasn’t said anything to her about Wangji’s invitation to Wei Wuxian specifically, he thinks it won’t take her by surprise. He wonders suddenly how Wei Wuxian explained his abrupt departure to her.

“Zewu-jun,” says Wei Wuxian, noticing him still standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry, we’re not very good at timeliness and order. I’ll walk you to the barrier.”

“No need. I know the way. I will return with Lan Lixin tomorrow morning. Wangji.” He smiles at his brother.

Wangji nods. “Brother. Good night.”

“Be well.”

***

They return the next morning with two horse-drawn carts of the unfinished type used to transport hay and produce. They won’t be able to accommodate all the Wens, but certainly can carry the elderly and the weak; the others can take turns walking.

The horses won’t pass beneath the gnarled canopy, sweating and stomping when they approach, so Lan Xichen leaves them with Lan Lixin and walks back on his own to the Burial Mounds settlement.

Although the sun is only just creeping up over the horizon, the Wens are already stirring. Several are out digging up the remaining vegetables from the small plots of arable land, packing them away in sacks to take. Wen Ning is helping to carry rough-sided boxes of belongings out from the shelter; there aren’t many, just some pots and pans and candles. Wen Qing is flitting here and there between the peasants, giving suggestions and instructions. She looks up as he appears and stills, watching him cross the busy clearing.

“Wei Wuxian won’t be up for hours, but Hanguang-jun is probably awake,” she says, glancing at the mouth of the dark cave that opens out of the mountain. He takes her statement for permission, and walks over to look inside.

When Wei Wuxian said he lived in a cave, Lan Xichen had been expecting a home within a cave: a bed, storage for clothing and food, some furniture. Perhaps a mirror, a partition, a stand for a sword or his flute. Not much, but something. A home.

What there is is, literally, a cave. Dry dirt floor, cold stone walls, stalactites covered with dust and spiderwebs. A rush mat has been spread over a low rocky outcropping to serve as a bed; Wei Wuxian is currently lying curled on it in his clothes and without a blanket, asleep. No comforts, nothing soft or beautiful or even homely.

Beside the outcropping on which Wei Wuxian is sleeping is a smaller one, stones rounded like molars. Wangji is sitting there, eyes closed. Not meditating; just thinking, perhaps. His eyes open when Lan Xichen steps into the cave, and he rises smoothly.

“Wangji,” he says, pitching his voice low to avoid disturbing Wei Wuxian.

“Brother.”

He looks around, at the emptiness, the barren space. “This place… you could not stay here.” He feels heartsick at the idea. At the thought of Wangji sleeping on rough stone, kneeling in the dirt to kindle a fire, eating surrounded by beetles and spiders. Wangji certainly had no pampered childhood, but he is used to beauty and comfort. He deserves beauty and comfort.

Wangji’s face is cool. “It is not preferable. But it is possible,” he says, without intonation. The voice he uses to answer those who offend him.

“Wangji…”

“Wei Wuxian has lived here for nearly two years. So might I, if required.”

Lan Xichen seeks for a neutral framing. “You were raised as –”

Wangji raises his head, his eyes sharp. “As an inner disciple, a son of the ruling branch of a major clan. As was Wei Ying, in almost all ways. He is my equal. He deserves no less than me, but he has made do with it.” And then, softening slightly. “Brother, for the sake of our family archives you fled to the wilderness, and lived with nothing, hurt and alone. Do you think I would do any less for someone I love?”

Lan Xichen closes his eyes with his sigh, trying to will away the brief burst of despair. “I do not,” he says. “But I pray you will not have to.”

Behind them on what might, generously, be referred to as a bed, Wei Wuxian stirs. “Lan Zhan? ‘S time to go?” His voice is thick with sleep, tender and unguarded. It makes something in Lan Xichen’s chest twinge.

“Breakfast first,” says Wangji. “Then we go.” He looks to Lan Xichen, who nods.

***

The Wens, as it turns out, are mostly hale and reluctant to ride in the cart while their esteemed guests walk. Wei Wuxian is bullied into a place in the first cart driven by Lan Lixin, Wen Yuan on his lap staring in startled glee at the horse. Wen Qing and the old lady ride also, while Wangji and Lan Xichen take turns. In the second cart follows a heap of rush mats for bedding and the few crates and sacks of the Wens’ belongings, as well as the more infirm Wens.

At some point while Lan Xichen was absent, Wen Qing has clearly been informed of the curse. She conducts a careful examination of Wei Wuxian’s meridians while the cart bumps along, Wen Yuan giggling as he bounces on Wei Wuxian’s knee. She does the same for Wangji, her touch impersonal, professional. “I don’t detect any remnants of it,” she says when she’s finished, Wangji pulling his sleeve back over his wrist.

“Not surprising; like I said, it was small. Like a little worm,” says Wei Wuxian.

“Go digging for worms?” asks Wen Yuan, his head popping up.

“Lan Zhan, you have no idea where it could have come from? Have you been night hunting?”

Wangji reaches out to steady Wen Yuan, bouncing too enthusiastically on Wei Wuxian’s knees. “I have not. Three weeks ago, I visited Moling on my brother’s behalf to hear concerns. Many cultivators from the Su clan were present, including Su Minshan.”

Lan Xichen looks up, attention caught.

Wei Wuxian frowns. “Wait, the what?”

“Wei Ying is not current on clan affairs. Su Minshan was formerly an outer disciple of the Gusu Lan. He betrayed the location of our inner disciples to Wen Xu, and left in disgrace. After the Sunshot campaign, many new minor clans were promoted by the Lanling Jin to replace those wiped out in the conflict. Su Minshan and others of his line were given leave to form a new clan in Moling.”

“Sounds awkward.”

“It is… tense, at times.” Wangji’s voice is calm, his posture perfect as always. Lan Xichen, who’s known him his whole life and who knows the history with Su Minshan, can detect a hint of something more. He’s considering asking, but Wei Wuxian gets there first.

“I’ll bet. Branch families break off all the time, but most of them don’t stab their patron in the back first. Is that what’s bothering you?”

Wangji glances at him. “It… is not,” he admits. “Su Minshan in particular had in the past expressed admiration, which I believe later shifted to jealousy.”

“Jealousy of the Gusu Lan?”

Wangji’s eyes drop slightly. “Jealousy of me,” he says.

Wei Wuxian leans over to bump against his shoulder. “Hanguang-jun, don’t act so modest! Surely one of the Twin Jades must be used to admiring cultivators falling at his feet, in awe of his perfection, his beauty, his talent. Such a cultured gentleman must be an expert at receiving praise – and envy.” Wei Wuxian’s voice is teasing, but his eyes are bright with intelligence. When he speaks again the lightness has dropped out of his tone. “Do you think he’s bent out of shape enough to take action?”

“I do not wish to accuse him unduly. But his attention has always been uncomfortable. In that it goes beyond wishing to learn from me, and seems instead that he wishes to… be me.” Wangji’s words are uncertain; he struggles to articulate what is clearly an unfamiliar concept to him.

“But there’s already a Lan Zhan,” says Wei Wuxian, nodding. Apparently he has no such struggles. “Right now, that is. And the original is always more perfect than a copy. But what if there weren’t?” Wei Wuxian’s lips are thin. “No one could hope to catch Hanguang-jun with a murderous curse, something big and showy. But a little creeping sorrow that buries itself in under flesh and bone and hides? That could be possible.”

“It is possible,” agrees Wangji. “But for now, we have nothing more than a possibility. Not enough proof even for true suspicion.” He looks pointedly at Wei Wuxian, who smiles.

“What, are you imagining all the terrible things I might do to him? That’s very unfounded. I’m hardly ever cruel, Lan Zhan.”

Wangji’s face is difficult to read. “You can be. To those who hurt what’s yours. Just as I can be. But for now, more information is needed.”

Wei Wuxian loses a little of his garrulousness; he nods. On his lap, Wen Yuan reaches up and tugs at Wangji’s sleeve. “Rich-gege, a cow,” he says, pointing.

“That is a water buffalo,” replies Wangji, bending his head closer.

“Buffalo!”

“Aiya, A-Yuan, you can’t keep it up with this ‘Rich-gege’ business. Haven’t you been listening? Don’t you know how others covet Lan Zhan’s beauty and charm and wealth? You’re contributing to the problem.” Wei Wuxian leans in and squeezes the little boy, making him squeal with delight. “Mmhm, just as I thought, you have no repentance. When we get to Gusu, we’ll have to pack you in a pot filled with frogs, until you grow long legs and learn to hop.”

“A-Yuan will be a frog,” chortles the child, kicking his feet.

Wei Wuxian looks over to Wangji. “Seriously though, you can’t keep letting him call you that. You’ll warp him. He’ll grow up thinking of you as a wallet. What do the kids in the Cloud Recesses call you?”

“Hanguang-jun,” says Wangji.

“Then we’ll tell him to –”

Wangji puts his hand on Wei Wuxian’s arm. “A-Yuan is not a disciple. He is not a subordinate.” He looks down at the little boy, his expression careful. And, just slightly, yearning. “He calls you…”

“Xian-gege? And you would like that?”

Wangji doesn’t answer. Lan Xichen glances at him and sees his ears turning pink where they’re framed by his dark hair.

“You would,” breathes Wei Wuxian, delighted. “Lan Zhan would like to be a big brother? You’d be much better at it than me. I don’t know what I’m doing. You’re already practically a perfect parental figure – strict when needed but also so easy to butter up. Just look at all those people in Yiling who thought you were his father.”

Lan Xichen blinks, tucking this fact away for further inspection at a later time. Wangji is staring at his knees. Wen Qing, sitting on the other side of the cart, is rolling her eyes.

“So?” prompts Wei Wuxian, leaning over Wen Yuan and looking up with his cheek pressed against the boy’s messy hair. Wen Yuan looks up too, the two of their faces for a moment strikingly similar.

“Wang-gege,” says Wangji, softly.

“You hear that, A-Yuan?” says Wei Wuxian, arms wrapped around the little boy. “This is the pride of Gusu, Lan-er-gongzi, the esteemed Hanguang-jun. But to you, he’s Wang-gege. Got that?”

Wen Yuan blinks wide, innocent eyes. “Wang-gege?”

Wangji smiles. “Hello,” he says, in a tone Lan Xichen hasn’t heard from him since he was a boy himself. Undisguised happiness.

***

They travel by day, making camp at night in the grass beside a dense deciduous forest. Wen Ning and the other Wen men cut wood for a fire and stomp down the grass to place the rush bed mats. Lan Xichen and Lan Lixin make their own beds a little further away, their blanket rolls woven to maintain warmth and repel water, not infringing on the settlement’s tight-knit group.

Lan Xichen steps out into the soft shade of twilight to relieve himself in the forest, slipping through the thick, leafy trees and long grass. It’s very pleasant to feel the thrum of life around him once more, after the dry deadness of the Burial Mounds.

He’s just about to stop when, up ahead, he sees a white form gleaming like a dove in the gloom. No, two forms. One white, one black.

Wangji has Wei Wuxian pressed up against the trunk of a tall larch, his fingers twisted in dark tumbling locks. Their embrace is passionate, heated, their bodies fitted tightly together. Wei Wuxian is making soft sounds – of want, of need, of pleasure.

Lan Xichen swallows and turns away, slipping back into the trees silently.

He wonders how far this has gone, how deep the bond between the two of them is. Then he wonders why it matters. Wangji has made it clear that he will offer Wei Wuxian love in whatever form the latter prefers it. If Wangji is willing to give his whole self, isn’t it best that he receives the same in return?

Still, his heart is anxious, unsettled. He’s only had a week to understand that his distant, stony-faced brother is in fact in love with another man, possibly courting him, and almost certainly sleeping with him. All this while Lan Xichen is very, very unattached. It is definitely too much to stumble into all at once.

Some time later, while he’s sitting on a log speaking to Lan Lixin about the junior disciples’ dormitories, he sees Wangji and Wei Wuxian slip back together to take their places beside the fire. No one says anything about it. Stew is handed around, hot and thick. Conversation hums, just small, day-to-day things.

After dinner Wangji and Wei Wuxian bed down beside each other, and whatever they talk about is too quiet to be heard. All Lan Xichen can see is the closeness of their shoulders and, flashing pale in the moonlight, their hands clasped together in the sliver of shadow between their bodies.

Chapter Text

Lan Xichen committed to making the whole journey to Caiyi in case of trouble on the road, challenges made against the Wens or – more likely – Wei Wuxian. But as they camp by the roadside and avoid towns, they pass almost entirely unnoticed by the towns in Yunmeng, then Lanling. They make good time and the weather stays mostly fair, raining on only one day. Wangji is riding beside Wei Wuxian when the skies open up to let down a torrent of water; he hurriedly scoops Wen Yuan into his lap and pulls an umbrella from his qiankun pouch to shelter all three of them.

Lan Xichen sees the way Wei Wuxian’s mouth freezes, his eyes looking from the Wens enveloped in the curtain of rain to Wangji.

That’s what I remember. The rain, and the mud. It was everywhere, soaking everything.

Wangji reaches out and takes hold of his wrist, his touch light. Wei Wuxian shakes his head; smiles, and bends down to say something to Wen Yuan. The moment passes.

Lan Xichen breathes a sigh of relief. They continue on.

***

He is anticipating some of the townsfolk to be there to meet them when they arrive, carts trundling up to the outer gates of Caiyi where animals are stabled and goods are typically unloaded. There is no one other than the usual ostlers and labourers, but when they reach the large house the Lan clan has arranged to shelter the Wens at least temporarily, the town leader and several of the more important villagers are there as well as a crowd of spectators.

Standing with them is Uncle, his back straight and his eyes hard. He watches the Wens file forward carrying their meagre belongings. He watches Wen Qing come forward on behalf of the group to bow to the town head head and offer thanks for his hospitality; she presents her credentials as a physician and offers her services to any in the town who may need them. He watches Wen Ning lurk at the back of the group, a straw hat on his head and his eyes downcast, nervous.

The crowd is curious, watchful, but not malicious. They know the refugees are Wens, but Lan Xichen was circumspect about Wen Qing and Wen Ning, and entirely silent about Wei Wuxian. Caiyi is a popular stop for cultivators travelling to or from the Cloud Recesses but not the nexus of gossip and awareness that would allow most of its citizens to identify any of the three on sight. And unlike the Cloud Recesses, Caiyi was largely untouched by the war. The Wens are not bogeymen here, merely somewhat distasteful as threadbare refugees.

Lan Xichen comes forward to greet his uncle with a bow. “Thank you for meeting us, Uncle. I hope you have been well.”

“Tolerably. I see you arrived unscathed.” He watches as the Wens enter the house, a wood-frame home on a back alley with a large shared downstairs and several private rooms upstairs. It isn’t in a good location – near the chandlers and the tanners, and far from the nearest canal – but it’s solid and in good condition. “At first glance, your assessment of them seems valid,” he admits, as the Wens carry in their sleeping mats and meagre sacks of turnips and potatoes. His gaze shifts to something behind Lan Xichen.

“Uncle,” says Wangji, coming up beside him and bowing in greeting. Next to him is Wei Wuxian, who bows also.

Lan Qiren’s mouth thins. “So. We have taken in your dependents, Wei Wuxian. What are your intentions now?”

Wei Wuxian’s face is smooth, carefully impassive. “I’m not sure yet. I’d like to stay and see the Wens settle in for a bit, if nothing else,” His tone is light but without the ease Lan Xichen has become used to in him over the past few days of travelling together.

“You do not trust the Gusu Lan to steward our responsibilities appropriately?”

“It has nothing to do with trust. I’d just like to be here to help, if I’m needed.”

“And what help,” begins Uncle. He doesn’t continue, because at this moment Wen Yuan comes running up, squirming forward between Wei Wuxian and Wangji’s legs to hug Wangji’s thigh.

“Xian-gege! Wang-gege! A-Yuan wants to see frogs!”

Lan Xichen, unlike his brother and Wei Wuxian, is looking at his uncle rather than the boy, and so sees the shock that blossoms there. Wei Wuxian squats down beside him, ruffling his matted hair. “Aiya, A-Yuan, frogs? We don’t have time for frogs. Look at you. This hair and these clothes were fine when we were living in lean-tos, but you can’t go around Caiyi looking like this. Think of Lan Zhan’s reputation! Now that you have a proper house, you’re going to have a proper bath, and wear your hair like a proud young gentleman. No more being planted in the dirt.”

His uncle makes a snorting noise, and the little boy looks up. “Who is this?”

Wangji reaches down and picks him up. “A-Yuan, this is my uncle. Lan Qiren.”

“Brother’s Uncle?”

“That is correct. Say hello.”

Wen Yuan, resting against Wangji’s hips, raises his hands in a tiny approximation of a bow. “A-Yuan greets Brother’s Uncle!” he looks up and smiles, bright and sunny.

Lan Qiran looks gently pole-axed. “This is…?”

“Wen Yuan,” says Wangji. “He lost his parents and his sister in the Jin camp. The Wens look after him, primarily an old woman, but he has no immediate family remaining. He is polite and of good disposition.”

Wen Yuan looks up at Wangji, mouth slightly open, clearly not understanding most of the complex speech. But he nods at the end, as if in approval.

“He appears healthy, if thin,” says Uncle, grudgingly.

“The Wens have prioritized caring for him. As has Wei Ying,” says Wangji.

Uncle ignores this comment. His eyes are on the little boy, his face almost soft. “Do they intend for him to enter training as a cultivator?”

Wangji glances at Wei Wuxian, who is standing and dusting himself off. He answers. “I’m not sure. No one’s discussed it. There wasn’t any hope of it, before. He’s still too little, anyway. Not yet three.”

“Lack of proximity to a decision does not excuse poor planning,” says Uncle, his usual sternness returning as he takes his eyes off the child. “They must consider options for his future.” He nods to Xichen, gives Wei Wuxian a last look, and turns to leave. They all watch him walk off in the direction of the path to the Cloud Recesses.

“That was weird,” says Wei Wuxian in a theatrical whisper. “Wasn’t it? Lan Zhan, it was weird, right?”

“Uncle has always prized education for all able to participate; it is perhaps not so strange he should consider A-Yuan’s,” says Wangji, but his voice is doubtful.

“Lan Zhan, he’s a Wen kid. And your uncle…”

Lan Xichen looks to him. “Uncle is not so opposed to the Wens as you think. He recognizes responsibility, and adherence to proper conduct. I believe he will support them, now that they are here and he has seen their need.”

Wei Wuxian’s smile is small, crooked. “Ah. So it’s just me he can’t stand, then,” he says, softly.

Wangji’s face is drawn, pained. “Wei Ying…”

Wei Wuxian reaches out and takes Wen Yuan from Wangji. “C’mon, A-Yuan. Let’s go tour your new home and see about a bath, hm?”

“Frogs in bath?” asks Wen Yuan, hopefully.

“There are no frogs – forget about the frogs! Now is not time for frogs. The frogs are all sleeping. It’s winter soon. You can see the frogs in the spring. Aiya, A-Yuan doesn’t let me forget anything I say…” Wei Wuxian takes the boy into the house, his dark form disappearing through the doorway.

“Brother,” says Wangji, looking worried. “I must speak to Uncle.”

Lan Xichen sighs. But he is entirely correct. It cannot be put off any longer.

***

Wangji, politely attempting to not be a burden, proposes that he speak to Uncle alone. Lan Xichen thinks this is an incredibly poor idea, and diplomatically refuses it. So they end up the three of them sitting in his office, grey and dim in the cloudy afternoon, the air chill. It has cooled noticeably in the days they were gone, the first snowfall not far away now.

There are a few small plates of cakes and snacks on the table, there as a matter of etiquette and nothing more. Lan Xichen knows perfectly well that none of them will partake. Not in a family meeting. But it would be rude not to have them available. So they sit, untouched, on a matched set of Jun ware plates gifted to Uncle in some long-past tutorial session. It was Wangji who brought them today, and Lan Xichen can’t help wondering whether they were chosen on purpose for their ostentatious blending of blue and crimson colours.

“Wangji, have you fully recovered?” inquires Uncle, his face impassive, after the requisite greetings and pleasantries.

Wangji inclines his head. “I have. Wei Ying’s intervention saved my life.”

Lan Xichen represses the urge to close his eyes. Apparently Wangji is not planning to take a diplomatic approach to this conversation.

Uncle’s mouth pinches at the corners. “Xichen’s intervention saved your life. Wei Wuxian, if he played any part, was a tool. Nothing more.”

Wangji tilts his head in the slightest intimation of careful consideration. “A mere tool required submission by armed attack?” he asks, his voice cool.

Lan Qiren’s eyes flash to Lan Xichen as if to ask whose idea this idea is; Lan Xichen makes no sign. “Do not play word games, Wangji; it is undignified. If Wei Wuxian chooses the path of demonic cultivation, he must be prepared to be met with suspicion and an abundance of caution.”

“I was taught that guests are to be granted hospitality and safety while under our roof. Especially those brought from afar at our request.”

Uncle’s lips tighten. “My fears were more than validated by past events,” he says.

“What was it that Uncle feared?” asks Wangji.

“That your prized Yiling Patriarch would make a corpse puppet of you, a disgrace, an abomination,” spits Uncle.

Wangji stares back, cold as ice. “Are you aware how many puppets Wei Ying has maintained? Outside the confines of battle, a war the other clans begged for his assistance in? A war which would have been lost without him?”

“Evil is not measured in –”

“One,” says Wangji, his voice like a strike. “He has raised one man from death, given him back his mind and his memories. Out of compassion, and out of obligation. He keeps no puppets, does not steep himself in evil and cruelty. He digs in the earth for turnips, he protects the innocent, he raises an orphan child. His sacrifices have been real; they have been silent. He has asked for nothing in return. Does he not uphold our values? Does he not exceed them?”

“Wangji, you are blinded by your heart,” snaps Uncle.

Wangji takes a slow breath. Lan Xichen is reminded of the deliberate drawing of a bow-string. “Which of the virtues I have named is untrue?”

“It is not his virtues that are at issue. Demonic cultivation is forbidden – it is the height of wickedness, of insult, of perversion.”

“Because it may be used to slaughter? Because it may be used to issue commands to the dead? Because it may be harnessed for strength, or speed, or control? All this is true of our own cultivation. Have we not all killed? Have we not all implored the dead to behave in line with our needs?”

Uncle’s face is all strained muscles, tense and ugly. “I cannot believe that a nephew of mine, an heir to our clan, would come before me and argue in favour of demonic cultivation. Shame, Wangji. You shame yourself; you shame your family.”

Wangji’s shoulders are trembling, just slightly, but when he speaks his voice is steady. “Uncle, do you truly believe that words matter more than actions?”

“Do you truly believe that lust matters more than ideals?” retorts Lan Qiren.

Wangji stands, the plates jumping on the table from the force of his movement. And Lan Xichen, aware of imminent disaster, enters the fray.

“Wangji. Uncle. Please,” says Lan Xichen. “We are a family. The only family any of us have left.”

“Perhaps not if Wangji has his way. Perhaps he intends to bring the Yiling Patriarch into the family, to make his bows to our ancestors and start a new school of cultivation,” says Uncle sourly.

Lan Xichen has known Wangji his whole life. He was the first one to hold him after Mother, stroking an awed finger down his soft cheek and earning a little wriggle. He was there when Wangji took his first step, wrote his first character, played his first note on the guqin. He knows his brother better than anyone – or at least thought that he did, before he brought Wei Wuxian to the Jingshi.

He can see the hurt in Wangji’s impassive face, the despair. There is a hierarchy to the teachings of the Gusu Lan, and while Embrace no Unorthodox Cultivation is near the top, so too is Behave with Filial Piety. Uncle is not just their uncle, he is the man who raised them and taught them and led their family and their clan for the entirety of their childhoods. Wangji has never before confronted him in anything. And now he has chosen the one topic he refuses to compromise on as a first attempt.

“Wangji,” he says, pleadingly. “Please. Stay.”

Wangji gives him a long look, one that is easy to interpret. For you, only. He drops back to kneel stiffly, his back straight as a knife. His eyes are flint-sharp.

“Uncle,” says Lan Xichen. “Wangji has been clear that he intends to stay with Wei Wuxian, however that may look. If he cannot find acceptance here, then the Cloud Recesses will lose their most precious cultivator, and you will lose your nephew. We all know what tolerance without acceptance looks like. I do not think any of us would choose that path. I hope that you may come to see Wei Wuxian’s virtues and not just his faults.”

He turns to Wangji. “Wangji, Uncle must consider the clan’s reputation, and our safety. Wei Wuxian himself has sacrificed much, and achieved more. But the Stygian Tiger Amulet is evil, an evil that cannot and should not be controlled by one man. I truly believe that, for Wei Wuxian to find both peace and acceptance, he will need to forego the Amulet.”

Wangji’s face is impassive. “To whom would you have him surrender it? What better guardian exists? The Lanling Jin would have him give it to them. Their ascendancy has not been without demonstrations of ill judgement.”

“I am sure no one else would have done better,” replies Lan Xichen calmly. “Especially after such an upheaval. But as for the Amulet, I don’t have an answer, Wangji. It would have been better never to have been forged.”

“Exactly,” nods Uncle.

Wangji shifts, his shoulders broadening. His voice is cold, hard, unforgiving. “When the Wens attacked our clan, my brother abandoned the Cloud Recesses and our people to protect our texts. Our home burned; many died. Uncle sacrificed the outer disciples to save our inner clan members; those of distant blood were slaughtered on our doorstep. Wei Ying, given the choice between an empty death and a tarnished life, chose the latter. Do we have the right to judge him?”

Lan Xichen does, now, close his eyes.

“Wangji, that is outrageous,” snaps Uncle. “Withdraw your words.”

“I will not,” says Wangji. “I will not condone our actions while condemning Wei Ying’s. His burdens are heavy, and I will help him take each and every step on the proper path. But I will not punish him for putting people before principles. I will not cage him with rules, nor with my regard.”

Lan Xichen opens his eyes to see uncle pressing his knuckles against the table. “Our laws are not a cage. They are the bones of our clan. To reject them is to reject us, Wangji.”

Wangji looks back heavily. “I do not reject the laws. But I reject an interpretation which does not also consider compassion. I will not bring anyone precious to me into a home which makes no place for love.”

Uncle takes a slow, dry breath. “Do you accuse me of not loving you?” The words are brittle, withered.

Wangji raises his hands slowly in a sign of deference, and bows. “No. Uncle has raised me never to make my father’s mistake. I thank him for that. I will not. Wei Ying will be welcome in my home, or it cannot be my home. That is what Uncle has taught me.” He stands, bows again very stiffly, and walks out.

Lan Xichen sits with Lan Qiren in stunned silence. Outside, a group of junior disciples walk by discussing a lesson on musical cultivation. In the thickets behind the office, a wren sings.

“Wangji imagines himself a philosopher now,” says Uncle at last, his voice bitter. “He thinks himself able to parse matters the sages left untouched.”

“Perhaps it is because they were left untouched that he feels he must speak for them,” says Lan Xichen. “Wangji’s style is curt, but I find no error in his thinking.”

Uncle snorts. “He is a young fool. He has fallen in love for the first time, and so all the world must see the perfection of his choice. Ridiculous.”

Lan Xichen looks across at his uncle, tone steady. “Wangji has known how to love since before he understood death, or loss. And he has known how to dedicate his whole self to that love for at least as long. How long are you willing to see him sit in the snow waiting for Wei Wuxian?”

“Xichen…”

Lan Xichen rises, picking up the plates of snacks and cakes. The Wens will appreciate them. “I have always believed that Wangji was content with the way of things. I realise now that, while he may have been content, he has never before been happy. I am distressed by that realization.” He inclines his head politely, and steps out.

Uncle does not acknowledge his departure; his face is slack with surprise.

***

Lan Xichen completes some chores around the Cloud Recesses – receiving a report from a team of cultivators sent on a night hunt, inspecting updates to one of the foreign disciples’ dormitories – and eats a hasty meal. When he’s completed this he stops by the Jingshi, but is unsurprised to find it empty, a few fallen leaves drifting across the polished wood floor. He wraps the uneaten snacks in an indigo cloth, and heads down the long staircase carved into the mountainside.

At the Wen house he finds Wen Qing supervising a thorough clean of the building, the Wens on hands and knees washing the floors and the very limited furniture. She receives him with a bow and a small smile, which becomes more genuine when he puts the parcel of cakes into her hands.

“If you’re looking for Hanguang-jun, he and Wei Wuxian took A-Yuan to see the canals,” she says, something knowing in her glance.

“I see,” he says.

“He seemed… chilly,” she says.

“Yes. Wangji often appears so.”

“Unusually chilly,” says Wen Qing, pointedly. Lan Xichen sighs. “Is there a problem?”

“Not for you and the others here,” he says.

“But for Wei Wuxian?”

He looks at her, this petite woman who even Wei Wuxian fears, who has done so much for him and received an extraordinary gift in return. “Tell me, Wen-guniang. The Stygian Tiger Amulet. Would Wei Wuxian put it aside?”

She looks up at him, still as a statue, the curves of her face smooth, chiselled. “I am fond of calling him a fool,” she says. “He isn’t. He chooses impracticalities over necessities when he pleases, and he makes misfortune a game at times. He’s an infuriating man, often. But he’s brilliant, and he’s principled, and his determination is stronger than anything – certainly stronger than his health. And he’s proud, so proud, because if he weren’t he would have to face what he is – what he’s become. He won’t do that for you; he wouldn’t do it for me.”

Lan Xichen says, “But for Wangji?”

She shrugs – not a rude gesture, merely an uncertain one. “I don’t know. I don’t. I hope…” she purses her lips and turns away. “What I hope is immaterial. It’s his decision to make.”

Inside, one of the Wens calls to her with a question. She looks back over her shoulder and nods. “I have to go. Thank you for the gift, Zewu-jun.”

He nods and watches her pad barefoot, her robes hitched up, to help with the cleaning.

Then he steps back out onto the street and heads for the canals.

***

There are many canals in Caiyi, some so narrow that only one punt may fit between the two shores, the bridges over them narrow and steep. Some are wide as a river, floating market stalls moored beside stone retaining walls filled with fruits and nuts and, at this time of the year, colourful fabrics rather than flowers.

Lan Xichen finds Wangji and Wei Wuxian by one of the wider canals, Wei Wuxian perched on the stone wall eating nuts from a bag and looking like a highwayman in his black robes. Wangji stands beside him, his head inclined to listen to his lover. A-Yuan is playing with a toy in the shape of twined sycamore seeds, spinning it between his palms. His hair is now sleek and combed, his clothes new and dark blue in colour, his tiny belt decorated with a jet beaded ornament. He looks like the son of a prosperous family rather than a peasant’s child, indistinguishable from the small sons and daughters of Lan cultivators.

A-Yuan is the first to see him, Wangji and Wei Wuxian speaking in low voices. “Brother’s Brother!” cheers A-Yuan, tottering over to him to demonstrate his toy. Lan Xichen smiles and bends down to see it, receiving a full explanation of its workings. When he looks up Wei Wuxian is smiling lightly, elbows resting casually on the stone wall; Wangji is calm but Lan Xichen can see hints of distress. He takes the toy from A-Yuan and makes it fly; the little boy chases after it and he steps over to speak to his brother.

“Wangji,” he says, stopping beside him.

“Brother.”

Wei Wuxian looks at the two of them, straightening. “Should I…?”

Wangji shakes his head minutely, and Wei Wuxian slumps back down; terrible posture, but a lovely image on the stone wall framed by willow trees.

“Uncle was unconvinced by my arguments,” says Wangji.

“They were well-reasoned, Wangji, but I do not think Uncle will recognize an appeal to logic. There is too much written in the laws and ancient texts which supports his stance.”

Wangji shifts to watch as Wen Yuan chases his toy near the street, relaxing when the boy retrieves it and comes back onto the dirt verge out of the way of carts and foot traffic. “He has always stressed the importance of strong reasoning supported by both facts and principles. His refusal to consider my perspective feels targeted.”

“Uncle is not infallible. He too is capable of errors in reasoning, and in judgement. And in this, he feels strongly.”

“Because Wei Ying has chosen an unorthodox path.”

Lan Xichen’s eyes flick to Wei Wuxian, who’s listening with a carefully neutral expression. “That, yes. But also because he fears to lose you to it.”

Wei Wuxian stiffens. “Lan Zhan wouldn’t –”

“I do not mean to your cultivation, Wei Wuxian, but your world. Spontaneity, exuberance, and fearlessness untampered by deference. All things very much against our teachings. And particularly against my Uncle’s interpretation of them.”

Wangji draws himself up, face hardening. “Then –”

Lan Xichen speaks quickly, fearing whatever ultimatum it is Wangji has in mind. “I think, however, that despite this Uncle may still come to recognize his beliefs are not worth losing you. Your parting words shook him. I do not defend Uncle’s choices, but in his own way he believes he has acted with your success and happiness in mind. He does love you, Wangji. I hope… I hope he will allow himself to be swayed by that.”

Below them on the river a punt with a peasant selling hot dumplings for river parties drifts by, the peddler shouting out his wares. Wangji makes no sign of hearing it. “Uncle would prefer to contort the laws to fit the circumstances, rather than lose an ounce of rigour.”

“He will not make the same mistake as our father,” says Lan Xichen.

Wangji’s fingers tighten, then relax. Lan Xichen sees it; he knows that Wei Wuxian does also. “He will not, Wangji.”

Wangji doesn’t acknowledge this. Instead he turns to Wei Wuxian, who sits up a little straighter. “Has Wei Ying heard of my parents?”

Wei Wuxian shakes his head.

“My father fell in love with a rogue cultivator,” Wangji says, his voice emotionless. “A woman of great renown, and great passion. While in the Cloud Recesses, she killed a teacher. Rather than sentence her to death as the clan laws demanded, or lose her to the wider world, he took her as his wife and locked her alone in the Jingshi to repent. He himself retired to solitude also, to pay the price for commuting her sentence. My brother and I were permitted to visit her once a month. Until she died, by her own hand, in her prison. Since then my uncle has made it his mission to raise his nephews without predilection to foolish choices, to putting their hearts above our laws. I am his shame, now,” he says.

Lan Xichen feels, very silently, his heart break.

Wei Wuxian drops the paper bag of peanuts he was eating and stands in one smooth movement to pull Wangji into a tight hug. His hands dig into Wangji’s back, fingers buried in the thick layers of silk, his grasp clawed. His face, resting over Wangji’s chin, is sharp and furious. For an instant Lan Xichen sees red light flicker like lightning in his eyes, but it fades. “Lan Zhan is the best person there is,” he says, voice low, rough-edged. “Since I met you, there has never been a time I needed to ask for advice or guidance on anything, because all I had to do was look to Lan Zhan’s example. You are beautiful, you are upright, you are good, so good, Lan Zhan. Never believe otherwise. If you say the word, we’ll go. We’ll find somewhere new, somewhere fresh, somewhere without judgement.”

“Wangji,” says Lan Xichen, stricken, and stops. Wei Wuxian’s eyes flash to him, and the blood-red glow reappears there. His stare is dangerous, threatening. The stare of an animal; the stare of a yaoguai. Hints of black shadow twist around his fingers.

Wangji puts his hands carefully on Wei Wuxian’s shoulders and pushes him back. Wei Wuxian blinks, straightening. The animosity fades, red light disappearing from his eyes and leaving just worried grey as he steps away, hands falling to hold Wangji’s forearms in a light grip. “Lan Zhan?”

“Does Wei Ying miss Lotus Pier?” he asks, softly.

Wei Wuxian swallows, pale throat bobbing. “That’s… of course I do. But –”

Wangji nods solemnly. “Even though they turned their backs on Wei Ying, it’s still his home. The Cloud Recesses will always be my home. I am not ready to give that up.”

The sycamore-leaf toy swirls down through the air and brushes against Wangji’s sleeve; he catches it as Wen Yuan comes trotting over. “Wang-gege!”

Wangji bends and gives it back to him, his fingers brushing light as snowfall over the boy’s shoulder. “Important people are here,” he says, straightening.

Wei Wuxian’s face is pinched, distressed. “I didn’t bring them here to be an anchor, Lan Zhan.”

“They are not,” says Wangji. “And you are not.”

Wen Yuan has tired of his toy, is pressing up against Wei Wuxian and Wangji’s legs like a cat looking for attention. “A-Yuan wants to see the water!”

“Just wait, Wang-gege and I are – Lan Zhan, you don’t have to always do what he asks. You’ll spoil him. You’re already spoiling him,” says Wei Wuxian, irritated, as Wangji lifts the boy and sits him on the stone wall. He stands behind him, holding him carefully as Wen Yuan looks out over the canal and kicks his feet.

Wangji glances at Wei Wuxian over the boy’s head. “What is wrong with acceding to reasonable requests, when they bring him happiness?” he asks. And Lan Xichen feels his stomach fold uncomfortably, knowing entirely well that Wangji was so rarely given the same consideration as a boy.

“Because if you accede to the reasonable ones, soon they’ll be unreasonable! A-Yuan will be asking for ponies and jade trinkets and fine wine before his fifth birthday! He’ll grow up to be like the Peacock, and he’ll seduce some poor lovely girl who doesn’t know any better and sweep her away from her bereaved family. Is that what you want? Look at this face, Lan Zhan, and tell me he won’t.” He plumps Wen Yuan’s cheeks with his hands, the little boy batting chubby fists at him.

“Ridiculous,” says Wangji, his voice soft.

“It’s not ridiculous, it’s a very real danger, A-Yuan is already stealing your heart and you’re wise and discerning and can add three rows of figures in your head. No village maiden will stand a chance.” Wei Wuxian sighs and turns to lean against the rock wall, his forearms propped up against it. He tilts so that his shoulder is pressed against Wangji’s. His voice when he speaks again is no longer teasing, just quiet. Firm. “Lan Zhan, you deserve to be respected, and to be loved.”

“As does Wei Ying.”

“Never mind about me. Lan Zhan –”

Wangji’s turned to look at him, his back to Lan Xichen but his shoulders broad, so broad. “No. It does not work that way. Either we both matter, or neither do. Wei Ying may not forget to prize himself.”

Wei Wuxian blinks, mouth slightly open. Then he smiles, just a little. “Like I said,” he murmurs. “Lan Zhan is too good. And if he once asks it, I’ll whisk him away. Anywhere he wishes. Hm?”

Wangji lets out a soft breath and pulls the little boy close to his chest. “Right now, we are here,” he says.

“So we are,” agrees Wei Wuxian. “And someone should be getting back home to Granny for dinner.” He pokes Wen Yuan’s stomach with a long finger, making the boy fidget and giggle. “Lan Zhan, do you want to go home? Or stay with me?”

Lan Xichen can’t see the look his brother gives Wei Wuxian, but the Yiling Patriarch snorts. “Alright, alright. But it didn’t look like a very good tea house.”

“We can find a better one.”

“No – it’s close to the Wens. It’s fine for now.”

Wangji lifts Wen Yuan down and gives his brother a nod. “Wei Ying and I will be staying in the tea house beside the parasol store,” he says.

“Is the house not large enough?” asks Lan Xichen, instead of pointing out that Uncle will be unimpressed with his decision to sleep outside the Cloud Recesses.

Wei Wuxian takes Wen Yuan’s hand and starts leading him down the street. “No – it’s great. But if I stay there they’ll insist on me taking a room to myself, and there’s not really enough space for that. They shouldn’t be coddling me – and it’s easier if I’m not underfoot, anyway. That way Wen Qing can rule the roost.”

“As she would even if Wei Ying were present,” says Wangji.

Wen Wuxian bats at his arm. “Unfair. Cruel. Lan Zhan is bullying me.”

“Wei Ying must maintain perspective,” says Wangji, placidly. He takes Wen Yuan’s other hand.

They part at the next street corner, their paths diverging. Wangji gives a small bow; Wei Wuxian merely quirks his lips towards a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Lan Xichen folds his hands in his sleeves, still deeply unhappy.

“Wangji – I will stand behind you, always. I do not consider this conversation at an end. You are correct – this is your home. I will not accept less than that.”

Wangji nods. “Thank you, Brother.”

Wen Yuan waves, his hand caught in Wangji’s. “Thank you, Brother’s Brother!”

Lan Xichen stands on the corner as they walk down the street together. Every third step, Wei Wuxian and Wangji swing their arms and lift the little boy into the air, his shrieks of laughter echoing. Lan Xichen watches them for two full blocks before he heads back towards the mountain.

***

He does not, however, make it to the winding staircase which leads homewards. The large street which provides access to the trail to the Cloud Recesses is lined with eateries and market stands and peddlers eager to appeal to tired and hungry cultivators on their way to the Gusu Lan’s seat of power. Many of them, Lan Xichen knows, prominently offer a variety of meat dishes for those who find the Lan clan’s vegetarian tendencies unappealing.

The evening is closing in as he reaches the end of the street, lanterns in a variety of colours and shapes being hung from eaves and crossbars to wreath the stalls in warm light. Lan Xichen sees a flash of white out of the corner of his eye and turns, assuming it is one of his disciples returning from a night hunt. For a moment he thinks it is, before his eye catches the subtle differences in the white robes. Not Lan clan, but Su clan.

Su Minshan, in fact. He raises his eyebrows.

Behind one of the stands a long-time peddler spots him, calling “Zewu-jun – jasmine tea? Rosebud tea?”

He smiles vaguely and waves away the man’s cry; ahead of him, Su Minshan has already turned. His bow is practiced, confident, and entirely correct for two equals greeting each other. Technically appropriate, but lacking in regard given Lan Xichen’s years of experience and status as Su Minshan’s former clan leader. Lan Xichen returns it, his face coolly blank.

“Clan Leader Su. I was unaware you were visiting Caiyi,” he says, joining him beneath the awning of a pot-sticker restaurant. The greasy fumes and smell of cooking pork are unappetizing, but he doesn’t think it’s the sizzling fat that’s making his stomach clench.

Su Minshan had not been a particularly notable disciple before the Wen invasion; Lan Xichen had been aware of him as a young man who lurked in his brother’s shadow, and little more. When he betrayed the secrets of Lan Yi’s frozen cave to the Wens, Lan Xichen had been lying feverish in a hollow, the collected wisdom of his ancestors filling the qiankun pouches he carried with him. When he had returned later after a long recovery in A-Yao’s cottage to find Uncle ill and Wangji hobbled with a poorly-healing broken leg, not much had been said of past events. With the Cloud Recesses still mostly char and ash, there had been enough lingering pain in the air.

“Moling is prospering, Clan Leader Lan, but there are still many goods and products that are difficult to find there. I come to Caiyi on occasion to inspect wares and recommend orders.”

Lan Xichen simply nods, instead of pointing out that few clan leaders would be caught dead pursuing such an administrative task. Su Minshan doesn’t need to be told that; he’s a man who is intricately aware of each of the tight rungs on the ladder of social standing. He is also a man lacking in imagination, if he’s unable to come up with a better excuse.

“My thanks for hosting Lan Wangji in your recent clan meeting,” he says. Su Minshan, in addition to lacking imagination, also lacks the Lan talent for concealing emotion. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

“We always welcome the Gusu Lan – I appreciated Hanguang-jun’s presence. I believe we are closer to resolving some of the issues which remain between our clans.”

“That is good to hear,” says Lan Xichen. “I know how much you have valued my brother’s example. I am sure he would be pleased to hear it from you directly; as you know he does not always listen to the praise he receives.” He smiles pleasantly.

The muscle in Su Minshan’s jaw twitches again.

“Hanguang-jun always has my esteem,” he says, bowing. “If you’ll excuse me, Clan Leader Lan, I must make another order before the shop closes for the night.” He bows hastily and shuffles off down the street.

Lan Xichen watches him go. He is no longer smiling.

Chapter Text

Lan Xichen had considered how best to make his clan aware of the possible presence of Wei Wuxian in the Cloud Recesses when it became clear that he would be in the region for an indefinite time. A formal announcement certainly seemed likely to convey unnecessary profile; casual mentions to some of his key cultivators felt duplicitously calculating.

In fact, though, he quickly realises it’s unnecessary. Gossip is technically forbidden in the Cloud Recesses, but that does not in any way prevent it. Whether from Lan Lixin, or Lan Guiying, or simply public sightings in Caiyi, he comes to recognize that the Gusu Lan are very aware that Wei Wuxian is in the neighbourhood. And that he’s here in company with Wangji. Intimate company.

Unfortunately that’s all he knows, because invariably the conversations die the moment he comes through the door.

The opinions of those closest to him do little to help him understand the wider sentiment.

“Wangji has made himself conspicuous,” snorts Uncle into his tea, declining to say more – perhaps a sign that he is still digesting their family conversation.

“Hanguang-jun is beyond reproach,” says Lan Yufei, spooning dried dandelion into a ceramic pot, “but that does not mean he is beyond critical consideration. I suppose we’ll have to see whether rumour outweighs experience.”

“I wouldn’t dare to comment on Wei-gongzi,” says Lan Lixin, when asked to his face by Lan Xichen. Which shows only that he is well aware that this is a political – and emotional – minefield.

A-Yao has always been skilled at hearing, interpreting, and influencing gossip. Even thinking that makes Lan Xichen frown, because the framing makes it sound juvenile and flighty, when in fact it is a real talent. A talent he does not possess. He has never considered it a serious shortcoming, before – the Gusu Lan are not the Qinghe Nie or the Lanling Jin. The Gusu Lan have undercurrents of interest and excitement and fear, of course, but they are mostly focused on higher ideals. Or so he thought. Now, though, he realises that while Wei Wuxian’s welcome will depend most heavily on himself and Uncle, it is not unimpacted by the feelings of the rest of the clan. Feelings he is unsure how to control.

Lan Xichen has always felt that leading by example is the best way. Treat others with kindness to receive kindness. Be honest and transparent, to receive honesty and transparency. Trust in others, so that you may be trusted in return.

He cannot order his clan to accept Wei Wuxian. At least not with any real chance of success. But he can demonstrate his acceptance of Wei Wuxian.

“Perhaps you would like to bring A-Yuan to see the Cloud Recesses,” he proposes to Wangji one afternoon. He’s been spending more time than usual in Caiyi, partially in support of his brother, partially to keep an eye on Su Minshan who remains in town apparently visiting stores and artisans.

They’re having tea in the tea house which, as Wei Wuxian had pointed out, is not one of the more luxurious ones. The feng shui is lacking; the decorations are old and tired, and the pottery distinctly second-class. “Wei Wuxian is, of course, welcome,” he adds, assaying subtlety.

Wangji inclines his head in thoughtful consideration; Wei Wuxian gives him a curious look. Wen Yuan is at home currently, being minded by the old Wen grandmother.

“Uncle would not be pleased,” says Wangji, softly.

“Uncle will make no public criticism, Wangji. And… he has shown himself not uninterested in children.”

Wei Wuxian raises an eyebrow. “Zewu-jun, so calculating,” he says, his tone teasing. “But you’re right – who wouldn’t have his heart melted by our A-Yuan? You should go, Lan Zhan.”

“Wei Ying may come too.”

“Of course I may – but if the point is to soften up your uncle, I definitely shouldn’t.”

Lan Xichen frowns, feeling his plan slipping through his fingers. “I did not mean –”

“Zewu-jun, it’s fine. And besides, A-Yuan’s lived in poverty and frankly appalling conditions for his whole life. He’d be blown away by your home. He should go.”

Wangji nods slowly. “Perhaps you are correct,” he concedes.

And so Lan Xichen, intending to socialize Wei Wuxian in the Cloud Recesses, instead ends up with Wangji and a very curious toddler.

This turns out to be the wisest thing he could have done.

The Lan disciples flock to the little boy with his chubby cheeks and his bright smiles, receiving waves and giggles as he is shown pristine courtyards and gardens full of flaming fall colours and rooms decorated with priceless relics. He has a little wooden sword set and engages in mock battles with several of the younger cultivators, all of whom fall over themselves to let him win. He is brought in for tea and rice cakes in the meal hall where he’s pampered with sweets hastily produced from secret stashes.

Wangji introduces him as Wen Yuan, a dependant of Wei Wuxian, which prompts the little boy to babble about ‘Xian-gege’ and their exploits and jokes. It’s not very comprehensible, but it is utterly adorable, and entirely clear that Wen Yuan adores Wei Wuxian.

Equally charming is the fact that Wen Yuan regales the disciples with his stories while sitting on Wangji’s lap, being calmly fed cakes and tea and having his face wiped with infinite patience. Lan Xichen catches the many astounded looks from the disciples further at the edge of the group as they watch Wangji fuss over the little boy.

All of this lasts for nearly an hour, before a stern voice from the doorway cuts through the chatter. “No talking at mealtimes. No gathering for frivolous conversation. No blocking the aisles.” Lan Qiren strides into the meal hall. The disciples quickly bow and disperse, disappearing as though they never had been.

Wangji turns without rising; Wen Yuan looks up. “Brother’s Uncle!”

Uncle looks down at him, blinking.

“A-Yuan visits Brother, and Brother’s Brother!”

“Where are we, A-Yuan?” asks Wangji, looking not at the little boy but his uncle, his face carefully neutral.

“Cloud Receipts!”

“Cloud Recesses,” corrects Uncle, but gently.

“Cloud Recesses!” says Wen Yuan. “No talking while eating.” He takes the cup of tea Wangji offers him and drinks, making an audible sigh of pleasure.

“And who have you met?” asks Wangji, apparently determined to show off to Uncle how well-raised the child is. Wen Yuan hums and points at his mouth pointedly. “You may speak now, you have finished.”

“Met Lan Yuze, and Lan Bolin, and Lan … Susu…” he trails off, looking up at Uncle. “And Lan-shufu!” he says, smiling.

“And why have you come to visit?” asks Uncle, his voice not falling into the theatrical one often used with children, but straightforwardly kind.

“Mm… Wang-gege visited A-Yuan’s home. So now A-Yuan visits Wang-gege’s. Except there’s no worms, not even spiders,” says the little boy, as if this is a serious deficiency.

Uncle frowns. “Are there spiders in your home?” His voice is a little sharp.

Wen Yuan nods, smilingly. “Spiders, ‘n beetles, and a snake! A-Yuan wanted snake friend, but Xian-gege said no.”

“That was your old home. You live in Caiyi, now. In the new house,” prompts Wangji, quietly.

The little boy tilts his head to the side. “Mmhm. In the new house. Now A-Yuan has white rice. It’s yummy!” He kicks his feet, until Wangji chides him and he stops.

“Are you hungry now?” asks Uncle.

Wen Yuan shakes his head. “Good. You should eat only to your hunger. That is proper.” He looks to Wangji. “If there is a need for food, you must speak to your brother. In bringing these people here, he has accepted responsibility for them.” He glances at Lan Xichen, who smiles and inclines his head.

“And if the child requires supplies or educational material, I am sure surplus may be found,” he says, turning to leave.

“Bye bye, Brother’s Uncle!” says Wen Yuan.

Uncle glances over his shoulder. “Goodbye,” he says, his voice quiet.

***

It snows that night, thick, fluffy flakes tumbling down through the darkness. Lan Xichen thinks of his brother, tucked away in a draughty tea house. He thinks of Wen Yuan, living with his distant relatives from the south, all of them likely unused to the snow. He thinks of Caiyi, a busy town whose streets will be full of dirty slush and animal muck.

He thinks of his disciples, revelling in laughter and games and kindness, a side he’s never seen of them before.

When the morning comes, he pens a quick note and sends it by one of the young messengers. Perhaps Wen Yuan would enjoy our pristine snow.

***

It’s the laughter that summons him from his office the next afternoon. A small group of junior disciples is trudging past through the snow to lessons, talking delightedly about snowballs and ice candies. Lan Xichen perks up his ears and hears, further: “…never thought I would see Wei Wuxian playing in the snow.” And: “Or Hanguang-jun smiling.”

“I heard,” says a third fading voice, the footsteps moving away, “that he’s in love with the Yiling Patriarch.”

“What do you mean, heard? Lan Bolin, don’t you have eyes?”

The voices become garbled, too distant to make out distinct sentences.

“Shouldn’t he –”

“The elders…”

“…he deserves joy.”

Lan Xichen waits for a few heartbeats more until the footsteps and voices have disappeared, then slips out by the side door and through the compound, along the old paths towards the Jingshi. The air is chill, just cold enough to catch in the lungs and bring on fits of coughing. He strengthens the heat output from his core, warming his body as he walks.

On the long, steady slope that leads from the small private residence up to the main courtyards, snow deep as Lan Xichen’s hand has accumulated. It’s now shot through with trenches and rounded hollows. Towards the courtyards, Wen Yuan and Wangji are assembling a snow sculpture of what looks like a rabbit. Most of the work is being done by Wangji, with Wen Yuan issuing firm orders. The little boy is bundled up in a padded coat and heavy boots, unwieldy leather mittens tucked on his hands.

Sitting on the steps of the Jingshi, out of the snow and with a heavy blanket draped over his shoulders, is Wei Wuxian. He’s smiling brightly, his knees up high and his elbows resting on them. He looks pleased but cold, his nose and cheeks red. Yunmeng is, after all, almost as far south as Yiling, and it doesn’t usually snow there either.

Lan Xichen steps up to join him beneath the roof. “I see A-Yuan is already an expert on snow games,” he says.

“Yeah, he’s a fast learner. It’s a good thing some of your disciples came by, though, because Lan Zhan’s hopeless. I think he understands the idea that snow can be fun, but not the practical reality.”

Lan Xichen nods, and does not point out that this is because snow games are not encouraged in the Cloud Recesses – nor are games of any kind which do not actively promote learning. “And you are also lacking in experience?” he asks, politely.

Wei Wuxian grins sheepishly and raises his hands from beneath the blanket – they’re reddened, the nails blue. “Ah, Lan Zhan made me take a break. I only have thin gloves, and I’m not really… keeping myself warm is a challenge,” he says, vaguely. Lan Xichen feels a prickle of shame.

“Of course. Pardon my question, Wei Wuxian, it was thoughtless.”

“No, you’re fine. Anyway, that’s why Lan Zhan’s doing all the work now. Well, and because A-Yuan’s a little slave driver.”

They watch the pair playing in the snow for a few moments before Wangji looks up and notices him, straightening. He says something to Wen Yuan, who nods and bends down to pat lightly but earnestly at the snow bunny’s head. Wangji walks down the slope and greets Lan Xichen.

“I appreciated your invitation, Brother,” he says.

“Wangji. It wasn’t an invitation – you don’t need that. Merely a suggestion.”

Wangji inclines his head, accepting the correction. “A-Yuan is enjoying the snow,” he says, turning to watch the little boy who is now kicking oversized boots at clumps of fluffy white powder and chortling.

A few disciples wander by at the top of the slope, waving to Wen Yuan, who waves back. No one would have dared do so before the boy came here. Before Wei Wuxian brought him to Gusu. Just as he’s brought laughter and life and light to the Jingshi.

Lan Xichen can feel now how hungry Wangji is for his presence; how hungry he is to protect him, and how eagerly he basks in the joy this one man brings him.

“How are the Wens settling in?” he asks.

“Pretty well. There hasn’t been any real meanness. To be blunt – money and influence helps. No one’s going to spite a family under the Gusu Lan’s protection. It’s a difficult time to make a new start; with winter here now there’s not really many opportunities for them in farming or fishing. Fourth Uncle is making plum liquor, and Second Uncle has found a place in a kitchen. Wen Qing has been looking for somewhere to set up a practice, but there’s more stigma against a Wen doctor than there is against a Wen kitchen cleaner, even in Caiyi.”

Lan Xichen nods. “A-Yuan has certainly found an admiring crowd here,” he says. Wei Wuxian smiles. “He will be welcome here. Always.”

“Are you on the look-out for new disciples, Zewu-jun?” Wei Wuxian’s tone is light, but Lan Xichen isn’t sure whether there’s an edge to it. Wei Wuxian has proven himself more than protective of those he cares for.

“I am not. But it might be a better life than the one he was originally intended for.”

Wei Wuxian shrugs. “It’s not my decision. Granny’s his guardian, and she watched her whole clan slaughtered because their cultivators were indoctrinated into a hostile army. She may not be so eager to see A-Yuan follow that path, even if he could. And… he’s lost so many people already. I couldn’t take him away from her.”

Lan Xichen nods. “It is not a decision which needs to be made soon. Merely an option.”

Up at the top of the slope, a couple of the younger disciples come by with cups of hot tea; they bow to Lan Xichen and Wangji, and help Wen Yuan take off his gloves so he can drink. Lan Xichen sees them giving Wei Wuxian curious glances as he sits bundled up like a southern peasant, his hair damp and dishevelled from the snow and his back curled as a cat’s.

“Wei Wuxian,” says Lan Xichen, after a few moments of quiet. “I know you have only been here a few days, not enough time to settle yourself or form a firm opinion on your future. As you’ve said, the Wens are still finding their feet, and Wangji is navigating our own family considerations. But I feel I must ask again: have you made any further decisions regarding the Stygian Tiger Amulet?”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t answer; Lan Xichen glances down at him where he sits low on the step, and sees that he’s still watching Wen Yuan. When he does speak, his voice is cool, distant. “There are only three options,” he says. He stretches out his hands, chafing them briefly before continuing. “First, that I keep it, if I can. I’m not foolish enough to think the clans will accept that forever. Eventually, a challenge will come – either outright, or as a dagger in the back.” He shifts, stretching his shoulder blades as if in anticipation. Further up the slope Lan Susu, who found the information on Wangji’s curse, is brushing snow out of the neckline of Wen Yuan’s coat with her bare fingers, the little boy watching it flake away with rapt attention.

“Second, I could give it away. The Jin say that they will take it and keep it safe; take it, yes, but keep it safe? It’s not something that may be kept on a shelf, Zewu-jun. It’s hungry, so hungry. You must have felt that. It needs blood. Eventually, it will twist even the most well-intentioned keepers, and there will be another war.”

Wangji stiffens, but doesn’t say anything. Wei Wuxian glances at him. “Even in my care? Is that what you want to ask, Lan Zhan? I hope not. Before, I would have sworn on anything that it was in my control. Now? It’s so hungry.” The tiniest hint of despair, of exhaustion, creeps into his voice. He shakes his head.

“Which leaves only the third option: to destroy it. I made it; I think I could destroy it. But the resentful energy that would require, and that would harness, could be incredibly dangerous. It might call an army of corpses; it might drive weak-minded people mad; it might just cause a wave of destruction. I don’t know. It might kill Wen Ning. It might kill me.” He shrugs, trying to appear carefree and not managing it. He sighs and looks up with a ragged grin.

“So you see, Zewu-jun, it’s not an easy answer! You can have the enemy you know, or the one you don’t know, or something utterly unforeseen.”

“Wei Ying is not our enemy,” says Wangji, sharply.

Wei Wuxian smiles up at him; it’s a sad smile. “Yours, never. Not even if I lost my mind, even if I lost my heart, could I turn against Lan Zhan. But that’s… probably not enough. I can’t put the burden of keeping me safe solely on you.”

“I would,” says Wangji, immediately. “I will. If Wei Ying wishes.”

“No,” says Wei Wuxian, quietly. “I don’t. I won’t make you my keeper. The person – the thing – it wants me to be… Lan Zhan should never see that.” He takes a deep, shaky breath. “I should destroy it.”

“To risk Wei Ying’s life,” begins Wangji, uncertainly.

“Oh, it’ll kill me one way or another eventually,” says Wei Wuxian, voice careless now; Wangji flinches. “There’s probably a way to do it. We can research. I’ll ask Wen Qing; she’s full of good ideas.”

“Wei Ying…”

Wei Wuxian stands, pushing off his blanket, and draws on a pair of thin, damp gloves. “We’ll make it work, Lan Zhan. Now c’mon, A-Yuan must be cold, we should be getting… back…” he pauses and Lan Xichen looks up. At the top of the snowy slope Uncle has appeared, and is being introduced to the snow bunny. Lan Susu and the other disciple fade away inconspicuously, taking the teacups with them. Wangji puts a hand on Wei Wuxian’s forearm, but he shakes his head minutely and steps forward, boots crunching in the snow. Wangji and Lan Xichen follow him.

“– snow all goes poof!” Wen Yuan is saying, gesturing excitedly. He sees them coming and totters over, the snow almost up to his knees. “Wang-gege! Xian-gege!”

Wei Wuxian sweeps him up out of the snow, brushing some off his front and shoulders. “Aiya, A-Yuan, you look like a terrible snow beast. Like one of the big old monsters that live up in the mountains and make avalanches when they roar.”

“What’s an abalanche?”

“Avalanches,” says Uncle, “are large waves of snow. They are caused by over-fast melts destabilizing the snowpack.”

“And loud noises,” says Wei Wuxian. “Like snow beast roars. But I’m sure Lan-xiansheng knows best, he has much more experience with cold climates.”

“I am surprised Wei Wuxian recognizes the benefit of experience,” says Uncle. “He seems to believe precociousness to be the height of virtue.”

“Lan-xiansheng knows best,” says Wei Wuxian, his tone politely neutral. “His education is recognized as insightful and important. When I was in the Indoctrination Camp, I took the opportunity to share it with my fellows. It was greatly appreciated by all Lan-xiansheng’s students. Less so by the Wens, of course.”

Uncle looks sharply at Wei Wuxian, then at Wangji, searching for the insult. There isn’t one apparent, although Lan Xichen isn’t entirely sure there isn’t one there.

“Wei Ying speaks the truth,” says Wangji. And then, curtly: “Thank you for your visit, Uncle. We were just leaving.”

“The boy’s clothes are wet. He should be given dry ones,” says Lan Qiren, his attention redirecting itself. “Those with golden cores should not forget what it is to be without one.”

For a moment, the world is very still. Wei Wuxian is frozen, his face pale except for the touch of colour in his nose. Wangji is stiff, his face slipping dangerously towards anger.

“Of course, Uncle,” cuts in Lan Xichen, smoothly. “I will have some of the trainees’ robes brought; they will be sufficient for the quick trip.”

With this injection of normalcy, Wei Wuxian regains himself. “Isn’t that kind, A-Yuan? You can dress like the Lan disciples. Say thank you, Lan-shufu.”

Wen Yuan, like the polite boy he is, says, “Thank you, Lan-shufu.” And then, immediately. “A-Yuan has a sword. Gonna fight ghosts ‘n snow beasts! ‘N be a disciple.”

“It is very proper to maintain the right,” says Uncle. “Xichen, don’t leave him here in these clothes. Wangji, your visit was… appreciated.” He says nothing to Wei Wuxian, simply turns and walks away, nodding when Wen Yuan shouts goodbye to him.

They stand in silence as Lan Qiren’s figure disappears. When the sound of crunching snow has faded, Wangji says, his voice a dangerous thrum: “Brother – did you…?”

“I said nothing, Wangji. I promise. Uncle doesn’t know. He will never know – that was what Wei Wuxian requested.”

Wangji’s face is still tense, but he nods in acceptance of the words. Lan Xichen looks to Wen Yuan, whose clothes are indeed quite damp, and heads off to find the smallest robes available. Behind him, he hears Wei Wuxian’s voice, the tone low.

“Lan Zhan, it’s nothing; it was a fluke. He doesn’t know. Don’t be upset.”

Wangji says nothing more or less than Wei Wuxian’s name, but somehow it conveys so much. Hurt, fear, apology. Guilt.

Lan Xichen sighs.

***

As much as he would like to attend to the tangled web of his brother’s situation, Lan Xichen is still Clan Leader, and he has responsibilities above and beyond the Wens and Wei Wuxian. He cannot be forever monitoring Su Minshan. At least, not personally.

He assigns a small rota of his more discreet disciples to keep a watchful eye on the leader of the Su clan; not a permanent watch, which would risk a political incident, but enough oversight that he has a sense what Su Minshan is up to.

Not much, is apparently the answer. He buys some rolls of hemp and silk, he inspects bricks of ink and cases of brushes, he tours the various butchers and tanners and candlemakers. He is, in short, a one-man trade delegation. Nothing he does raises any suspicions among Lan Xichen’s watchers. Neither Wangji nor Wei Wuxian, who are both on guard, so much as see him. Which might be good and normal. Or might be suspicious. It’s difficult, being suspicious of everything. Once you begin, Lan Xichen is realising, it’s hard to know when to stop.

***

At Uncle’s request, they go together down to Caiyi the next day to see the Wens. Uncle has said only that it is proper for them to ensure their responsibilities are being properly taken care of, but Lan Xichen privately thinks Wen Yuan’s comments about snakes and spiders struck home.

They wind their way through Caiyi’s streets, passing peddlers pulling carts loaded with textiles, past the stands of tea-sellers that have mushroomed up to offer dirt-cheap cups of tea or even just hot water to warm against the cold, and down along the main canal. The water is starting to freeze at the edges up near the stone retaining wall, reeds sticking up through the thin white ice. Most of the river vendors have disappeared, traffic on the canals greatly reduced with the first snows. It’s coldest on the water, the humid air cutting to the bone.

They’re nearing the turn-off that will take them away from the canal and into the tighter-packed streets of Caiyi towards the Wen house when they hear the commotion. People shouting, a woman screaming. Lan Xichen hurries forward, rounding a rustic inn to see a group of people gathered on the edge of the canal. Among them he recognizes the rust-coloured robes of several of the Wen family. Their attention is focused on the canal, several men running forward with ropes and long bamboo poles.

Lan Xichen pushes to the front of the crowd and sees a dark head in the water, sleek as an otter, the shape beneath the surface shadowed, before it dips purposefully under and disappears. He looks around and recognizes the old Wen grandmother, kneeling and rubbing her hands in prayer.

“Grandmother – what has happened?”

“A-Yuan – A-Yuan,” she chokes out, her wrinkled face wet with tears.

Lan Xichen doesn’t wait to hear more; he draws his sword and leaps atop it, swerving out sharply over the canal. He hears Uncle follow, the two of them sweeping low as ospreys over the water looking for shadows.

In the summer the canals can be thick with weeds, long twisting vines that have occasionally ensnared swimmers and drowned them. Lan Xichen doesn’t know whether they die back with the winter chill; very few people enter the waters at this time of year, most of them dead drunk. When they’re hauled out, they are mostly just dead.

They pass over the water again and again, hunting for any sign of movement, of shape, of shadow. On the bank, people are shouting and scrambling to toss ropes into the canal. Lan Xichen is starting to unfasten his belt when a black form rises, breaking the surface.

It’s Wei Wuxian, gasping for breath, his face white and his hair plastered to his skull. He twists onto his back, dragging Wen Yuan up out of the water and onto his chest. The little boy isn’t moving.

Lan Qiren arrives there first, sweeping down at a violent angle. He grabs the boy and lifts him, Wei Wuxian surrendering him as he struggles to keep afloat in his mass of waterlogged black silk robes. As Uncle cuts towards the shore, Lan Xichen grabs Wei Wuxian’s wrist and pulls him out, water streaming off him in sheets. He’s gasping and shivering – severe, violent spasms.

On the shore Uncle has the little boy on his back, is rubbing at his chest. Wei Wuxian, deposited on the dry sandy ground, stumbles to his side and drops to his knees. He’s breathing hard but he moves with purpose, turning Wen Yuan’s head to the side and clearing his mouth, then starting to work at his chest. Harsh, firm moves, his teeth gritted. He bends to breathe air into the boy, his work with a sense of barely-ordered chaos, his hair trailing wet and his clothes plastered to his skin. Uncle watches him, sharp-faced, but doesn’t interfere. Behind him, the old women and two of the Wen men are huddled, their faces lean with terror, the grandmother crying silently.

Lan Xichen realises, very suddenly, that Wei Wuxian is crying too. Tears are streaming down to join the water already glistening on his skin, his own breathing gasping, juddering. He is a wreck of a man, half-drowned, half-frozen, but the desperation in him burns hotter than a forge. He doesn’t stop for a moment, his focus knife-sharp.

Someone is shouting about Wen Qing, about fetching blankets and hot drinks, about a cart.

Wei Wuxian chokes on a cough, wipes his face hurriedly with his sleeve and keeps going. The boy still isn’t moving, his skin pale as whitefish flesh, his hair like a mess of waterweed. Like one that already belongs to the depths.

“A-Yuan,” snarls Wei Wuxian, the sound almost inhuman, the sound of an animal, not a man. He bends and breathes air – life – into the boy.

Wen Yuan seizes and coughs, water pouring from his lips. Wei Wuxian makes a choking sound of relief, his shoulders shuddering. Uncle pushes forward and turns the little boy onto his side, rubbing his back as he coughs, then vomits. Wei Wuxian drops back onto his knees, dazed and panting. Uncle is pulling the child’s sodden clothes off and removing his own outer robe to wrap him in, the cloth thick and doubtless warm from his own body.

Wen Qing comes running through the now-formidable crowd, bending down to take his pulse and feel his skin.

“He requires proper care,” says Lan Qiren, making to gather up Wen Yuan.

“Wen Qing goes with him,” says Wei Wuxian. It’s an order, not a question. His voice is guttural, rough, his eyes glinting under a heavy curtain of wet hair as he sits low in the dirt. Uncle summons his sword and steps atop it. Then, mouth tight, he holds his free hand out for Wen Qing. She takes it without hesitation, and they lift away towards the mountain.

Wei Wuxian’s shivering has mostly stopped, and it’s borne upon Lan Xichen that this is not a good thing. “Wei Wuxian, you need care also.”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t look up. His shoulders are slumped, his back bent; with Wen Yuan gone he looks thin, exhausted. Lan Xichen stands and summons his sword. “Grandmother, I will send word soon,” he says to the old woman, who is being comforted by the two Wen men. She looks up at him, her head shaking.

“I don’t understand – it isn’t right – he was just sitting. Something pushed him, but there was nothing – it isn’t right…”

Lan Xichen gives her a firm look. “We will speak on this later; for now, we will look after the boy with all due care. Wei Wuxian, come with me.” He reaches down and, when Wei Wuxian doesn’t move, plucks his wrist and draws him up onto the sword.

They go.

***

It’s when they’re nearing the dark sloped roofs and white courtyards of the Cloud Recesses that Lan Xichen sees that Wei Wuxian’s clothes are freezing into stiff sheets in the frigid wind. His hair, whipped back, has been pulled into long frozen streamers, like inky icicles. He is leaning against Lan Xichen, his eyes open but distant, his mouth very tight.

He only speaks once, when they touch down on the doorstep of the Jingshi. “A-Yuan.”

“Uncle will care for him – as will Wen-guniang. Come with me. Come,” he says, leading Wei Wuxian into the house.

It’s only now, after lighting the candles to brighten the room in the gloomy afternoon, that he realises Wei Wuxian resembles a corpse more than a man. His skin is bloodless, grey. His lips are blue, the dark lines of his eyebrows and lashes startlingly stark in comparison. His mouth is slightly open, his breath rasping.

He’s quite literally freezing to death.

“Undress,” orders Lan Xichen, hurrying over to a wardrobe and rifling through it until he finds a set of Wangji’s robes, which he brings over. He lays them by Wei Wuxian’s feet, then goes through to the bathroom to start a bath, turning the water as hot as it will go so that it starts to steam up the room.

He hears a thump from the main room and returns hurriedly to find Wei Wuxian on his knees, struggling with claw-like hands to untie his wide silk belt. Lan Xichen takes it, stripping it away in heavy pieces that are stiff as brocade with frost. He peels the robes off Wei Wuxian in long, unwieldy strips, shucking him free from the frozen cloth until he’s in only his thin trousers.

Stripped down to the bare minimum, it’s entirely clear how thin Wei Wuxian still is. Two weeks of good food has padded his bones slightly, taken away some of the alarming jut of his ribs and hips against pale skin. But he has no extra weight to him at all, no fat to insulate his organs. And no golden core to warm himself.

Lan Xichen wraps him in the borrowed robe and takes his wrist, flooding his body with warm, restful energy. Wei Wuxian startles belatedly, his eyes unfocused, but doesn’t make more than a cursory attempt to pull away. His skin is like ice.

The last time Lan Xichen had the opportunity to take the pulse of Wei Wuxian’s spiritual energy, he had been focused on two things: the stunning absence of a golden core, and a search for the malignant energy of a curse. Now that he’s not fully focused on that, he notices what he hadn’t before: Wei Wuxian’s own spiritual energy network is fragile, the pathways and meridians inflexible, shivering beneath the touch of his own power. It isn’t collapsing, isn’t so vulnerable that Lan Xichen fears he will cause damage, but it’s certainly not normal. It’s also not something he’s ever encountered before.

Still, now is not the time to be dealing with that.

When Lan Xichen judges the bath is probably mostly full, he herds Wei Wuxian across the room. His steps are stiff, stumping, and Lan Xichen has to hold him up by the elbows to keep him moving. He comes docilely though, staggering into the separate room provided with a bath and washing basin. The Cloud Recesses has a significant plumbing system operated by a network of talismans, steam, and gravity, and the Jingshi is one of the most modern abodes.  

Lan Xichen stops the hot water and turns on the cold, to keep the temperature below scalding. As soon as he urges him Wei Wuxian lurches in, not even bothering with his trousers – or more likely, forgetting them. His legs give out immediately and Lan Xichen grabs him under the arms, heart hammering in his chest, barely keeping him from cracking his head on the tub’s rounded rim. Wei Wuxian’s breathing is shivery, his body trembling as he’s lowered in, the heat clearly a shock after the numbness of ice.

Lan Xichen props him against the back of the tub, drawing his long icy hair out for the moment to hang like frozen hemp over the edge. Wei Wuxian’s face is tight with what might be pain. Huddled in the bath, pale and bony and mostly naked, he looks – not quite vulnerable, but so uncomplicated. No disguise, no layers of jokes and sharpness and cunning.

Just a tired young man under immense pressure from all sides.

Lan Xichen reaches down and slowly folds up the robe he shed, watching as Wei Wuxian begins to relax in the water’s warmth. He’s just put the robe down on a low bench when he hears pounding footsteps and his brother’s sharp voice. “Wei Ying? A-Yuan? Wei Ying?”

Lan Xichen straightens, finding his sleeves very wet, and steps out. “Wangji. Wei Wuxian is warming up – he needs to recover his proper temperature, and to rest. Uncle took A-Yuan to the infirmary, I believe. If you will stay here, I will go inquire.”

Wangji appears immediately, his face drawn. “What happened?”

“I do not know. The Wen grandmother said something strange occurred; when I arrived, Wei Wuxian was rescuing A-Yuan from the canal. They will both have to be watched carefully for signs of hypothermia.”

 Wangji nods. Inside the bathroom there’s a squeak of skin sliding against metal, and the rippling of water. Wangji’s head shoots up. “Wei Ying?”

Lan Xichen leaves his brother to deal with things here, and hurries across the compound to the infirmary.

***

Wen Yuan has been cleaned and dried and tucked in to a bed with heavy blankets and warming talismans, his little face slack with sleep. Uncle is there, and Wen Qing and Lan Yufei, the three of them speaking in soft voices about respiratory infections and fevers.

“Xichen,” says Uncle, when he enters, and Wen Qing’s eyes snap to him.

“Zewu-jun. Is Wei Wuxian…” she trails off, clearly uncertain how welcome either he or she is here.

“He is warming up in my brother’s room. He should certainly be checked; he was half-frozen when we arrived. Wangji will see to him for the moment. How is A-Yuan?”

“So far his rhythms are good, and his lungs are clear. The major risk with inhaled water is infection, and of course possible hypothermia. He will need careful monitoring,” says Wen Qing; Lan Yufei nods.

“Wen-daifu is highly knowledgeable,” he says; Lan Xichen knows his clan physician well enough to know he does not give empty praise.

“The boy will remain here until he is well,” says Uncle. “His relatives may, of course, be brought to see him,” he adds. Wen Qing bows silently, the movement a mastery of polite gratitude.

“Of course,” agrees Lan Xichen. “Wen-gu – Wen-daifu,” he corrects himself, giving her her proper title, “shall I send someone to bring Wen-popo? And any others?”

She inclines her head. “That would be a kindness, Zewu-jun.”

He nods. Of course the boy should have his relatives close. But Lan Xichen also wants to hear more about the strange happening. “I think it would be best if you stayed here, with A-Yuan,” he says to her, thinking of Wei Wuxian’s rough command on the canal bank. “Lan-daifu, will you come to see Wei Wuxian?”

The physician straightens and bows; they leave.

***

When they return to the Jingshi, the large main room is empty and still. Before Lan Xichen can call to his brother, though, wood creaks and Wangji appears around the doorway that leads to the bathroom.

He’s carrying Wei Wuxian in his arms. The Yiling Patriarch’s thin form is wrapped in layers of white silk, his dark hair damp and trailing and his bare feet dangling from beneath the white hem. His head is resting against Wangji’s shoulder, his eyes closed. His skin is no longer corpse-pale, but his colour is unhealthy, his face drawn. Wangji carries him like a child, as though Wei Wuxian’s weight were nothing. He stops immediately on seeing Lan Xichen and Lan Yufei, and Lan Xichen sees calculation in his eyes – a search for threats. The moment passes instantly, though, and he brings Wei Wuxian to the bed where he lays him down gently.

Lan Yufei is already fetching blankets and warming talismans; between them they get him tucked in a nest of warmth, Wangji pulling his damp hair out from under him to keep it from robbing even a fraction of his bodily heat. It lies coiled on the mattress beside his head, a jet river.

Wei Wuxian is awake, but not very aware. Dark, brass-dull eyes watch as they move around him, his face slack as he’s laid out and bundled up. Lan Yufei examines him once he’s settled, checking his temperature, pulse, the focus of his eyes and the flow of his spiritual energy. “His system has had an extreme shock. He needs quiet, and rest. So far, his symptoms are not alarming.”

Wangji nods tightly, sitting beside his lover.

“Keep him settled and move him as little as possible. Hot drinks, and hot food. If he needs to relieve himself, bring a chamber pot. Complete rest, for at least the next day. If Hanguang-jun prefers, he could be cared for in the infirmary…”

“No,” says Wangji. “I will see to it.”

The physician bows. “I will of course attend to him regularly; and I may be summoned at any time.”

In the bed, Wei Wuxian turns lusterless eyes on Wangji. “Wha happened?”

“Wei Ying is cold; he needs to warm up. Everything is fine. Settle, and sleep.”

“Lan Zhan?” his voice is confused, the voice of a child seeking reassurance. Wangji leans over him, his dark hair streaming over his shoulder like a veil, hiding his face. But his fingers, brushing against Wei Wuxian’s cheek, his lips, are tender.

“I’m here, and all is well. Sleep now, Wei Ying. Sleep.”

Wei Wuxian closes his eyes, and sleeps.

Chapter Text

The old Wen grandmother’s name is Wen Ai. She only tells Lan Xichen this when she’s explicitly asked, silent and humble in his presence. She stands beside Wen Yuan’s bedside, gnarled, nervous, clearly uncomfortable in the splendor of the Cloud Recesses’s airy infirmary. She was offered a stool to rest her old bones, but declined immediately to sit in the company of Lan Xichen. Her statements in answer to his questions are soft, and very brief, as though she can’t imagine he’s interested in her words.

“Please, Grandmother,” he says, scandalizing her with his kind courtesy so that her cheeks burn and her eyes drop, “how did the boy come to fall in the water?”

She shifts her leathery hands, the skin chapped and hardened from decades of cleaning and cooking. “He sits on the wall, sometimes,” she says. “He likes to watch the water. And the boats. No boats today.”

Lan Xichen nods encouragingly.

“We were alone. A-Yuan, and Granny. He sat beside me. Very good, so well behaved. Then, it seemed he leaped forward. But he would not. He would not,” she repeats, rocking a little, nervously.

“Could he not have jumped in?”

She shakes her head. “A-Yuan knows water is dangerous. Wei-gongzi is very clear, always. A-Yuan listens. He is a good boy.”

Lan Xichen inclines his head. “He is. So he seemed to jump forwards. Could someone have pushed him?”

She shakes her head, some of her iron-grey hair slipping free from its loose tie. “There was no one.”

“Did you look behind you?”

She shakes her head again. “But there was no one – not close enough. When the men came, they ran all the way from the inn.”

A blast of spiritual energy could, of course, easily cross the distance. It might be equally easy to miss. “Wen-popo, do you have any training as a cultivator?”

She looks up at him with wide eyes. “No, Clan Leader Lan.”

“Did you see or hear anything when the boy fell into the canal?”

Another shake of her head. He feels disappointment settling like a shroud, but doesn’t let it show in his face. “I see.” Still, if the boy was struck by a burst of spiritual energy, there might be a mark left on his clothes. “Before A-Yuan was brought here, he was changed out of his damp clothes and given new ones. May I see his clothes?”

Wen Ai looks up at him, confused. “But… did Clan Leader Lan’s subordinate not provide them?”

Lan Xichen stares. “Pardon?”

“One of the Lan members took the clothes; we assumed on Clan Leader Lan’s request.”

“What was their name?” he asks, sharply.

“He did not give one.”

Lan Xichen holds her gaze with his, his stare intense. “Then how did you know he was a Lan?”

Her voice is small, like a mouse under the eye of a hawk. “He wore white robes, Clan Leader, and carried a sword.”

Lan Xichen stills momentarily, forcing himself to remain calm. “And a headband?”

Wen Ai’s forehead wrinkles in worried thought. “I… am not sure.” She shakes her head stiffly.

“I see. Would any of your family be able to remember more about this man?” he asks. She gives him a nervous look.

“I do not know. I do not know.” She looks down at her feet, cowed and concerned. Lan Xichen takes a breath and loosens his shoulders.

“Very well. Thank you, Wen-popo. We will get to the bottom of this. You may remain with A-Yuan tonight, if you wish. A bed can be made up for you.”

She looks around uncertainly, her gnarled hands digging into the clean bedding covering A-Yuan. “I –”

“It is no trouble. Wen-daifu will stay also, of course.”

She looks up before nodding her head hesitantly, and he smiles. “Then I will have it seen to.”

The old woman raises her hands and bows, deeply if not gracefully, as he leaves.

***

The first thing Lan Xichen checks the next morning after he rises is the infirmary. Both Wen women are already up, Wen Ai folding something that looks like a cloth wrapping, Wen Qing reading a book bound in the Lan style.

Wen Yuan is sleeping, but Wen Qing reports his breathing is clear and there is just a minor rise in temperature, hardly a real fever, which they are watching closely. Certainly the little boy looks calm, snugly tucked in the corner bed beneath a canopy of blue silk.

He eats breakfast, does some paperwork, and speaks to Uncle about the old woman’s statement. They agree that Su Minshan will be placed under constant watch immediately, which Lan Xichen arranges. Only once the sun has risen does he procure trays of hot food and tea in the care of two young inner disciples, and accompanies them to the Jingshi.

He has the disciples stop just shy of the steps, climbing to the veranda himself and knocking. “Wangji? I have brought breakfast.”

“Please enter.”

He pulls open the door and steps in, nodding to the disciples – Lan Bolin and Lan Susu. They hurry up with their trays of steaming congee and soup and tea.

Inside the light is soft and grey, no candles lit, the windows closed but not shuttered. Wangji is sitting on the edge of the bed in flowing white robes, his back to the door, his posture immaculate but his head slightly bent. Wei Wuxian is also wrapped in white; he’s lying in bed, limbs loose and sprawled beneath a heap of covers, his skin a warmer tone now. As Lan Xichen enters he sees that Wangji has Wei Wuxian’s arm in his lap, that he’s carefully stitching a new hem for the long sleeve draped over Wei Wuxian’s narrow wrist. The clan’s second heir, trimming a robe.

As Lan Xichen enters Wangji lowers his hands; Wei Wuxian makes to prop himself up on his elbow. His arm is trembling, fabric shivering over skin.  

“No need,” intones Lan Xichen, and nods the disciples in. They enter with their heads bowed low, shuffling with small steps to provide the trays of food to Wangji and Wei Wuxian. He sees Lan Bolin, long-limbed and gawkier than a Lan disciple should be, stumble a little at the sight of Wangji with a needle and thread in his lap, Wei Wuxian’s long body curled around him. He jerks into an apologetic bow and scuttles forward to put his tray down. Lan Susu is more composed, but her eyes are wide, her cheeks brushed with pink. She was the one who told them that it would take an act of affection to break the curse; Lan Xichen suspects that she now has her own ideas about how it was broken. Ideas which will likely be common knowledge throughout the Cloud Recesses by noon hour.

Perhaps, though, that is not a tragedy.

“Thank you,” says Lan Xichen gravely and they hurry away, barely concealing their relief at being released from the awkwardness of a display of open affection on the part of the stoic Hanguang-jun.

Wei Wuxian has gratefully fallen back to rest, his body languid. His eyes are bright again, though, focused and intelligent. “Is A-Yuan alright?” he asks, as Wangji bends to pick up a tray and place it beside him.

Lan Xichen inclines his head. “Wen-daifu and our own physician are keeping a close eye on him. So far, he seems well. I gather if he shows no further symptoms by this evening he will likely recover without further incident.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes slip closed momentarily in relief.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, as Wangji pins the needle through the cloth of the sleeve, then shuffles down to help Wei Wuxian sit up and lean against him. He moves slowly, as though his body is heavy, but there’s no catch in his breathing or sign of fever.

“On the mend. I’ll be fine in a few hours. Thanks for bringing me here. I don’t really remember much…” he accepts a teacup from Wangji, taking a tentative sip.

“I came to speak to you about yesterday afternoon,” says Lan Xichen. “About what happened at the canal.”

Wei Wuxian nods, thumb skating around the smooth edge of his cup. He is quiet, and he looks troubled. “Lan Zhan and I split up earlier in the afternoon; I wanted to see how Wen Ning was doing, and he went to run some errands. Wen Ning is very shy, and Lan Zhan is very polite,” he adds, in parenthesis. “Anyway, I had just left the Wen house when I heard the shouting – I ran over and realised A-Yuan had fallen in the canal. I jumped in and fished him out. I didn’t realise – I mean, I knew the water was freezing, but… it’s not like that, in Yunmeng. Even in the winter, the water won’t kill you. I never should have told him about the frogs, about any of that bullshit.” His face is drawn, his mouth long and tense. His eyes drift, dark and flinty and full of pain.

Lan Xichen sees abruptly that he has been blaming himself for what happened, has drawn his own assumptions about how the boy came to be in the canal. Assumptions which Wangji, who wasn’t there either, couldn’t refute.

“Wei Wuxian, it’s not certain at this point, but we don’t think A-Yuan jumped in the water. Or that he fell in.”

Wei Wuxian looks to him, sharply, so sharply Lan Xichen feels himself fighting not to react. There is the threat of violence in his gaze, distress roughly replaced by banked anger. “What do you mean?”

Beside him, Wangji puts down his own cup with a clack, his face hard. Lan Xichen continues. “Wen Ai told me she believes he was pushed. Perhaps… perhaps from afar.”

“Brother – are you suggesting the use of spiritual energy?”

“Caiyi is on the border of our keep; it is inconceivable that a spirit or yaoguai could have been walking the streets. Wen Ai is convinced there was no one close enough to touch him. And,” Lan Xichen adds, slowly, “A-Yuan’s clothes have disappeared. Taken, by someone in white robes.”

For a moment there is only silence, split by the harsh sounds of Wei Wuxian’s breathing. It has grown ragged, his formerly-loose form now stiff as a reed. His hand is shaking, Lan Xichen sees, an instant before the cup he’s holding cracks, one long fissure snaking down its side as tea drips out. Red slowly pulses to life in his eyes, like heart’s blood pumping into water.

“Su Minshan,” he growls, the muscles in his jaw knotty, working.

“Wei Wuxian – we are not yet sure –”

“Wei Ying,” murmurs Wangji, hand on his arm.

The soup on the tray beside Wangji begins to ripple in its bowl as hazy black smoke begins to form. Its shape is larger now than in the past, no longer thin tendrils of shadow but thick, billowing streamers that writhe hungrily. Malignant, malevolent. They cast shadows over Wei Wuxian’s face, his white robes, wreathing him in pulsing black. His eyes burn at the centre, crimson. “Unforgivable,” he mutters, his voice thick, the words bitten out. “Is this how they choose to come at me? Through children? Do they imagine I would ignore his murder? Have they not seen me threaten death to those who strike at innocents in their own halls?” He’s shaking like a man suffering from ague. The cracked cup shatters abruptly, shards squeezed into flesh; drops of blood drip down onto his pristine robes. Wangji makes a sound of pain and takes his hand, trying to force his palm open. Lan Xichen stands still and uncertain, feeling powerless, helpless.

“Wei Ying, don’t give in to it. Breathe. Release your anger.”

Wei Wuxian rocks forward, his shoulders hunched like an old man, like a lunatic. “Do they think my teeth are drawn? My claws trimmed? Does Su Minshan dare goad my wrath? I will drain his body dry, empty his veins with a thousand cuts, until he is the one white and lifeless on the ground. I will tear his corpse to pieces and sow him across the land; his spirit will have no peace, defiled, defaced –”

“Wei Ying,” pleads Wangji, holding his bloody hand. His face is horrified, frightened. “Wei Ying, listen to my voice. Hear me. Find yourself. Come back.”

Wei Wuxian is shaking so hard now he seems to be having a fit. His skin is waxy, sweat gleaming in the cool morning light. “I will rend – I will kill – blood – broken bones…” his teeth grit together, white between his thin lips, black smoke wrapped like a noose around his throat.

Wangji lets go of his hand and reaches for his robe – for the Amulet, Lan Xichen realises.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes snap to him, his rambling tirade halting abruptly. His hand opens, shards of red-smeared pottery falling into his lap, and he closes it again an instant later around Wangji’s wrist.

They stare at each other, black smoke twining around them.

“Wei Ying, please,” whispers Wangji. He brings up his other hand and places it atop Wei Wuxian’s. “Please.”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth falls open; a low choking noise emerges. His hand on Wangji’s wrist tightens, his fingers white; Wangji makes no complaint, shows no pain. Lan Xichen takes a step forward, uncertain.

Then, like a flame blown out by the wind, Wei Wuxian exhales deeply. The black smoke disappears, and his body loosens, slumping. Wangji catches him, holding him and passing a hand over his forehead, pushing back his hair to look into his face with concern. “Wei Ying? Wei Ying?”

“’m okay.” His eyes are closed, his body folded against Wangji. His voice is low, all the emotion beaten out of it. He shakes his head, a soft roll against Wangji’s shoulder, strands of hair sticking to his cheek. “It’s so angry, Lan Zhan. It’s so angry.”

Wangji holds him in his arms, pressing him close, pillowing his body. His voice is low, determined. “I will visit the library today. We will find an answer. We will find a way to get rid of it.”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t move. “It wants me to kill him. It wants me to feed it his blood. So much blood.”

Wangji tears a piece of his silver-embroidered robe off and wraps it around Wei Wuxian’s cut up hand carefully, his movements gentle. There are streaks of crimson smeared on his white sleeve “It will not succeed. Wei Ying, we will stand against evil.”

He sighs. “Lan Zhan is so dependable.” His voice is soft, just a whisper.

“And Wei Ying is so strong. You have held on for so long. Not much longer, now.”

Wei Wuxian’s head rolls on his shoulder, slipping into sleep or perhaps a deeper unconsciousness. Wangji watches him for a moment, so pained. Slowly, he lowers Wei Wuxian to the mattress and rests his head against the pillow, brushing his hair from his face and skin.

Only when he’s settled does Wangji look up at Lan Xichen. “I must visit the library. I will return regularly to check on Wei Ying. Brother, will you…”

“I will also stop by,” says Lan Xichen. “Until he is stronger, I believe we should forego confronting Su Minshan; we cannot risk this happening again. I have set disciples to keep him under observation.”

Wangji nods. “Agreed. But if Su Minshan is responsible for the incident with A-Yuan, I cannot see his purpose. It was mere chance that Wei Ying arrived when he did. He could not have intended to drown Wei Ying – any why should he wish to?”

Lan Xichen takes a breath. “I cannot say, Wangji. But I believe… it may be that his purpose was what we just witnessed. Wei Wuxian losing control of the Amulet. It would give the clans the excuse they need to take it from him by force.”

Wangji considers this, his face grave. For a moment he looks down at Wei Wuxian, his chest rising and falling softly in sleep. When he looks up again, his eyes are hard. “The Moling Su were only able to form with the express support of the Lanling Jin, with the intervention of Jin Guangyao on Su Minshan’s behalf,” he says. And then: “The Jin have expressed interest in the Amulet.”

It is not an argument Lan Xichen was expecting. And it’s not one that he welcomes. He feels cool anxiousness twisting within him, the discomfort of threatened conflict between people he cares deeply for. “We have no proof of their involvement,” replies Lan Xichen, working to keep his voice even.

“No proof,” says Wangji, “But suspicions. Su Minshan is jealous, but not a fool. Would he act against both our clan and Wei Ying solely for himself?”

Lan Xichen presses his lips together, troubled in mind. “We must tread carefully,” he says. “Su Minshan, whatever else he is, is a clan leader. And while Wangji has those to whom he is beholden, so do I. A-Yao is my brother; I owe him my life. He made the Wens’ relocation here possible.”

“And their relocation here has made this attack possible,” says Wangji, flatly, refusing to mince words as always.

Lan Xichen draws in a breath, feeling suddenly off-kilter. Upset with Wangji for challenging A-Yao, upset with Wei Wuxian for putting them in this position, upset with himself for feeling either of these things. And, beneath it, just a hint of something else even more uncomfortable: It is not badly reasoned.

He tucks his hands into his sleeves and straightened. “We will discuss this further when we know more. Please, let me know if I can do anything for Wei Wuxian.”

Wangji inclines his head without answering, his face blank.

Lan Xichen leaves, well aware that he has disappointed his brother.

***

Lan Xichen doesn’t encounter Wangji again on any of his visits to the Jingshi. Wei Wuxian is awake when he returns the first time, but still resting, muffled up in bed. He asks for Wen Qing to be sent to him, and Lan Xichen obliges.

Later he returns with snacks to find Wen Qing gone and Wei Wuxian polite but distant. He is clearly uninterested in talking, and Lan Xichen leaves him alone. He comes again as dusk is closing in with the news that Wen Yuan is making a strong recovery. It’s arranged that he will come to the Jingshi to spend the night, Wen Qing and Wen Ai returning to Caiyi. Wei Wuxian and Wen Yuan will return the next day.

Lan Xichen brings Wen Yuan over that evening after supper, the little boy wide-eyed at the sight of the Cloud Recesses by lantern-light.

Wei Wuxian is up and dressed in his usual black silks now, reading a book by candlelight. He rises when Lan Xichen brings Wen Yuan in, scooping the little boy up into his arms. Lan Xichen comes in close, just to ensure this rush of emotion does not trigger an attack, but Wei Wuxian’s face is bright and relieved. He sits down on the side of the bed and holds Wen Yuan in his lap, listening with apparently rapt attention to the little boy describing the opulence of the infirmary. When he’s done, he walks Wen Yuan around, slightly bent with his hand in the little boy’s, to show him the various decorations of the Jingshi. The child is particularly taken with a small ivory carving of a rabbit.

“Just like your gege,” says Wei Wuxian, moving the rabbit to make it give Wen Yuan a kiss on the nose, before tugging him away to examine a partition with ink paintings of mountains and dragons.

Lan Xichen excuses himself, noting that Wen Qing and Wen Ai are being escorted to Caiyi, and that he will return once more to report when they’ve arrived. Wei Wuxian thanks him, and Wen Yuan waves goodbye.

***

It’s long after haishi when he stops by the Jingshi again, the disciples having returned from their trip to the Wen house. Lan Xichen is expecting Wangji to be back, possibly even asleep. But all the candles in the quiet house are lit, and the only person in the wide bed is Wen Yuan. The little boy is sleeping peacefully, tucked up carefully under warm blankets.

Wei Wuxian is sitting at Wangji’s desk, still reading. He looks up when Lan Xichen enters, lowering his book. “Zewu-jun,” he says, softly.

“Wangji is not back?”

He shakes his head. “I think he might be pretty late. He… he has some ideas, and he’s stubborn. And pretty upset,” he adds. Lan Xichen nods.

“Wangji is our clan’s most stubborn member,” he says. “In this case, perhaps that is a good thing. If there is anything to find, he will find it.”

Wei Wuxian’s smile is small, sad. “You do not think there is,” says Lan Xichen, softly.

“There were no texts on Yin Iron. How could there be texts on how to destroy a similar item? Knowledge was passed by word of mouth alone, and the clan leaders knew very little. I think… I think Lan Zhan is looking for a solution that doesn’t exist. Or rather, a safeguard that doesn’t. The price of the Amulet’s power is its danger; that can’t be magicked away.”

“The world does not exist on the principle of equivalent exchange,” says Lan Xichen.

“No. But it also doesn’t exist on the principle of something for nothing.”

“But perhaps – ” he gets no further, because Wei Wuxian abruptly leaps to his feet, his face alarmed. He reaches into his robe and pulls out a talisman just as it catches fire and disintegrates. He looks up, eyes wide, panicked.

“The Wens.” He snatches up his flute and rushes for the door; Lan Xichen grabs his arm, stopping him.

“I will take you. The boy?”

Wei Wuxian looks around, frantic, then grabs at one of the talismans from Lan Yufei and lights it. Lan Xichen picks up a brush from the desk and pens four brief words. Wen house. Send Wangji.

Then he grabs Wei Wuxian’s arm, and they’re off.

***

He sees the smoke before they arrive, black against the deep blue night. It’s rising in billowing clouds, the bottom-most waves licked by orange flame and bright sparks. Somewhere in the night, a flute is whistling a discordant tune.

The house is on fire. Hot, desperate tongues of flame are leaping out from under the wooden roof, eerie red light flickering between shutters and cracks in the walls.

The front door is blocked by a heavy cart, a cart it would take a horse to pull. A cart held in place by Wen Ning.

“Wen Ning!” shouts Wei Wuxian, rushing forward. The young man lifts his head. His eyes are wrong, the pupils strange, staring. He takes a swing at Wei Wuxian, who pulls out Chenqing and begins playing. The sound of the other flute – the first flute – falters and dies. Wen Ning stumbles and screams, Wei Wuxian dancing out of his way while Lan Xichen maneuvers the cart away from the door in forcible shoves and jerks, the large wooden wheels unwieldy. Finally, doorway free, he kicks the door open. Thick, oily smoke rolls out; the air is hot, searing. It scorches the skin of his face and hands. Lan Xichen pushes in and finds a body slumped on the floor almost immediately; he grabs at it and hauls it out into the cool air, feeling it scrabble and kick.

Outside Chenqing has fallen silent. Wen Ning is slumped, head in hands. Wei Wuxian shoves the flute back into his sash and runs past Lan Xichen, into the building. He comes out a moment later hauling another body, one of the old uncles who is coughing and hacking.

By the time they’ve dragged out the fourth Wen, Wen Ning is on his feet and running in to help. Lan Xichen, who has never been inside and can’t find his way in the smoke, stops to care for the row of coughing, gasping refugees. A crowd is starting to gather, frantic talks of wind and spread and water. People are on the roofs of the nearby houses, throwing buckets of water over the wood to extinguish sparks.

Wen Ning brings out more of his relatives, two at a time, undaunted by their weight. Wei Wuxian, coughing too now, red embers glowing in his hair, carries out Wen Qing who’s pale and twisting. Lan Xichen takes her, feeding her spiritual energy and concentrating on clearing her lungs.

Wei Wuxian staggers back one more time, empty-handed now, and drops to his hands and knees to cough and retch. Wen Ning comes out after him, smoke rising from his shoulders, with one last person in his arms – this one unmoving. The fire crackles and roars, the heat on the street immense, like an oven.

Caiyi is a town of wooden houses, and while the recent snows have moistened the timbers, the fire will spread quickly all the same. The inferno is too large to be put out with bucket chains and sand. It may burn the city to the ground.

Wei Wuxian looks up, his face orange in the firelight, and pulls his arm over his mouth. Like a heavy waxed sail being dragged up a mast, he draws himself to his feet and raises his flute.

The melody is one Lan Xichen’s never heard before. It isn’t commanding, isn’t filled with urgent need and relentless will – the indomitable orders that bring the very dead from their graves.

It’s wailing, grieving, tempestuous with loss and suffering. A dirge; a song of death.

Resentful energy billows, enormous, a swirling storm of it. It encircles the house, pressing closer, closer, darkening the flames. Wei Wuxian plays on, straight-backed, the posture of a man who won’t let himself fall. The smoke curls tighter, suffocating the flames. They die back, back, back, the roof collapsing, something within giving way with an enormous splintering crash. A brief flare of fire leaps up, and is immediately crushed.

The house is dark, now. Folded in on itself, crumbling. Dead. All charred wood and ashes.

Wei Wuxian lowers his flute, and the resentful energy disappears.

He turns, slowly. His eyes are not red but they are bloodshot, a trickle of blood at his lip. He looks at the Wens, being helped by cowed townsfolk, eyes drifting over them as though he hardly sees them. “Take them to the tea house,” he says.

From the direction of the Cloud Recesses, Wangji appears on his sword, white as a crane in the dark night. He steps off beside Wei Wuxian, catching his arm. Wei Wuxian just shakes his head, and leans into his grip. Lan Xichen watches them speak for a moment, too far for him to hear.

Then Wen Qing’s saying something about cold air and damaged lungs, and he turns his attention back to the Wens.

***

It’s later.

They’re in Wei Wuxian and Wangji’s room in the tea house. The whole house is awake, having been roused to bring water and bedding and blankets, and to fetch the town’s doctor and candles and lanterns and drinks and bowls, and so on.

Wen Qing and the other doctor are next door, with the Wens.

Wei Wuxian is sitting on the side of the bed, back bowed and hands hanging between his knees, looking exhausted. Wangji is on a cushion at the nearby seating area, silent and calm, but Lan Xichen can see the strain he’s hiding.

They’ve hardly spoken, the silence in the room heavy, oppressive. By now the candles are burning low in their brass holders, wax dribbling down the long stems, and the dimness adds to the stifling wait.

There’s a quiet knock, and Wen Qing enters. Her face and hands are clean but her hair is slipping from its pins; her robes are dark with smoke and burns. She bows to Lan Xichen, who waves away the formality.

Wei Wuxian straightened when she entered, his face sharp with need for information. She looks from Lan Xichen to Wangji, and Wei Wuxian last of all after nearly a full minute.

Lan Xichen can already sense from this the shape of her words.

“Most are well, or will be,” she says. “The damage was not so much burns as smoke. We could not get out.” She says the words smoothly, emotionlessly. As though it had not been her own brother who blocked the door, who in all likelihood lit the fires. And then, looking at Wei Wuxian, “Granny is dead. As is Second Uncle.”

Lan Xichen allows himself to close his eyes, just for a moment.

There’s a beat of silence, and then the sound of rustling cloth.

Wei Wuxian stands. He takes a step, then another step. Heavy, shuffling movements, like one of his own puppets. He’s shaking his head. “That’s not – they can’t be. Wen Qing, go back. Do something. You can.”

“Not this,” she says.

“They can’t be dead. How – they can’t be. I can’t have brought them here, for this. What will – how can A-Yuan lose Granny? He’s lost his father, his mother, his sister – he… How can I face him? How can I fail them? Do something – Wen Qing – you can! You can!”

She shakes her head once. “I cannot bring the dead back, Wei Wuxian. That is not within my power.” Her voice is thin, tight.

Wei Wuxian is swaying, his shoulder blades pulling in and out with agonized breaths. In the candlelight the black silk of his robes shines like oil, twisting as he moves. His words are stumbling, breaking, falling apart. “They came here with – because – for me. On my word; my promise. To be safe – happy. To raise A-Yuan, to – how could Wen Ning – I gave everything – I can’t – how –”

He drops to his knees, head in his hands.

And darkness explodes.

It is everywhere, filling the room, whipping the air into a gale. It tears a scroll from the wall, it throws a table into the bed, it splinters a partition. Wangji is on his feet, shouting, but there’s nothing except the sound of sheering wind. Wen Qing is white, terrified, pressed back against the wall. Lan Xichen reaches for Wei Wuxian, and is struck in the chest by a large vase which shatters against him and knocks him back.

Wood splinters carve gouges in the walls; pillows are rent and bleed white downy feathers into the black tendrils of malignant power. The bed shudders against the wall, the feet beginning to lift off the floor. At the centre of the maelstrom is Wei Ying, surrounded by a red glow. Lan Xichen fights to stay upright, is hit in the knee by something thin and hard and struggles not to lose his footing.

Wangji has his head bent into the wind, is forcing his way forward against the writhing shadows. The candles have been extinguished, the only light in the room the dull red pulse of resentful energy. It’s horrific, terrifying, a nightmare scene. When the wind shifts, clawing against skin, Lan Xichen hears a hint of a scream in his head.

“Wei Ying!” shouts Wangji, close to Lan Xichen now. But Wei Wuxian is curled forwards with his back to him, his hair streaming, the skirts of his robes ripping around him.

Wangji takes another step, reaching out a desperate hand.

And the tempest lifts a long, jagged shard of porcelain and flings it deep into his thigh.

The sound he makes is tiny, almost silent. It would be barely audible in the dead of night.

But Wei Wuxian hears it. He turns slowly, shoulders swivelling like a greased wheel, the movement one of dread. His eyes are wide, his face tight with fear. They grow wider as he sees Wangji – sees the bright, red bloodstain spreading.

For an instant, Lan Xichen thinks this will be the end. The Amulet will destroy them all, Wei Wuxian’s heart crushing them here in this nightmare of blackness and blood.

Instead, everything stops. Dead. Furniture, porcelain, pillows and cloth – they all drop, thumping to the floor. The shadows disappear, leaving them in empty darkness. Lan Xichen lights a talisman, as does Wen Qing.

“No,” Wei Wuxian is saying, his voice a whisper. The sound is guttural. “No no no – Lan Zhan – no –” he scrambles forward on his knees, horrified, even as Wangji grunts and stumbles. Lan Xichen is there, catching him. Wen Qing arrives on his other side, giving curt orders. “Lift him; don’t jostle his leg. Put him on the bed.” She holds his thigh steady as Lan Xichen half-drags, half-carries him to the bed and lays him down on it. Wangji draws his good leg up reflexively, his body tense against the pain.

Wen Qing is kneeling beside him; keen, focused. “I need medical supplies. Ma-daifu from town has a medical box.”

Lan Xichen leaves without a word, runs next door to where the doctor is seeing to a burn on third Uncle’s arm. “Wen-daifu requires your box,” he says, and simply picks it up and takes it. He doesn’t wait for a response.

Back in Wangji’s room Wen Qing has ripped open his robes to show the wound, dripping blood down the thick curve of his thigh. Her expression is terse, but she looks up when Lan Xichen comes over. “It missed the artery,” she says. He puts the bag down, and she starts opening drawers and components with rapid, competent movements.

Wei Wuxian is kneeling on the floor further up beside the bed. He is bowed over Wangji’s hand, face hidden, unmoving. His fingers are curled around Wangji’s palm, a tiny press.

Lan Xichen swallows.

“Candles,” orders Wen Qing.

He runs to bring more candles.

***

The city is dead silent when she finishes, past midnight. There are bloody bandages and bowls, surgical tools and compresses. Wangji’s leg is bandaged, the bandage white and clean. Some of the tension has gone out of his jaw; Lan Xichen can tell he’s focusing on directing the energy of his golden core.

Wei Wuxian hasn’t moved once. He’s still on his knees, bent with his forehead pressed to Wangji’s hand. Lan Xichen doesn’t know how he knows he’s awake, but he does.

Only as Wen Qing sighs and stretches does he rise.

He looks awful. His skin is almost transparent, blue veins visible beneath the surface; his eyes are red-rimmed and fever-bright. Without a word, he reaches inside his robe and pulls out the Amulet.

The Stygian Tiger Amulet floats above his hand, rotating cleanly, its dark surface glistening. Perhaps it’s his imagination, but Lan Xichen thinks he hears the echoes of screams in his ears. A lazy swirl of black energy surrounds it, hinting at its power.

Wei Wuxian tosses it onto the ground, where it rolls. He reaches out his injured hand, and closes his fist. Power throbs, building rapidly, cutting and intense. The Amulet rattles and shakes.

Lan Xichen realises, in shock, that he’s trying to destroy it.

Wangji reaches up and grabs him, hard. “No. Wei Ying – no.”

Wei Wuxian looks over, his fisted hand still upraised. His expression is half-crazed, his eyes swollen and bloodshot. “It did this to you. It made me do this to you. Don’t stop me, Lan Zhan.”

“If you destroy it here, it will destroy you,” pants Wangji, sitting up. Wen Qing is watching, clearly trying to calculate who to reach for.

“Fine!” shouts Wei Wuxian, his face twisting with anger, yanking his arm away with a brutal swipe. “Fine, then! No power without price – right? I knew that when I took it. I agreed! But if the price is Lan Zhan – the price can never be Lan Zhan. Never.”

“Wei Ying, no.”

“Don’t you see? How can you not see? You were the one who told me this would happen. You were the only one, when everyone else was fawning over me and begging for my help. You told me it would do this, and you were right! It’s made me into something twisted, a tool for evil. I’d rather die. I deserve to!” He tightens his fist. Blood swells against the white bandage, droplets trickling down over his fingers.

Wangji reaches up and grabs him so hard he topples over onto his knees. “No. I refuse. I refuse. Wei Ying said –”

Wei Wuxian stares at him, his mouth a cruel hook. “I never made you any promises, Lan Zhan. You know that.”

Wangji shakes his head in denial, his expression so full of hurt. Wei Wuxian’s face looks clawed – by grief, by self-hatred. By resignation. His red-rimmed eyes are wet. “I – I’m glad we had time, we had a moment just for us. But it was never going to work. How could it? Look what I am, Lan Zhan.” His voice cracks as he spreads his arms, his body thin and shaking, ravaged by sacrifice and starvation and resentful energy.

Lan Xichen knows, suddenly, with a dismay that cuts so deeply it hurts, that Wei Wuxian never believed they would find a way out for him. Never believed that he and Wangji would make a life for themselves. Never believed that he would escape that cage he spoke of on his first night in the Cloud Recesses.

He brought the Wens to Caiyi, he smiled and joked and made a home for Wen Yuan, knowing it would never end happily for him. Knowing that this was nothing but a matter of time.

That his days here were nothing more than a few moments of peace for a dying man.

Lan Xichen makes a small sound of pain, of unhappiness. Of regret. But Wangji shows no sign of submission. His mouth is hard, his teeth bared as he pushes back unrelenting against Wei Wuxian. “I know who you are. You are Wei Ying. You are beautiful, and clever, and honourable, and without peer. You are my beloved.”

Wei Wuxian shakes his head, tears spilling from his eyes. Wangji doesn’t stop, voice firm.

“So Wei Ying must listen to me when I say: there is a way. To destroy it. It is not perfect. But it is better than this. Please.” He holds Wei Wuxian’s arm in a firm grip, cloth pulled so tight it’s cutting into flesh and muscle.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t move, holding himself still as a statue. Wangji looks at him, breathing hard – with pain, with fear. With stubborn conviction. “Wei Ying?”

“Are you tricking me, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian’s voice is quiet, blunt.

Wangji shakes his head. “I cannot lie to Wei Ying.”

Slowly, like an icicle melting in sunlight, Wei Wuxian unfists his hand. The press of power dissipates, then disappears. The Amulet stops shaking, lies still, as drops of blood patter onto the wooden floor. Wei Wuxian closes his eyes and sighs. Tired; reluctant.

“Tell me,” he says.

Chapter Text

Dawn breaks with a harsh, grey light. There is new snow on the ground, just a light dusting. Not enough to impede movement, but it whitens the narrow dirt road and the thin branches of leafless trees that frame it.

Lan Xichen is moving fast. He is not alone.

There are Lan checkpoints throughout Gusu, outposts staffed by disciples posted to detect and destroy restless spirits and yaoguai. Word went out to all of them hours before the sun rose, before the embers in the Wen house had cooled.

One small station near the border with Moling replied.

Su Minshan is on his own, his robes clean, his sword held in a grip that is just slightly too tight to be negligent ease. There are three Lan cultivators blocking his path; their swords are held without any semblance of negligence.

Back in the Cloud Recesses, the disciples who had been tasked with watching him are resting, recovering from a well-chosen sedative. If they had not been found when they were, they would have woken in the morning with no after-effects, believing they simply fell asleep in the room beside Su Minshan’s. He had been playing his guqin in the Lan style, the sound soothing. A reminder of home, and the early curfew of the Cloud Recesses.

“Su She,” says Lan Xichen, for once embracing discourtesy. “Did you imagine we would fail to notice your departure? Did you believe we would blame Wei Wuxian for the fire, for Wen Ning’s madness?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Su She, spine stiff, chin raised. “I have done nothing to deserve this treatment – I will protest to the Chief Cultivator. The Gusu Lan’s bias against my clan is well-known. This is nothing but spite and prejudice.”

“Tonight, two refugees under my protection were murdered. Many others might have died – both those under my direct patronage, and townspeople in Gusu territory. Do you deny your involvement?”

“I do. I know nothing about this – it’s a false allegation.”

“Do you deny your involvement in the Wen boy’s near drowning in the canal?”

Su She’s lip turns upwards. “What is this, a show trial? Does Gusu Lan intend to pillory me in the streets for imagined crimes?” His hand gripping his sword is white.

“Can you prove your whereabouts at either time?” demands Lan Xichen.

“I am a clan leader, the same as you – it is not my responsibility to defend myself from outlandish accusations.”

Lan Xichen glances at Lan Lixin, one of the two who accompanied him. “If you have nothing to hide, allow Lan Lixin to search your qiankun pouch.”

Su She takes a step back, face flushing. “Ridiculous! How dare you. You have no right –”

“In my territory, acting on such evidence as I have, I have both the right and the responsibility.” He nods to Lan Lixin, who steps forward.

Su She draws his sword, steel shining in the stark dawn light. The three Lans behind him do as well, putting their blades to his back. Su She snarls and freezes as the sharp tips touch him. He stares, eyes narrow and furious, breathing through his mouth. His hot breath fogs in the cold air, white clouds rising like smoke.

Lan Lixin takes the pouch from his belt and draws out the contents. Su She’s guqin, some rolls of silk, a bamboo box, a wrapped brick of ink, and a dizi. Lan Xichen bends and picks up the flute. “I did not know you played the dizi,” he says.

Slight, so slight he thinks he would not have noticed it if he had not touched the Amulet or felt the brush of Wei Wuxian’s power, he feels a tiny curl of resentful energy in the polished wood. It reminds him of a whirlwind, of darkness and madness and the wreck of a man pulled to pieces by malice.

It reminds him of blood staining white robes.

“On whose orders do you act, Su She?” he asks, voice sharp.

Su She stares back, chin high. Silent.

“What do you seek? The Stygian Tiger Amulet? Wei Wuxian’s life? Wangji’s?”

Su She curves his lips; smug, unrepentant.

“You have spent your life in the shadow of others. First in our clan, spending your envy on Wangji. And now your benefactors in the Lanling Jin. Who? For whom would you risk your clan, your life?”

“My choices are my own,” says Su She. “I am no longer your subordinate, to be tossed aside as fodder for the wolves in favour of those born of loftier bloodlines. I need not subjugate myself to others – nor to you, Lan Xichen.”

On his other side, Uncle snaps forward out of the dappled shadow of a larch, where he had been watching silently. “Ingrate. Insolent turncoat. To betray your clan out of fear and weakness was bad enough. Now you infiltrate our territory to murder our dependents and set fires in our towns? Unforgivable! We will see your clan stripped of its standing for this, wiped out. And we will see you give up your secrets, each and every one of them. This trespass will not go unpunished.” He turns to the cultivators. “Take his sword and bind him.”

Su She looks at him, his mouth twisted. “I hope Lan-xiansheng never forgets the blood on his hands,” he says, voice mocking.

Then, before the cultivators can bind him, he raises his sword and slits his throat.

Blood fountains out, splattering the path, spraying the edges of Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren’s robes. His body falls, lifeless, spasming once before stilling. Lan Qiren makes a sound of disgust.

Lan Xichen watches as the dark pool of blood spreads, turning white snow crimson. It steams in the frosty morning air, ugly; sickening. The three disciples step back slowly, sheathing their swords.

When the blood has cooled, Lan Xichen turns to Lan Lixin. “See that his corpse, and his possessions, are brought back to the Cloud Recesses.”

“Yes, Clan Leader.”

He and Uncle turn, heading back towards the mountains of home.

“It was a mistake ever to admit him,” says Uncle. “He will cause trouble, even in death.”

Lan Xichen doesn’t answer. He is thinking of Wangji, of the minute arch of his spine as Wen Qing tended to his wound, his tight jaw to hold back the slightest sound as blood slowly dripped down to stain the mattress. Revenge is a flame, they say, hungry and inextinguishable.

Just at the moment, the heat does not feel so wrong.

***

The sun has passed its zenith when he returns to the Cloud Recesses. The Wens have been brought to one of the empty dormitories used to house the summer lecture students; there will be no more laxity in ensuring their safety.

Wei Wuxian is still sleeping, Lan Xichen is sure. Wen Qing had needled him after they arrived in the Jingshi in the early hours of the morning to make him rest, his body trembling with exhaustion. Wangji is likely awake now, but should have peace and calm. He can be allowed a few more hours before hearing what has happened.

Lan Xichen goes to see Wen Yuan, instead. The little boy is being cared for by a bevy of young disciples including Lan Yufei’s assistant Lan Guiying. They’re in the dining hall, currently empty as it’s not mealtime, helping him paint pictures on the back of class assignments. He is happily messy, his hands smeared with deep black ink, his table splattered with it. The disciples are holding up pictures for his approval – a phoenix, a rabbit, a snake. His own pictures are just blobs and lines, but they compliment him on them all the same as he points out Xian-gege and Wang-gege and a radish garden.

Wen Qing is there, too, sitting in the corner and watching quietly. She stands as Lan Xichen comes in the door, slipping over to speak to him in the hall in a low voice.

“Does he know…?” asks Lan Xichen, looking at the boy, and she tilts her head in a small gesture of surrender.

“He’s too young to understand. I’ve told him he’ll be staying here for a while, and that A-Ning and I will be here to look after him. He’s asked after Granny; I told him she’s gone away. He was upset – and he was more upset when Wei Wuxian and Hanguang-jun were also unavailable. He’s alright now, but he’s going to be distressed again later when he remembers to be. It will help if they’re here. A-Yuan is closer to the two of them than almost anyone.”

Lan Xichen tries to find the words to say what he needs to. “If… if Wei Wuxian does not…”

She looks up at him. “If he has a sturdy home, A-Yuan will recover. Even if he loses his Xian-gege. But… but it will hurt him deeply. He has grown very attached.”

“Wei Wuxian may be an easy man to resent,” says Lan Xichen, slowly, “but I think he is an easier man to admire. He is magnetic.” He sees her lip curl in weary agreement.

“Yes; he can both push and pull with ease. Unfortunately, I’m not sure he consciously decides which to do,” she says, a little dryly. But there’s a kindness in her eyes that belies her words.

They stand in silence for a few moments, watching Wen Yuan draw a cat with a fish tail.

“How is your brother?”

“He’s himself,” she says, sharply. Then, easing her shoulders when she sees Lan Xichen isn’t challenging her: “He feels terrible, but he doesn’t remember what happened. That’s probably just as well. If he did… poor A-Ning.”

The only times she truly softens, Lan Xichen thinks, is when she speaks of Wen Ning. 

“I must write to my sworn brothers,” he tells her, when some of the hurt has faded from her face. “Our situation is precarious. If the Amulet is to be destroyed, they must know it – witness it, if possible. I don’t think we can wait much longer. When will Wangji be well enough?”

“Three days,” she says, with the brisk confidence of a physician, now. He nods.

“That will allow time for travel.”

“Will they agree?”

He sighs. “Da-ge will. He is strong, and he respects strength, but he does not covet it. He has no need to. A-Yao… his position is difficult. He works so hard to maintain Clan Leader Jin’s faith and good opinion. And his clan want the Amulet.” And, his clan may have sent Su She. Words Lan Xichen is not prepared to acknowledge by speaking them. “I believe,” adds Lan Xichen, slowly, “that he will be convinced by Da-ge and myself.”

“If not, there will be a tragedy,” says Wen Qing, flatly.

Lan Xichen merely bows his head. They both know that.

***

He visits the Jingshi in the late afternoon, slipping quietly to the door and rapping gently. “Wangji?”

“Brother,” replies Wangji. Lan Xichen pulls the door open and enters.

A few candles burn in the room, long shadows lying on the floor. There’s a gentle waft of incense, and beneath it the cool scent of frost. Wei Wuxian is stretched, straight and unmoving, in the bed. He looks unnaturally pristine, his lanky body usually tossed or curled, and Lan Xichen knows Wangji must have tucked him into this position. Wangji is sitting up in bed beside him, his own posture careful. Speaking not quite of pain, but fragility.

It is bizarre that, over the course of three weeks, it has somehow become ordinary to find Wangji sharing his bed. Wangji, who has hardly ever so much as smiled at another, who once rebuked a junior disciple for holding hands with a young woman. Lan Xichen wonders what side of himself his brother shows Wei Wuxian.

But then, he doesn’t really have to wonder. He has watched Wangji order, and offer, and beg. He has seen him give recklessly, and he has seen him refuse to concede. All this he has witnessed, and he wonders a little to think he ever considered Wangji to be too stern to be demonstrative of his affection.

Lan Xichen slips forward now, gaze flashing to Wei Wuxian with inquiry.

“Wen Qing says he will sleep until tomorrow,” says Wangji, his voice low but not a whisper. “He needs it.”

That is irrefutable. “Good. That is good.” He comes forward and sits on the floor near the bed, quietly conversational. “Wangji, how are you?”

“I am well. The wound is healing properly. It is not a concern.”

Easy words regarding something which very nearly destroyed all of them. Lan Xichen gives him a look, and he relents slightly. “It will not impact my health beyond the next few days.” And then, clearly not wanting to dwell on this topic, “Brother, did you find Su She?”

Lan Xichen resists the urge to straighten his robes. He had changed out of the blood-stained garments upon returning, chosen a new set in sky-blue instead of snow-white. His clothes are clean, now. His mind is still turning over the question of satisfaction, of revenge. “We did. He had a dizi in his possession with traces of resentful energy. He refused to admit anything, and he would not name anyone else.”

“He must be made to speak,” says Wangji.

“He cannot,” says Lan Xichen, thinking momentarily of steam rising over red snow. “Rather than surrender to our custody, he took his own life. I believe… I believe he was protecting whoever sent him.” The words taste sour in his mouth, like vinegar.

Wangji’s face flickers through tiny suggestions of emotion: frustration, satisfaction, concern. “That… is not ideal.”

“No. His body and possessions will, of course, be available for the clans to investigate. They may wish to pursue an interrogation via Inquiry, or even Empathy. Such an investigation would show in our favour. It will cause difficulties, but not disaster.”

Wangji nods. He watches Lan Xichen for a moment before speaking. When he does, his voice is flat. Factual. “Su She was always self-focused. I do not believe there are many he would give his life for. He was unwilling to die even for his fellow disciples.”

“I believe that is fair,” agrees Lan Xichen, following a framework of logic to avoid the turbulent emotions thrumming in his chest.

“He owes his ability to form his own clan – to turn from exile and disgrace to honour – to one man.”

“Wangji…”

Curtness enters Wangji’s voice now, a hint of personal feeling. “Brother has a debt to pay to Jin Guangyao. But debts do not surmount justice.”

Lan Xichen presses his knuckles against his thighs. Wangji has spent his life adhering to every rule, every code in their clan. He has been a courteous brother, and a kind one when possible. Their relationship has always been so easy, almost effortless. It is only recently that Lan Xichen has seen him challenge their teachings, their Uncle, out of affection for Wei Wuxian.

Now, though, Lan Xichen feels the twist of anger and pain from hearing Wangji trample over his own affection. What should be a debate of facts and logic, without heart, nevertheless hurts. He thinks of all the siblings he has known, disciples who fought and argued and snapped – and how he had been so puzzled by it. He hadn’t understood why they hadn’t just agreed, because agreeing is easy.

Perhaps agreeing has only been easy for them because they have never really discussed what lies in their hearts. Because they have both been, in their own ways, entirely blind to each other. A state which can no longer continue. “Wangji, my relationship with A-Yao is not one of debtor and creditor. A-Yao is my sworn brother. When he was without a home or a clan of his own, he risked his life to shelter me. He has acted in our interests again and again, out of compassion and respect. He is important to me; he is cherished.” He speaks carefully, clearly. Trying to make his position clear.

Wangji pays no heed to it. “Jin Guangyao has been kind to Brother. I am grateful. But his actions are not selfless, and his motivations are not pure.”

Lan Xichen raises his head, sharply, stung. “Wangji, you have found someone rare – someone unique. Someone who would make incredible sacrifices to do the right thing. That… is enviable. My respect for Wei Wuxian is strong, and I have been happy to champion him for his own sake as well as yours. But very few people possess that kind of strength, and that is not a bad thing. His drive to act according to his code without exceptions or limitations is dangerous; it is self-destructive. You cannot deny that. A-Yao is not strong. But it is because he is weak, and yet still makes so much of himself that I can admire him. He has no position, no power to stand up in the face of authority. He has neither Wei Wuxian’s training, nor his expertise in cultivation, nor his luck in being adopted from childhood by a main clan. Despite this, he has found a way to nurture the causes he cares for. Including mine.”

“And including Su She’s,” says Wangji, heedless of his words, not giving an inch. Wangji has never been a diplomat, and Lan Xichen has never sent him into a situation where one would be required. He feels now the harshness of his brother’s words, his absolute unwillingness to waver, from the position of target rather than observer.

He draws away sharply, and regret flickers in Wangji’s face. He drops his gaze. “I do not wish to criticize Brother’s comrade. But I cannot be silent. I speak for A-Yuan, for the Wens, for Wei Ying. It is because Jin Guangyao is weak that the Amulet would appeal to him.”

“Our evidence for Su She’s involvement is compelling, but not absolute. There is no evidence beyond inference that A-Yao has any connection to these crimes whatsoever.”

Wangji holds his gaze, stony. “Will you risk Wei Ying’s life on that assumption?”

Lan Xichen straightens stiffly. He is cold now, truly insulted, for all he knows Wangji is nearly rabid with the need to protect Wei Wuxian. “Wangji. I have done everything in my power to welcome Wei Wuxian here. I will not add to the danger hanging over him. And I will not allow the Amulet to go to anyone – including A-Yao. But I will not draw any conclusions regarding him without further evidence.”

“He will protest,” says Wangji. “If you allow it to be destroyed.”

Lan Xichen raises his knuckles from where they are digging into his thighs, smoothing the indentations in the silk. “He may, but he will also listen. I do not intend to make it a choice. A-Yao will not speak against both Da-ge and I, and there will be no time to bring other authorities. You may trust me to arrange things.”

He does not, quite, make it a question. But he looks to Wangji all the same, waiting for his answer, the air tense. Will you say you distrust me?

Wangji softens, just slightly. “The Amulet will be destroyed. Brother will ensure that?”

“I will. Wen Qing suggests three days from now. That is, if Wei Wuxian still intends…?”

Wangji glances behind him, where Wei Wuxian is sleeping quietly, unmoving. “He will not change his mind,” he says, certain.

“Then I will see to it.” Lan Xichen makes to rise, and Wangji looks up. Some of the sharpness fades from his face, the icy judgement.

“I do not… we do not often speak of our hearts,” he says. “I have not known how. No. I have felt it improper. It is not. You know, now, who holds the other half of my soul. I cannot say the same. If you wish… I will listen.”

Lan Xichen sighs, trying to let go of his anger, his hurt. “Thank you Wangji. I admit that I have often felt lost, these past few weeks. And I have felt blind, and ignorant of the brother I believed I understood better than anyone. An ignorance for which I have no excuse. We are a family – we must hold onto that. Perhaps later, we can speak more.” Perhaps later, his own heart will be clearer.

Wangji nods.

“Then I will go now. Sleep well.”

***

He writes to both Nie Mingjue and A-Yao, asking that they join him immediately on a matter of urgency requiring tact and delicacy. He says nothing of the Wens, nor Wei Wuxian, nor the Amulet; he makes it clear that this is a personal invitation to his brothers, not a political request.

The next day, he stays away from the Jingshi. Tries to give his brother and Wei Wuxian space, and peace. Tries to give them time together, which may not come again. On the one trip he makes past the garden he hears laughter from within – Wen Yuan’s high bubbling chuckle, and Wangji’s low murmur.

He wonders what will become of Wen Yuan, if Wei Wuxian fails.

He wonders what will become of Wangji.

***

Nie Mingjue and A-Yao both arrive late in the afternoon of the second day, tired and travel-worn. Lan Xichen has had their usual carefully-appointed quarters prepared, and they take some time to bathe and dress before joining him for a late dinner. They talk easily about the usual clan business, about the upcoming spring conference, about who might host the annual competitive hunt. It is not exactly clan leaders’ talk, but adjacent to that – because of course, A-Yao is not a clan leader and not in a position to make guarantees on behalf of the Lanling Jin.

A-Yao is too polite to ask outright why Lan Xichen has called them here, but Da-ge is not. Lan Xichen has provided wine – a carefully hidden indulgence for his brothers, which they both know not to flaunt. Da-ge is not drunk, but he is blunter than usual.

“Xichen,” he says, putting down his cup with a click on the table. They are sitting together around one low board, rather than in formal separate seats, as befits brothers rather than clan representatives. “What are we doing here? Nothing seems amiss. I saw your uncle – he’s his usual frosty self.”

Lan Xichen smiles politely. “My uncle and my clan are well. Da-ge knows we recently brought the Wen refugees to Caiyi, under our guardianship.”

Nie Mingjue gives a careless shrug.

“Earlier this week, the only child in the group was thrown into a canal; he nearly drowned. The next night, the house was set on fire, the doorway blocked. Two of the oldest Wens died. I have strong reason to believe that Su She arranged both these incidents.”

He looks from Nie Mingjue to A-Yao, who is watching him with wide surprise.

“Why should Su Minshan come to Gusu to murder Wens?” rumbles Nie Mingjue. “Why should anyone, for that matter?”

“His comrades were slaughtered by the Wens,” says A-Yao, looking studiously thoughtful. “He nearly lost his own life.”

“His comrades at the time were my disciples,” reminds Lan Xichen, gently, and sees A-Yao flush in embarrassment. “If my clan could welcome uninvolved, innocent refugees I would hope that Su She, who has no reason to be here except by his own choice, could accept them.”

Da-ge pours himself another cup of wine, the scent pungent. Lan Xichen will have to remember to light some incense before leaving. “What makes you think he did it?”

“There was reason to believe the boy was pushed into the canal by someone using spiritual energy; his marked robes were stolen, afterwards, by a man wearing white. Not a Lan.” He pauses, the next part more difficult. “The person responsible for the fire harnessed resentful energy, conducted by a flute. Likely intended to suggest Wei Wuxian was responsible.”

A-Yao looks curious. “Could he have been?”

“No. He was with me. That was a mistake. Wei Wuxian dove into the canal to save the boy; he came back to the Cloud Recesses afterwards, to recover from the cold. Some of the Wens joined him; they returned to Caiyi the next day. Likely, Su She assumed Wei Wuxian had done so as well. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care. The disciples I had assigned to keep watch on him were found drugged in their room. Su She was found fleeing Gusu before dawn the next morning.”

Nie Mingjue makes an interested sound. “That’s bad.”

“He had a dizi in his possession. With a remnant of resentful energy clinging to it.”

“That’s worse,” says Da-ge, drinking. “So what’s his story?”

“He refused to answer any of the questions we put to him. He denied his involvement, but produced no alibi, or explanations. Unfortunately,” Lan Xichen says, slowly, “he took his own life rather than surrender.”

There’s a subtle shift in the atmosphere, from curious to cautious. “Su Minshan is dead?” says A-Yao. He is shocked, eyes wide, hands stilling over the wine jar. Lan Xichen looks at him, and nods.

“I regret it, but it was unpreventable. I know A-Yao devoted himself to his improvement. I am sorry for his hasty decision.” He is not sorry. Not really. But he is a little sorry that he doesn’t feel regret. Perhaps that is enough to make his words true.

“It was the Su clan I promoted, not Su Minshan,” says A-Yao, slowly. “But this is unfortunate. Er-ge is of course beyond criticism or suspicion; his righteousness is a byword across all provinces. But the differences between the Gusu Lan and the Moling Su are not unknown.”

“Do not hint at things,” rumbles Nie Mingjue, and A-Yao lowers his eyes. “If Xichen says he killed himself to avoid questioning, and the facts he spoke of can be confirmed, then it seems less a question of bad blood than a mystery. What reason would he have to kill Wens? Or to implicate Wei Wuxian?”

Lan Xichen looks from Da-ge to A-Yao. “We cannot know for certain,” he says. “But I believe he was seeking the Stygian Tiger Amulet.”

A-Yao stares back at him, confused. “Could he hope to take it?” he asks. “Wei Wuxian has shown us all how powerful he is. He has done things no one else could. How could Su Minshan – who was industrious and resourceful, but not extraordinary – hope to defeat him?”

“Perhaps he hoped that the clans would do it for him,” says Lan Xichen, who cannot quite believe A-Yao would not be able to deduce this. A-Yao is far more strategic than he is, and more quick-witted also. He feels an indefinite coolness settling low within him, like mist on the water. “As they might, if Wei Wuxian was shown to be an unstable keeper.”

“But no one would entrust the Su clan with the Amulet,” protests A-Yao.

Nie Mingjue looks at Lan Xichen, sharply. Then, mouth thinning, at A-Yao. “They wouldn’t,” he says. “But they would trust the Lanling Jin.”

“Da-ge,” protests A-Yao, straightening up immediately like a boy threatened with a beating. “You can’t believe – we would never interfere with Er-ge’s clan. I promise – we are completely uninvolved in this! Er-ge – you cannot believe it of us.”

Lan Xichen shakes his head slowly. “I have drawn no conclusions, A-Yao. But as Da-ge says, it is a mystery, and a threat. I have brought you both here to resolve things.”

Nie Mingjue raises his eyebrow. “Oh? And how do you propose to do that? Su Minshan is dead, and Guangyao’s tongue is very glib.”

“You will see tomorrow,” says Lan Xichen, who knows that whatever he believes, whatever he hopes, he cannot provide an opportunity for an appeal to outside authorities. “For now, let us speak of more pleasant things. Please.” He raises the wine jug and pours another cup for each of his brothers.

The mood, though, is ruined. They drink a few sullen cups, and retire soon after.

A-Yao catches him alone in the hall as he is heading for his own rooms, grasping Lan Xichen’s sleeve. “Er-ge, you don’t really believe we had anything to do with this, do you?” he asks, his eyes wide, worried.

“I was certain A-Yao would tell me it was untrue,” he says, softly. He tastes the duplicitousness of his own words, the careful framing to tell no lie but also to disguise his own uncertainty. It tastes like metal on his tongue. Like the blood dripping down Wangji’s thigh.

“It is!” says A-Yao. “Entirely untrue. I would never do anything to hurt Er-ge, or his clan. You must believe me. You’re the only one who has always stood beside me.”

“I believe that A-Yao has proven his devotion to me beyond doubt.”

A-Yao smiles, ducking his head. “Er-ge is always so truthful,” he says. “And so kind. His good opinion means more to me than any other’s.”

Lan Xichen’s smile feels false, an ache in his cheeks. “You should concentrate on winning over more important hearts, A-Yao,” he says.

“There are none who matter more to me.” He looks up, eyes wide, bird-bright with curiosity. “Er-ge, what are we going to do tomorrow?”

A further unwelcome wrinkle of doubt pleats its way into Lan Xichen’s heart. He inclines his head, and slips his sleeve away. “You will see then. Good night, A-Yao. Sleep well.”

“Good night, Er-ge.”

Later, as he is putting out the candles in his own room, the doors and windows closed against the freezing night, Lan Xichen reflects on the fact that even by a stretch of imagination the words never do anything to hurt Zewu-jun, or his clan cannot be construed to include Wei Wuxian.

***

Lan Xichen rises at the same time as always, hours before his guests. He breakfasts, does some paperwork, reviews the protections placed on Su She’s corpse and possessions.

It’s just before dawn, the sun rising late as they approach the solstice, when he walks over to the Jingshi. The world is cold and dark; the crisp crunch of snow underfoot is the only sound in the silence.

As he descends the gentle slope he looks up at the long, shadowed shape of the residence which was once his mother’s prison. Dusted in white, it looks just as it did when she died. When Wangji spent days kneeling outside, waiting for an answer to the silent plea of his presence, an answer which never came.

History cannot repeat itself today.

Wangji answers him when he knocks. He steps in, and stops.

Wei Wuxian is kneeling in the centre of the room, dressed once more in white robes. Wangji’s robes, Lan Xichen knows, without knowing how he does. His dark hair trails sleek and silken down his back, for the moment loose and untamed.

Wangji is standing behind him twisting it up carefully, drawing the thick layers of it into order and pinning them in place beneath a simple silver guan. Lan Xichen recognizes that as Wangji’s, too, one he stopped using just before the summer lectures when Uncle suggested it was too plain for the clan’s second heir. It is plain, but it’s also beautiful, a rippling river of silver that encircles black locks. Wangji’s fingers are sure, deft, as he arranges Wei Wuxian’s hair with the deliberate care of a vassal arraying his lord for battle.

Neither moves when Lan Xichen enters. Wangji’s eyes flicker to him briefly, but he says nothing, continuing to slip long pins into Wei Wuxian’s dark locks. Wei Wuxian does not look up at all. Right now, Lan Xichen is not important. He steps aside and sits down to wait.

Dawn is just breaking when Wen Qing arrives, mouth hard, eyes anxious. Wangji finishes his task and brushes his fingers over Wei Wuxian’s shoulder; his eyes slip closed, just for a moment, before he stands.

Wen Qing checks both of them – pulse, heartbeat, temperature, spiritual energy. “Hanguang-jun is fine,” she says. “Wei Wuxian…” she shrugs. He gives a little smile.

“Same as ever?”

She looks unimpressed.

“Aiya, don’t give me that look. If there was another option… well, there isn’t. So here we are. Is Wen Ning…?”

“He left the day after the fire. If something happens… he will be far from the Amulet, and far also from people. He won’t hurt anyone.” Her voice is stiff, and underneath so full of sorrow.

Wei Wuxian nods. He opens his mouth, closes it. Then, voice husky: “Whatever happens, you’ll look after A-Yuan. Right?”

“You idiot. Of course I will. And so will you. He needs his Xian-gege to teach him foolish whims and troublesome habits. To tease him, to tickle him. And to keep him happy, and safe, and loved…” her voice catches. She reaches out and he raises his hands hastily to deflect her.

“Alright, let’s not get all weepy. Wen Qing –”

She steps back, pulls her hands up in front of her in a slow perfect arc, and bows low.

“Thank you, Wei Wuxian. For everything.”

For a moment, he looks stricken. Then he forces a smile, small, brittle. “You’re welcome,” he says.

***

Lan Xichen leaves Wangji to escort Wei Wuxian on his own; he finds Nie Mingjue and A-Yao waiting for him as requested in his office, and leads them up the back paths of the mountain.

“Are we really going for a hike in the middle of winter?” asks Nie Mingjue, who does not look cold. His golden core could keep him warm in an avalanche, Lan Xichen imagines.

“It’s not very far,” replies Lan Xichen. A-Yao, looking pale and uncertain, says nothing. Lan Xichen feels uncertainty gnawing at him, and dislikes it.

Wangji and Wei Wuxian are already there when they arrive, waiting. Nie Mingjue greets Wangji fondly, and Wei Wuxian with gruff politeness. A-Yao’s bows are textbook, his eyes watchful. “This is…?” he asks, when they’ve finished their greetings.

Lan Xichen glances at the cliff face. “Beyond this wall is the most sacred space in our province, and the most untouched by resentful energy. Its purity is legendary, pure enough to hold the yin iron, for a time. It is accessible only by our clan; it is also the refuge Su She betrayed to the Wens.”

Nie Mingjue looks thoughtful; A-Yao looks worried.

“Wei Wuxian has pledged to destroy the Stygian Tiger Amulet. Its power is evil, and its influence is corrupting. It cannot be used for good, and it cannot be stored safely. I have felt it; I am convinced this is true.”

“But –” begins A-Yao.

“A-Yao,” he says, quietly, “it was forged by Wei Wuxian; he knows it better than anyone. And it is destroying him. It is not a tool; it is a curse.”

Da-ge glances thoughtfully at Wei Wuxian, pale and tense, the skin of his face drawn. Here, on the frigid mountainside, he looks worn as ancient linen.  

“This is not a decision for one clan, Er-ge, it –”

“It is not a decision for any clan,” says Wei Wuxian. “How can you claim to have a voice, when you have cast me out? The Amulet is mine, for better or worse. Unless you’d like to take it from me, Jin Guangyao?” His eyes flash, a hint of colour coming into his cheeks. Wangji stands behind him, tall and icy.

A-Yao licks his lips. “Brothers –”

“Wei Wuxian made the thing, and as far as I can see it gives nothing but trouble. If he is willing to destroy it, then let him,” says Da-ge. “Yin iron caused the war; we don’t need a second one caused by this bauble.”

“I am convinced no good can come of its existence,” adds Lan Xichen.

A-Yao looks between them, then slowly bows. “I defer to my brothers, of course,” he murmurs.

“If you stay here, even outside the cave I believe you will be able to sense its destruction,” says Lan Xichen. “It is essential that this be witnessed.”

Da-ge nods; A-Yao casts his eyes downwards. His thoughts are difficult to read. Unlike Wangji, he is a perfect diplomat: witty, wise, and trained by years of insults to hide his true thoughts and feelings.

Lan Xichen sighs. This will not be resolved today. It may not ever be, if the Amulet is destroyed and the temptation of its power removed. The Lanling Jin are opportunists, taking advantage of circumstance rather than staking bold claims, and A-Yao is no exception. Perhaps without temptation, there will be no further difficulties.

Lan Xichen turns to his brother, to the sheer mountain wall that hides the entrance to the sacred cave. In doing so he realises abruptly that he completely forgot to consider how Wei Wuxian will gain access to the clan’s refuge.

Wangji, it seems, has not made the same error. Without hesitation he pulls his headband free, silk fluttering between his fingers; he wraps one side around his wrist and twines the other around Wei Wuxian’s.

Lan Xichen stares. Wangji lifts his head and looks cooly back, as if inviting a challenge. Wei Wuxian’s mouth curves softly, utterly unaware. “Isn’t Lan Zhan smart? We figured this out last time.”

“Last time…” repeats Lan Xichen, gently stunned at the fact that his brother apparently pledged himself to Wei Wuxain… when? It’s been years since he was last in the Cloud Recesses. He swallows, and pushes past his shock. There will be time to talk of this later. Or perhaps there won’t be. Either way, it does not matter right now. “Wangji?” he says, nodding.

Wangji turns, and steps through into the cave.

The light here is sharp, blue/white in tint. The air prickles with frost, the water icy. Rime gleams on the walls. On the small island of frozen ground, Lan Yi’s guqin still sits, immaculate. There is a deep sense of calm, of clarity, of cleanliness.

Lan Xichen stops only a few feet after entering, hanging back. He is here to witness, and to help if he can. But this is not his mission.

Wangji and Wei Wuxian stop just inside, staring at the remote beauty of the cave. Their reflections ripple in the water, white robes against white frost. “This is where it all started, huh Lan Zhan? I guess it makes sense that this is where it ends.”

“Nothing is going to end,” says Wangji, his voice low. Wei Wuxian squeezes his hand, but doesn’t answer.  

They wade forward until they’re standing in the centre of the clear pond, their wrists bound together by Wangji’s headband, their hands clasped together beneath its length.

Lit by searching white light, their robes glowing like snow in sunshine, Wei Wuxian turns to Wangji. He wraps his arm around his waist, not too tight, and leans into him. They fit together seamlessly, a picture of longing, and sweetness, and grief. The moment stretches, time standing still for the two of them. Eternity captured in a heartbeat.

Wei Wuxian breaks the stillness by raising his head to seal their mouths together. The kiss is agonizing; deep and desperate. When they pull apart Wei Wuxian is crying; Lan Xichen thinks Wangji is, also, although he’s standing so straight – as if to bend would shatter him.

Lan Xichen feels something he’s never felt before, not quite. It reminds him of an empty house dusted with snow; it reminds him of spark-filled smoke billowing into the sky above the Cloud Recesses. And he knows that, grateful and heartfelt though his appreciation for A-Yao has been, it is not this. It will never be this.

“Lan Zhan,” says Wei Wuxian, his voice just a whisper in the silent cave. His eyes are shining, so bright, with ache and love and loss. Wangji says nothing, his face agonized. Wei Wuxian takes a deep, shaking breath. His smile is so painful to see. “I’m sorry. And thank you.”

He reaches into his robe, pulls out the Amulet, and tosses it forward.

The tiny stone lands on the shelf of ice, so small, so innocuous. A thing of pure evil, of misery untold.

Wei Wuxian raises his hand, and begins to crush it with the relentless looping of its own power. Darkness pulses, the air itself distorting as the Amulet rises upwards, trembling and shaking.

Wei Wuxian squeezes his fist tighter, tighter. The wind rises, the water beginning to ripple, then crest in sharp waves. Wangji weaves his fingers together with Wei Wuxian’s, squeezing, supporting him. Wei Wuxian’s arm starts to tremble; he leans forward into the gale, concentrating so intently.

Lan Xichen can feel the wicked whip of the Amulet’s strength, the intense pressure of the power Wei Wuxian is turning in on it. It grows stronger and stronger, pressing down on the Amulet’s rocking shape, crashing, crushing. The water is flying now, spraying the walls, spraying Lan Xichen’s robes. It’s creating a whirlpool centred on Wei Wuxian, his feet now visible standing on damp ground as the water is pushed away by the force of the energy he is harnessing. Energy strong enough to destroy something that is nothing but hatred and hunger.

Distantly, Lan Xichen can hear screaming in his ears. Sharp, wailing cries. The sound of bone breaking, the sound of flesh being slashed open. His skin feels hot despite the cold of the cave, resentful energy flooding out as the Amulet tries to subdue Wei Wuxian. But there are no corpses here to control, nothing to turn into a weapon. Nothing but ice and clean air and pure white light.

Wei Wuxian fists his hand tighter still, knuckles strained, ridges clear-cut. His whole body is shivering, muscles locked. He’s so tense Lan Xichen doesn’t know if he’s breathing, can’t imagine the strain on him.

There’s a single sound of something cracking, like a piece of shale chipped off a rock.

The Amulet explodes, disintegrating into dust with a shockwave that throws Lan Xichen back into the wall behind him while a horde of screams shrill in his ears, then fall silent. He’s immediately drenched with a wave of water. And then there’s only quiet, empty, frosty air. He takes a breath, pushing his hair out of his face, staggering to his feet. He feels exhausted, like he’s been training all day, like he’s been flying for hours.

“Wei Ying?!”

In the centre of the cave, Wangji’s on his knees in the water. Wei Wuxian is cradled in his arms, limp, unmoving. Eyes closed, blood on his face – trickling from his eyes, his nose, his mouth – wet and smeared and red. Wangji’s already pouring spiritual energy into him even as he calls him, desperate, pleading. He looks up, terrified. “Brother – please –”

Lan Xichen is there, kneeling on Wei Wuxian’s other side in the calming water. He connects his spiritual energy to Wei Wuxian and feels – destruction. Wei Wuxian’s meridians are damaged, his spiritual network fractured. The Stygian Tiger Amulet shattered his already fragile system, the paths which carry the energy of his very life bleeding unconstrained in dozens – hundreds – of places. His entire spiritual network is crushed, collapsing.

He is dying.

For every crack Lan Xichen seals, for every meridian he coaxes back to life with the careful injection of his own energy, there are dozens more that he can’t reach.

Wangji is crying, tears running down his face as he breathes through his mouth, desperately trying to repair the damage that no one man – that no two men – could ever repair. He looks up at Lan Xichen, pleading, breaking. “Please,” he says, the little boy, the young man, the proud cultivator who never asked for anything. Who was raised to never ask for anything. “I cannot lose him.”

Lan Xichen reaches into his sleeve, fumbling until he finds his jade amulet, the pass all clan members carry. He sends a throb of energy into it, a sharp pull, before returning to focus on the damage closest to Wei Wuxian’s heart.  

It’s Lan Yufei who arrives first, running in through the hidden entrance, amulet in hand. He pauses only for a moment, then wades into the water to kneel beside Lan Xichen, immediately making a connection for his spiritual energy. He begins working to repair the damage to Wei Wuxian’s lower body, the heart of his spiritual energy.

Lan Lixin comes next, tall and broad, racing in with his sword in hand and his glowing amulet tied to the grip. He stops just past the entrance, uncertain, looking for threats. “Help, please,” says Lan Xichen, tightly, and he strides over through the water and bends down beside Wangji, putting down his sword and raising his hands.

Lan Guiying runs in, hardly pausing, hurrying over to stand beside her master, her small face taking on a look of concentration as she reaches out.

Then Lan Susu, wide-eyed and quick in her movements.

Lan Bolin, tall and thin and shivering, but quick to help.

Lan Yuze, silent and thoughtful.

One after another, the inner disciples arrive. Some stop to stare at Wei Wuxian, or Wangji, startled and confused. Some look to Lan Xichen. But after a moment each and every one hurries over to help their Hanguang-jun, and the man he brought home. They crowd around Wei Wuxian, tracing the fissures in his system and healing them with their own spiritual energy.

Last of all, a little out of breath, comes Uncle. He strides in rapidly, then slows when he sees his clan gathered around Wei Wuxian – Wei Wuxian who is choking weakly, blood bubbling through his lips, held in Wangji’s arms.

Wangji looks up, his face wet, full of anguish. “Uncle – please –”

Lan Qiren walks slowly over, eyes sharp. They flit from disciple to disciple; they flit over Wei Wuxian’s limp form and the headband twined around his wrist. And they look to Wangji, on his knees, trying to keep the man he loves alive.

Uncle bends beside Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, reaches out a stiff hand, and begins to transfer his energy. For a moment his eyes widen, staring at Wei Wuxian. Then his mouth firms, and he focuses on his task.

It’s difficult. There’s so much damage, Wei Wuxian’s system twisted and torn by not just the destruction of the Amulet but the use of its power for years. Lan Xichen can’t believe he was able to control it at all like this, never mind use it in the ways he did. But they are many, and they are determined, and the inner disciples are the strongest of the clan. Wei Wuxian slips slowly, slowly out of the shadow of death, his breathing easing.

As they sweep through his system and rebuild it to something whole and resilient, Lan Xichen realises something else is happening. There are a dozen of them here, feeding their energy into Wei Wuxian, and as his system is repaired his body is starting to not just accept it, but to bundle and store it. To spin it and weave it into something cohesive, something strong. Something he could not build for himself.

A tiny, nascent golden core.

Lan Xichen looks across at Wangji, who is staring down at Wei Wuxian, stunned.

One by one, the disciples cut their flows as the final cracks are sealed. They step away, leaving six, five, four still working. Lan Yufei stands, laying his hand briefly on Lan Xichen’s shoulder. Three.

Uncle lifts his hand away and straightens. His face is stiff, but Lan Xichen doesn’t read anger there. He thinks it might be incomprehension.

The final cracks heal, leaving no trace of instability or injury. The tiny golden core pulses, honey-warm. Lan Xichen rises, stepping back.

Wangji wets his sleeve in the purest water in Gusu and wipes the blood from Wei Wuxian’s face with careful, gentle sweeps. His breathing is smooth now, deep and even. In the calmness of the frozen chamber, there is a moment of silent anticipation. Lan Guiying stands close to the crabbed Lan Yufei, her eyes bright. Lan Susu has her fingertips pressed into her lips. Lan Bolin starts to whisper something, and is elbowed hard by Lan Yuze.

Uncle stands alone, silent and resigned.

“Wei Ying? Wei Ying?” calls Wangji, softly, like a bird singing to summon the break of dawn.

Wei Wuxian’s dark lashes flutter, his chest rising with a deep breath. He opens his eyes, looking up at the ceiling, then over at Wangji, holding his hand with the ribbon still wound around their wrists. “Nnh – Lan Zhan? Oh, Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, I had the strangest dream…”

Wangji leans down, and kisses him.

TO BE CONCLUDED

Chapter Text

Da-ge and A-Yao leave the next morning. They’re travelling together to Carp Tower to speak to Jin Guangshan about Su She, and the destruction of the Amulet. At another time, it would have been A-Yao’s responsibility alone, but Lan Xichen knows that Da-ge is wary of A-Yao, wary of how he might portray the minor clan leader’s suicide.

Lan Xichen is not worried about that – he truly does not believe A-Yao would do anything to harm him, and a diplomatic incident between Gusu and Su would harm him. But as he watches them leave, Da-ge waving brusquely, A-Yao bowing, he knows that there are doubts in his own mind that he cannot ignore. Doubts that he does not know how to resolve with A-Yao, because A-Yao is clever and kind but he also is willing to use lies to further his purposes. Lan Xichen doesn’t know that he could disbelieve A-Yao, if he promised to speak the truth. And so he doesn’t know that he can speak to him at all. Not about matters which require absolute certainty.

It is deeply distressing. He feels it as a betrayal – his betrayal of A-Yao. In anything else, for any other reason, he would have risked being betrayed rather than being the one to break faith.

But not for Wangji. Wangji is the one thing he cannot, will not surrender. For Wangji’s sake he has turned the world upside down – freed the Yiling Patriarch, ignored the Gusu Lan precepts, opposed the Lanling Jin’s exile of the Wens, ruined an offshoot clan, brought about the destruction of the Stygian Tiger Amulet.

In one month, he has changed the landscape of the cultivation world, solely for the sake of his brother. He cannot say that he regrets it, even if he does regret the doubt that has grown in his heart.

So he watches without a smile as A-Yao walks away from the Cloud Recesses, and doesn’t know under what circumstances they will meet again.

***

“And now I suppose Wangji will marry that fool,” says Uncle, drinking tea with Lan Xichen in the Clan Leader’s office. There are snacks on the table; they are untouched. Lan Xichen will bring them to the Wens, later. He chose the kind Wen Yuan likes.

“I suppose he shall,” says Lan Xichen. “Is that so bad?”

It is several days after the departure of his sworn brothers, after the events of the cave. Things are settling back to normal in the Cloud Recesses. Including his usual talks with Uncle. Normally Wangji would be present as well, of course; they both know why he isn’t, which doubtless is contributing to Uncle’s mood. Romancing your lover is not, in Uncle’s mind, a sufficient reason to miss a family meeting. Even when that lover only just managed a dramatic escape from certain death.

Lan Qiren snorts. “And what will Wei Wuxian bring with him to earn the hand of the Second Jade? A dowry of ingots and gold? A proficiency in cultivation to pass on to the disciples? No. He might at least make the Yunmeng Jiang take him back, and offer the semblance of a political union.”

Lan Xichen smiles, just mildly. “Is it so terrible, Uncle, to marry for love? Besides, given what we owe Wei Wuxian, it would be miserly to insist on further payment.”

“It is not love that is the problem, it is propriety. Your brother,” says Uncle, frowning into his tea, “is losing all sense of it. Earlier today I caught him smiling. Wangji! Standing alone by the maple garden. Wei Wuxian was not even present.”

“There is not actually a precept against it,” points out Lan Xichen.

“It is the principle of the thing,” snaps Uncle.

“If Wangji is happy, then I am happy,” says Lan Xichen, in a tone of finality.

Uncle stares at him, mouth pinched. For a moment they lock eyes, before they both look apart. Lan Xichen has seen what he needs to, the same thing he saw in the frozen cave. Grudging acceptance.

“And another thing,” says Uncle, splashing out more tea into his cup, “those junior disciples are losing their attention to discipline. They were throwing snowballs when I came through the south courtyard this morning. Snowballs! Are they children? Where is their dignity?”

Lan Xichen makes a quiet sound that promises neither action nor protest, and takes a sip of his tea. It is quite good. Perhaps he can bring some of that, too, to the Wens.

***

He finds Wen Qing dusting snow from the path to the dormitory she and her extended relatives have been lent with a twig broom. She smiles and bows as he approaches, and lets him invite her into her own home to present the snacks and tea.

They seat themselves at a low table, the cushions upholstered in sky-blue silk, a small incense burner in the shape of a dragon sitting beside the caddy and cloth-wrapped cakes. She tells him that Wen Ning returned recently, his mind clear, happy to be back. He congratulates her; she waves it away.

“We will find you a new home in Caiyi now, if you wish it,” he says. “Or you may remain here through the winter, and start anew in the spring. I do not believe there will be further threats, but it may be wise to remain close until the dust settles around Wei Wuxian.”

She inclines her head, that small smile on her lips again, the one that Wei Wuxian provokes. A mixture of humour and vexation. “If we waited for that, Zewu-jun, we would be waiting all our lives. But I will speak to the others and let you know.”

“Thank you,” he says. He looks around at the familiar decorations of the dormitory’s main room, the design simpler than the studied elegance of the clan rooms but still wide and pleasant. And yet, it is not a home; it is a temporary space at best. His gaze drops to the polished table. “I must say again that I regret my failings, Wen-daifu. Your relatives died in my care. That cannot be made right.”

“You didn’t strike the match,” she says. “I do not blame Zewu-jun. And even if I did, violence can’t be erased by guilt, nor yet regret.” She sounds very certain, her voice calm and competent as a physician treating a patient.

He raises his head to look at her. “What may erase it, then?”

“What Zewu-jun is already doing. Helping those who need it to recover. And seeing that it does not happen again.”

“It will not,” he says, with finality.

She shifts, tucking an errant fold of her robe neatly beneath her knee. “I am not referring to Su She, or to the Lanling Jin,” she says, quietly.

“Then…?”

“Zewu-jun is in a position of near-unique power. Many problems are put to him, and many lives depend on his integrity and judgement. I hope he does not find me impertinent to suggest that he should be guided by evidence, rather than blind faith in those who have their own causes to promote.” This petite woman, all collectedness and calm, is in her own way just as dangerous as Wei Wuxian. She is sharp where he is blunt, studied and precise where he explodes onto the scene with power and personality. The world would have been so very different, had she been born a clan heir.

Lan Xichen is suddenly glad, so glad, that Wei Wuxian saved her from her fate.

“Wen-daifu’s point is well-made, as always,” he murmurs. He feels the cut of her rebuke, no softer for the care with which she phrased it. His fingers, soft where hers are calloused, brush against the silk lying smoothly across his knees. “I have long sought to promote harmony and, where possible, kindness. But the harmonious path is not always the right one. It is better to be decried than to allow an injustice to pass. That is what Wei Wuxian has shown me. And Wen-daifu, of course.”

She shakes her head. “The credit is not mine. But I am grateful all the same. Zewu-jun has made the impossible possible; I salute him for that.”

“We all played a part,” he replies. “That is something not to be forgotten.” He takes a deep breath, shifting free of the sombre weight the conversation has laid over his shoulders. “Where is A-Yuan today?” he asks, glancing around the quiet room.

Wen Qing looks up at him and smiles. “Do you really need to ask?”

He smiles back. “I suppose not. His partiality is apparent. Not to say that he doesn’t also adore Wen-daifu,” he adds, hastily. She shakes her head.

“A-Yuan has always been quick to fall for a pretty face,” she says, with light humour. And then, more seriously, “No one could dispute the wisdom of his choice.”

This matter is not his to discuss, so he doesn’t pry. But he notes the look of consideration in her eyes all the same.

***

Walking to the Jingshi that afternoon he hears the laughter before he sees it. Bright, bubbly giggles; deeper, breathy laughs.

Wei Wuxian, dressed in black and red but with his hair still carefully twisted in Wangji’s silver guan, is being pelted with dry dusty snowballs by Wen Yuan. They chase each other across the gentle slope in front of the Jingshi, shouting threats and pleas.

Wangji is sitting on the veranda with a pot of tea kept warm by heating talismans. He looks up as Lan Xichen cuts across the bottom of the garden to meet him.

They haven’t had time to speak alone together since the frozen cave. First everything had been so busy – with Uncle, with the disciples, with Nie Mingjue and A-Yao. And then Lan Xichen had felt the almost physical force of Wangji’s need to be alone with Wei Wuxian, to have time to recover together from the toll of near-disaster. To eke out a measure of solitude, just for themselves.

He sits down beside his brother, watching Wei Wuxian and the child play in the snow. Wei Wuxian wears a smiling mask almost always, ready with a grin and a joke in most situations. But watching him here, now, Lan Xichen can see how different he is from the man who arrived in the Cloud Recesses a month ago. Can see the shadow that had been clinging so tightly to him is gone, leaving him lighter, brighter. His eyes are no longer searching for threats, his body always held ready to react.

“It is good to see him happy,” says Lan Xichen.

“It is.” Wangji’s voice is calm as always, but Lan Xichen can hear the subtle tone of approval in it.

“That is what I first remember noticing about him. His earnest joy in life. I thought he might show you such things were possible.”

Wangji lets out a quiet breath. “He did.” There is an ocean of meaning behind those two words.

“There is much you didn’t tell me,” Lan Xichen says. “I saw very little of your intentions. You offered Wei Wuxian courtship in front of me, then later revealed you had pledged yourself to him years ago. You might have said something, Wangji.”

Wangji’s face is placid. “I considered the handfasting solely binding to myself, not Wei Ying. It was done without his permission, or understanding. I hoped… I hoped that eventually, a time would come when I might gain that.”

“Nevertheless,” says Lan Xichen, wincing as Wen Yuan scoops up two handfuls of powder and grinds them into Wei Wuxian’s stomach; he flops back into the thick white snow and groans theatrically. “I had no idea you had interests beyond friendship, when in fact you entertained them for years. It would have been nice to know,” he says, a little wistfully. Wangji gives him an unimpressed look.

“Brother does not need to concern himself with matchmaking,” he says.

“No, clearly not,” agrees Lan Xichen, looking at the silver guan sparkling in Wei Wuxian’s hair, now adorned with a frosting of snow crystals. “Wangji has always been an expert in devotion. I am glad you have found an equal to devote yourself to, even without my assistance.”

Wangji looks at him. “I have Brother to thank for his life – and mine. I know I am not always easy to care for; nor is Wei Ying. We speak too freely, or not at all. We go against rules and etiquette. I have made things difficult for you. As a brother and a clan leader.”

“Wangji,” says Lan Xichen, firmly, “the measure of love is not ease. How could it be? You and I have always embraced simplicity in our relationship, because you bowed to formalities and I believed that was how you found comfort. That doesn’t make it the right way to be; it certainly isn’t the only way. And the result was that, to smooth our conversations, we discussed nothing that lay close to our hearts. That is not what I want. For you, I would move heaven and earth. Difficulty does not concern me.”

Wangji bows his head, a hint of shyness in his posture. He is so icy as Hanguang-jun, so immune to the constant flattery he receives. But Lan Xichen’s praise is still enough to unnerve him.

Up on the slope, Wei Wuxian is teaching Wen Yuan how to make snow figures. They’re both covered in fine dustings of snow, careless of their appearances – carefree. Wei Wuxian will be good for Wangji. He would be good for all of them, Lan Xichen thinks.

“Will you stay?” he asks, quietly, voicing the real question on his mind.

“I do not know, yet,” says Wangji, lifting his chin to watch Wei Wuxian roll over and scoop Wen Yuan up, lifting him out of the snow and shaking him to flake it off while the little boy giggles. “But I think… the older Wens are willing, but not eager to care for a child. Wen Qing has a career in mind; her brother is kind but not competent to care for a child alone. And Wei Ying… Wei Ying loves A-Yuan very much.”

“He would be welcome here.” Lan Xichen thinks Wangji knows this, but he hurries to make it clear.

Wangji nods.

“Would you like that, Wangji?” asks Lan Xichen, carefully.

Wangji turns to look at him, his eyes bright, certain. “I would,” he says. “To have a family with Wei Ying – to have this family with him... I have no name for that joy. It is too great to define.”

Lan Xichen swallows, his throat a little tight.

“Lan Zhan!” shouts Wei Wuxian, holding Wen Yuan in his arms, the two of them white and wet with melting snow. Wangji looks over, his face soft. “It’s too cold! We need tea! Tea!”

“Tea!” chortles Wen Yuan.

Wangji smiles, and pulls the cups forward to pour out. Lan Xichen turns to greet Wei Wuxian, and help Wen Yuan struggle out of his snow-wet coat.

***

It’s late. A cold, clear night, the stars white pinpricks in the ink-dark sky. The lanterns have been lit for hours, the Cloud Recesses bathed in their soft glow.

Lan Xichen is in his office, putting away the last of his papers for the evening. Most of the disciples will already be in their dormitories, preparing for bed.

There’s a knock on his door, a quiet rap. He looks up and sees Wangji there, and behind him Wei Wuxian. Their clothes are immaculate: their best silks, layer over layer of rich fabric perfectly draped. They come in quietly, just a hint of nervousness, like children creeping in to ask a favour.

Lan Xichen straightens, placing his hands on his knees, feeling his heart give a little jolt.

They kneel before him, white and black, yin and yang. A matched pair, without peer.

“Brother,” says Wangji, softly, his ears pink. “We’ve come to ask for your blessing.”

Wei Wuxian smiles, a little nervously. “Zewu-jun has already given so much, it seems ungrateful to ask for his most precious possession. But I – we –” he takes a breath, finding himself. “It turns out that beyond the walls of the cage is happiness,” he says. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to give it up a second time.”

Lan Xichen’s heart is rabbiting in his chest, his body hot – with joy, with tenderness, with a tiny portion of sadness. Wangji will always be his brother, but Lan Xichen will no longer be his most precious person. Will never again be that.

He looks up, and smiles. “Lan Wangji has my blessing,” he says, “to give his heart to one who has proven himself just, and loyal, and devoted. I ask for nothing in return. But I hope… I hope you will feel yourselves at home here.”

Wei Wuxian’s shoulders ease, just slightly. “Zewu-jun, actions speak louder than words. It’s impossible for me to forget the welcome your clan offered – I feel it every moment of every day. The Yunmeng Jiang gave me my life; the Gusu Lan gave me my future. And…”

Lan Xichen raises his eyebrows.

“And a child deserves a good clan, and a good home,” he says.

Lan Xichen looks to Wangji, who produces a folded piece of parchment paper from his sleeve and presents it across the desk with both hands, a formal submission. Lan Xichen unfolds it; it is an official registry of a new clan member.

Lan Yuan (Sizhui) is hereby witnessed and confirmed as a member of the Gusu Lan.

Signed, Lan Zhan (Wangji); witnessed Wei Ying (Wuxian)

The place allocated for the signature of the clan leader is blank.

“I know he is not ours by birth,” says Wangji, his voice husky, “and that his history is difficult. But he is a joy, and he deserves a good life. The Wens have asked if we will give him a name, and a family. Brother, will you accept…?”

Lan Xichen quiets him with a glance. “Wangji. You do not need to convince me. Although it is perhaps more traditional for the children to arrive after the marriage.”

Wangji’s face freezes; Wei Wuxian chokes quietly.

Smile on his lips, Lan Xichen picks up his brush, and signs his new family into being.

END