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Chapter Text

Lan Xichen has been in seclusion for six months the first time he notices the visitor.

He sits at his desk with his guqin and his sword laying atop the dark wood. Each is coated in a thin layer of dust. He is trying to bring himself to polish them, but each time he reaches for one, he is hit with memories he would rather keep trapped beneath the floorboards like Wangji’s stash of Emperor’s Smile.

Through the open window, he sees a smudge of black.

He’s feeling braver today. Hesitantly, he looks up, expecting to see his brother-in-law on his way from the Jingshi to the main grounds.

Instead of Wei Wuxian’s exuberant smile, he finds the stiff gait of a fierce corpse. In that split second, all he registers is that this corpse is not Wen Qionglin.

His hand twitches for Shuoyue, but it skitters off the carved hilt as A-Yao’s face flashes across his memory like lightning in a blue sky. Breath escapes him. For a moment, he’s spiraling. It’s been months, but he’s still on the floor of the temple staring at a pile of debris. Still horrified and betrayed and grieving.

He forces his gaze up, seeking the fierce corpse. If no one else is around, then he must tend to this himself. He blinks as the figure steps into the sunlight, locks eyes with him, and bows.

Song Zichen stands on a small, residential path in Cloud Recesses. He carries his horsetail whisk and wears black robes just as he did during Xue Yang’s trial in Lanling. Lan Xichen’s panic is replaced by surprise.

The sunlight glints off of the crossed swords he wears, and Lan Xichen’s heart pangs with sympathetic grief. When their eyes meet across the bursting pink garden, the man’s expressionless face still somehow conveys concern.

For a corpse, he looks quite well. Probably better kempt than Lan Xichen, at present. If not for the gray tinge to his skin and the hint of black veins at his neck, one might never know Song Zichen’s heart ceased beating almost a decade ago.

Lan Xichen’s own heart rate calms as he bows in reply.

For a moment, though they have never exchanged a word, Lan Xichen feels that their souls are two strings, plucked by a cruel hand, resonating in the still summer air.

“Song Lan,” a voice calls. Though it is distant, he would know Wei Wuxian’s voice anywhere.

Lan Xichen recoils from the window.

“Wait up a moment! I found the talisman I wanted you to test.”

These days, he does not think ill of Wangji’s husband, but he cannot presently bear to see Mo Xuanyu’s face, even lit with Wei Wuxian’s soul. Especially not when he smiles.

Song Zichen’s dark eyes watch him for a moment longer before he turns to Wei Wuxian’s approaching form.

Lan Xichen retreats to his tea set and pours with shaking hands. A curl of self-loathing crawls up his spine like a lover’s hand, wrapping around his throat.

How dare he hide from the world like this when Song Zichen, more dead than alive, can still put one foot in front of the other after years spent as a madman’s puppet. After his home was razed and his soulmate was ripped away, he still stands for justice. He still carries on.

Lan Xichen can’t even pick up his sword.

He drinks his over-steeped tea and stares at the far wall until his ghosts blur into the paper panes.

…

In seclusion, the days are meaningless.

He receives trays of food at his door thrice daily. He manages to keep food in his stomach for perhaps two of those three meals.

Inedia sustains him when he cannot bear to eat. When his stomach is tied in knots, he feeds his core instead, settling into a meditation so deep he almost cannot feel the hands clutching his sleeves. Cannot feel the weight of his guilt, drowning him like a waterborne abyss.

The days bleed, as always, into weeks and months. The blooming garden begins to wither as the summer cools into autumn.

When Song Zichen next visits, Wen Qionglin is walking at his side. Lan Xichen considers the pair.

Both men are dead. Both men shouldn’t exist. Their undead lives are an abomination to the tenets under which Lan Xichen and his sect live.

And yet, Lan Xichen is grateful that they were kept from true death. The world would not be made better by their cremation.

Through Wen Qionglin, Sizhui can finally learn the culture of his natal ancestors. Through him, Wei Wuxian has a friend who has seen him at his worst and stayed true. Through his actions, Jin Ling lives. Indeed, the world would be a much bleaker place had he been burned with his sister fourteen years ago.

Though Lan Xichen does not know Song Zichen, he knows the reputation the man once had. He knows that he is cut from the same cloth as Wangji and Wuxian. He will break before he bends, never straying from righteousness.

Though his companion does not notice the gaze tracking their steps, Song Zichen finds Lan Xichen’s eye unerringly.

Just for a moment, Lan Xichen, standing in the shadows of his own home, is not alone. He gasps, feeling like he has been caught.

Song Zichen nods respectfully to him and continues on the path toward the Jingshi.

Lan Xichen stays away from his window for the rest of the week, lest he be so seen once more.

…

The leaves begin to change color and fall in earnest, and Lan Xichen is finally able to sleep for more than a few hours at a time, even if his dreams leave him weeping when he wakes.

Long ago, Mingjue had held him tight when all he could see behind his eyelids was his home burning down around him. White robes splattered red. Mingjue had squeezed him tight until he could pull himself out of his memories and back into his body.

And he had repaid him by teaching A-Yao how to wield the weapon that murdered him.

Lan Xichen had gone to A-Yao’s bed in the throes of grief for a man he murdered. Blinded by trust and devotion and a grief he believed to be mutual.

Foolish, he thinks each night as he falls asleep long, long after curfew. Useless, he thinks when he wakes at dawn, exhausted and so full of emotions that he tips over into feeling empty.

One crisp autumn morning, Lan Xichen wakes when a knock sounds at his door. The rap is singular and restrained.

Wangji.

He rises from bed, but he does not bother to dress nor to draw up his uncombed hair.

He kneels before his door and wishes he felt worthy of opening it.

He had failed Wangji and Wuxian just like he had failed the rest of the world. He had helped slaughter innocents. He had been there to keep his brother and his soulmate apart.

He was there for the first Siege of the Burial Mounds. He had taken his men to erase this villain. This one mistake his brother made.

He had seen for himself, as Jin warriors set fire to straw huts and razed scraggly radish fields, that no Wen soldiers ever greeted them. He had bloodied his sword on long-dead corpses and watched so-called righteous men and women slaughter elderly farmers.

And he had closed his eyes to it.

He had carved punishment on his brother’s skin for the crime of protecting a man more righteous than the one Xichen had confided in.

“Xiongzhang,” his brother begins. There is a note of pleading that Wangji is trying to hide. Xichen feels tears burning his eyes, but he refuses to weep.

Lan Xichen places his palm against the screen and watches his brother’s silhouette mirror it.

For a moment, he is small. For a moment, he’s the one outside, and it is his mother whose palm he can almost feel through the paper.

A tear drips down his cheek, but he keeps his silence.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” Wangji finally says. “Wei Ying and I have just returned from Moling. We were aided on our nighthunt by one of the children from the orphanage.” Lan Xichen already knows in his bones that this young lady will be offered shelter in the Cloud Recesses. He can hear it in Wangji’s voice. “She does not have any family to return to, nor even a surname.” Wangji pauses uncharacteristically, and Lan Xichen’s fingers flex against the paper, reaffirming his presence. “Wei Ying and I have decided to adopt her.”

Lan Xichen cups a hand over his mouth.

Wangji draws a breath, but his words halt. “I hope she can come to know you as her uncle as Sizhui does.”

A niece. He has a niece.

Wangji’s hand withdraws, and he bows and stands. “Farewell.”

“Wait,” Lan Xichen croaks.

Wangji’s shadow stills.

His throat aches after months of silence and sobs, but he forces the words from his raw vocal cords. “Her name?”

“Lan Yujin,” Wangji says, his voice warm. He can almost picture the gentle, fond expression on his brother’s face.

Almost.

Lan Xichen dashes the tears from his cheeks as he stands and pulls the door open before he has a chance to question himself.

Wangji’s eyes are wide in the late morning light. He looks tired, but settled. No longer restless. No longer wandering constantly now that the chaos has come home to him.

The last time he hugged his brother had been during the war. Physical affection does not come naturally, but Wangji doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around Xichen when he stumbles into his younger brother’s embrace.

“Xiongzhang?”

“I missed you,” Lan Xichen confesses to his brother’s hair.

He feels hot tears against his neck, and he squeezes Wangji tighter.

“Missed you,” Wangji echoes.

They step apart, and Lan Xichen admires Wangji’s robes. They are more blue than white these days, and for a moment, he thinks they have traded places.

But that is unfair to them both.

Good, he thinks, instead. Wangji deserves to put his mourning clothes away. Lan Xichen hopes they are not needed again for many, many years.

“How old is Lan Yujin?” he asks.

Neither of them are yet ready to discuss this past year and how little it has tempered his tempestuous mind.

“Soon to be six,” Wangji says. “We are hosting a naming ceremony for her in a month’s time.” Wangji ends the statement and doesn’t let it become a question.

“I will be there,” Lan Xichen promises.

Wangji doesn’t quite manage to mask his relief. “Thank you, Xiongzhang.”

“Of course.”

…

A week before Lan Yujin is officially added to the clan registry, Lan Xichen spots Song Zichen from his window for the third time.

It has not been a season since he last visited, and this time, he is not alone.

Spirits do not belong in the Cloud Recesses. Most cannot enter the grounds at all, let alone stand visible in the afternoon sun.

Still, an adolescent girl traipses ahead of Song Zichen. Her hands move rapidly, and it takes Lan Xichen a moment to register the gestures as a language and not mere exuberance.

Since neither party possesses a tongue, Song Zichen’s hands move, too. Where the girl is hurried and sharp, his hands move with a steady deliberation.

Lan Xichen wonders how long it took to regain such fine motor control in rigid joints.

There is a ghost in the Cloud Recesses, and she bounces up to Wei Wuxian, who ruffles her hair in reply, like they are old friends.

This, thinks Lan Xichen, must be A-Qing.

For the ghost of a mutilated child, she looks well. Solid. Her spirit betrays only the barest glimpse of the shrubbery behind her.

She signs something that has Wei Wuxian cackling loud enough that Lan Xichen half expects Shufu to materialize to scold the man.

From the stories, Lan Xichen recalls that she had been blinded before her death.

Something must have changed, because now, she’s clearly looking around the Cloud Recesses and responding to Song Zichen’s gestures with her own.

Yujin bends forward from her perch on Wei Wuxian’s shoulders, and A-Qing reaches for her.

Lan Xichen tenses, but then A-Qing tweaks the child’s nose, and Yujin squawks in outrage and retreats with a haughty air not dissimilar from the way Wangji was as a child.

The adults watch in amusement, and Sizhui carefully helps his scowling sister down from Wei Wuxian’s shoulders so she can hide behind Wangji’s legs.

Wei Wuxian slings an arm around the boy and says something that makes Sizhui look both bashful and proud.

Guilt lances through Lan Xichen.

He was one of the reasons why Lan Sizhui grew up never knowing the family that was taken from him. He had supported the siege that cut them down like a scythe culling grains.

From the moment his brother arrived begging for the life of a feverish child, Lan Xichen knew whose child he had been. After all, Sizhui’s sweet, crooked smile was learned from the boy who once threw loquats at Wangji.

Just as anyone who spends more than a few hours with them can tell Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin were raised together, so too is it obvious the hand Wei Wuxian had in molding Sizhui into the righteous young man he is today.

After all the violence and cover-ups, Lan Sizhui still wears a forehead ribbon and lives as a paragon of the virtues most Lans fail to grasp.

But then, he is Wen. Resilient, tenacious, and healing. So, too, is he Wangji and Wuxian’s son. Unimpeachable, convicted, and compassionate.

In the distance, a bell heralds midday.

Lan Xichen swallows his nerves and the dregs of his tea as he makes his way to his front door.

He has been invited to join them for lunch, if he would like.

He has yet to meet his niece properly, and each day his fear of the world outside clashes with his need to not be like his father. He doesn’t want to be like their mother either, kept from Wangji and his family in punishment. Though this child is not his, he still wants to know her.

His hand shakes when he clings to the doorframe.

He was not expecting his brother to have company.

Discomfort claws at his skin as he tries to imagine crossing the threshold of his home. To be so exposed once more. To play the role of Sect Leader Lan once more.

His shoulders ache with the weight of the world he failed once already. He feels himself folding like Huaisang’s blood-splattered fan.

A pattering of little feet approach his door, and Lan Yujin calls quietly, “Bofu, are you coming? Diedie is making lotus ribs!” He cannot help smiling at her enthusiasm for the meal.

Wei Wuxian laughs as his footsteps follow. “Lotus root and pork rib soup, kiddo. And braised tofu with grilled vegetables for my Lans.”

He can see their silhouettes on the other side of the door, and he smiles a little as his niece turns to her father and stamps one tiny foot. “But I don’t like vegetables, Baba.”

Wuxian scoops her up and smacks audible kisses to her cheeks. “Then you’ll never grow big and strong like your Diedie or Da-Ge.”

“Does Bofu eat his vegetables?” she asks with the blatant incredulity of a child.

“Mhm! He’s big and strong just like Diedie.”

“Really?”

Lan Xichen smiles as he steadies his shaking hand long enough to open the door. “I suppose some might call me strong. Though only when I eat my vegetables,” he says, winking.

“Bofu!” She gasps in delight, her dark eyes going wide as she scrambles down from Wei Wuxian’s hip to bow clumsily, and far more deeply than he would ever demand of a child, especially family.

When she straightens, Lan Xichen is immediately taken by her smile and the smattering of freckles across her nose. She’s currently missing a front tooth, and the gap reminds him of when Sizhui lost his first.

“Hello, Lan Yujin,” he says, bowing to his niece.

“You really do look like Diedie! But… smiley,” she decides. “I thought Baba was teasing again,” Lan Yujin confides. She shifts on her feet in a way that would have gotten Lan Xichen scolded as a child, and yet he only finds it endearing. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”

He cannot help the puff of a laugh that escapes. “I could eat.”

She holds out her hand, and Lan Xichen takes it, letting himself be tugged away from his empty home.

Wangji and Wuxian share a smile that Lan Xichen pretends not to notice.

Song Zichen bows at his approach. Lan Xichen almost reaches to catch his elbows, but stops in time. Song Zichen is known to dislike the touch of others, not unlike Wangji, albeit for different reasons.

There is not another reason why Lan Xichen freezes in the familiar motion.

“Please,” he croaks instead. “No need for that.”

A-Qing is the only ghost currently in the Cloud Recesses, and Lan Xichen vows to keep it that way until he is once more behind his closed door.

Up close, he sees that the girl cannot have been more than fourteen or fifteen years old.

Young like Jin Ling had been when…

Well. Just young. Too young.

Lan Xichen bows to Song Zichen and then to A-Qing. “You are most welcome here.”

A-Qing and Song Zichen make identical motions with their hands.

“Thank you,” Wei Wuxian translates.

Lan Xichen takes Lan Yujin’s hand once more. It almost doesn’t shake.

…

Lunch is a quiet affair, which Lan Xichen knows is for his benefit.

While their guests can’t speak with chopsticks in their hands, Wei Wuxian would happily carry the conversation on his own. Today, he merely eats quietly while moving particularly good bits of food onto his children’s plates. Wangji places more spiced meat on Wei Wuxian’s plate whenever his attention is diverted.

It’s terribly domestic in a way that makes Lan Xichen miss his childhood with his mother and Shufu. Back then, he didn’t have to make decisions harder than which socks to put on and which brush to write with.

Yujin squirms a little whenever she catches herself slumping, but for a new addition to their clan, she is diligent. Beside her, A-Qing giggles, her keen eyes crinkling with amusement.

After Sizhui clears the dishes, A-Qing and Yujin settle themselves on the porch with a card game. Sizhui sits at the threshold with a book. Close enough to watch the girls and to hear the adults.

Wei Wuxian’s smile grows bittersweet as he turns from the children back to Song Zichen. “How are you faring?”

Song Zichen’s hands move for a long minute, and Wei Wuxian’s eyes narrow as he hums thoughtfully. Lan Xichen watches in fascination as his brother-in-law signs his reply as he says it. “As I suspected. The colder weather affects your joints like Wen Ning’s. Did the talismans help?”

Song Zichen nods and then adds more through sign.

“Ah. So they work better in dry climates. That makes sense. I’ll add a layer to account for the humidity.”

Wangji procures paper and fresh ink, which earns him a smile and a peck on the cheek that Lan Xichen and Song Zichen pretend not to see. Lan Sizhui smiles, though his eyes appear to be resting on his book.

Wei Wuxian scribbles down his thoughts and then turns his gaze to the qiankun bag on Song Zichen’s lap. “How is he?”

Song Zichen was not an expressive man in life, nor is he one in death. Still, he looks noticeably distraught.

“May I?”

Song Zichen gently places the bag in Wei Wuxian’s palms.

Lan Xichen is startled for a moment. Wei Wuxian is delicate with the dead, that is true, but he is taken aback by the sheer level of trust. He cannot imagine handing something so precious to anyone else.

But then Wei Wuxian is Xiao Xingchen’s martial family, distant though the relation may be.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes close, and when his expression softens, Lan Xichen looks away before he can recall waking to a similarly soft face sharing the pillow beside his.

He stands and makes his way to the girls. He feels two pairs of eyes watching him go, he pretends he cannot feel their weight.

His niece sits in a sprawl that mirrors A-Qing’s, and there’s a pile of discards between their skirts.

It is impressive how much control A-Qing has over her form. He gets the impression that this is a recent development.

“Qing-Jiejie is the second-best at cards!” Yujin declares when Lan Xichen sits beside them.

“Second-best?” Lan Xichen queries at the same time A-Qing makes an indignant noise.

His niece nods with grave seriousness. “Ling-Gege is the best. He taught me!”

“Oh? When did he teach you?”

“At the inn! Baba and Diedie were drawing pictures, so Ling-Gege stayed with me.”

“That was very nice of him.”

“Mhmm!”

A-Qing huffs, and gestures to herself.

Yujin tilts her head, and her red hair ribbons tilt with it.

The ghost then proceeds to teach Yujin a barely legal gambit that may fly on the streets, but is most certainly not allowed in the gentry games.

“Whoa! Qing-Jiejie is amazing!” Yujin declares, playing the same gambit in the next round.

Sizhui looks put-upon, Yujin looks delighted, and A-Qing looks smug enough that it breaks a rule about humility.

Nearly against his will, Lan Xichen laughs.

It’s a small sound, and it makes his chest ache, but it is a good ache. Like a muscle being warmed and stretched after disuse.

While A-Qing is clearly playing to lose, she’s clever enough not to let Yujin see that. She’s also teaching Yujin more advanced techniques.

Lan Xichen has played cards with Jin Ling. While he’s hardly untrained, his talents lay elsewhere.

A-Qing, on the other hand, is as quick as she is clever. She could probably best Shufu, though perhaps not if she was barred from using street moves.

After a few more minutes, where the sun sinks lower behind the mountains, Yujin wins.

“Da-Ge! Da-Ge, did you see? I won!” She crawls over to Sizhui and shakes his arm.

He laughs and pets her head. “Well-played, Meimei.”

As Yujin gloats, Lan Xichen returns his attention to their ghostly guest. A-Qing’s grinning as she shuffles the cards. Her eyes are noticeably pale, but he does not find them unsettling. People had often thought Wangji’s pale eyes were strange when he was young, but Lan Xichen is used to looking past such things.

“May I join you in the next round?”

“Mn!” Yujin declares, with a nod.

A-Qing makes a noise as she nods. Her hands go through a motion, and then she waits, looking at him.

He tries to replicate the gesture. “This means yes?”

She repeats it, slower this time, and he moves his fingers to match. When he gets it right, she smiles.

…

Perhaps it is cowardly, but when Shufu and Wangji tell him that they will keep running the sect until he is ready, Xichen feels nothing but relief.

Lan Yujin’s naming ceremony had been his first public appearance since Qin Su’s death, and he felt all eyes on him, like individual chains shackling him to the bottom of a river.

He deserved it.

He knew that much.

The sworn brother of Jin Guangyao. The kidnapped sect leader. The fool.

How pathetic he had felt, to be standing there, with shaking hands.

Jin Ling, who was at the naming ceremony, is barely fifteen. He’s younger than even Jiang Wanyin was when Lotus Pier fell, and he’s been left to run a sect loyal to one of the men who raised him only to hold a weapon at his throat to protect himself.

How could Lan Xichen stand there, daring to feel sorry for himself when his trust in the wrong man had left a grieving child to run a sect?

The world knew that Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian would raze the jianghu to the ground should anything happen to their nephew, but there was only so much support they could lend in the day-to-day.

Even with Luo Qingyang returning to the Jin Sect, these past few seasons have been a long battle toward securing Jin Ling’s power and securing the loyalty of the many Jin relatives who would rather see themselves on the golden throne.

And yet Jin Ling had come to dinner with the family, teased Yujin, yelled affectionately at Wei Wuxian, and hugged his uncle and cousins goodbye when he left at Jiang Wanyin’s side for the night.

So yes, maybe Lan Xichen is a coward to step only one foot outside of seclusion. To let others keep carrying a burden that was never meant to be theirs. To keep hiding.

“Xichen,” his uncle calls, and he blinks, refocusing. “It is not a burden for us to help you as you heal. Take what time you need, and take on tasks only when you feel able to do them to the best of your abilities.”

What if he is never well, again? He can’t help wondering about it. What if he can never wield his sword again, not because he is unable, but because he is afraid?

The questions claw at his ribs, but he does not let his face wear them, nor does he let his tongue form them.

He will get better. He is Sect Leader Lan, and he is not going to become his father. He has to get better.

Across the table, Wangji’s brow creases.

…

Fall dulls into winter grays and blues, and then the snow arrives, blanketing the world in soft, downy white

With the change in weather comes a change in routine.

Song Zichen and A-Qing come to stay in the Cloud Recesses for the winter. The weather causes his joints to stiffen, making travel inadvisable.

While Wei Wuxian tinkers with arrays to regulate the man’s joints, A-Qing and Yujin run through the snow, pelting poor Lan Jingyi and Wen Qionglin with snowballs.

These days, Lan Xichen takes dinner with his brother and his family more often than not.

Somehow, as the solstice comes and then goes, he falls into a new routine of sitting on his porch with thick robes and warm tea that he shares with Song Zichen as they watch the girls play.

Like Wen Qionglin, Song Lan no longer requires food nor drink, but he seems to enjoy the strong tieguanyin brew anyway.

…

Today, the gentlest of flurries drift from the heavens, and Lan Xichen sits in his front room, which has been painstakingly cleaned to prepare for his young guests.

Wangji and Wuxian are away at a conference in Yunmeng for the week, so Yujin is staying with Sizhui in the evenings while Xichen leads her lessons during the day.

It has been a long time since he last taught the children. Teaching his niece makes him miss teaching the youngest disciples at times and infinitely grateful at others.

Lan Yujin’s writing is getting better, though she has a heavy hand that makes some strokes nearly illegible.

Though Yujin will go to classes with her age mates in the spring, Wangji and Wuxian have been teaching her the basics of cultivation, mathematics, and writing ever since she followed them home. This method has the advantage of allowing them to teach A-Qing simultaneously.

Though Song Zichen has been teaching her to write some words, his control over writing implements is greatly reduced by his stiff fingers.

Lan Xichen spends half the morning teaching the girls how to write their names.

“Jin-er, you are getting better, though you need to draw this stroke here before that one there.”

She pouts. “But Bofu…”

“Ah-ah,” he chastises gently. “You wanted to show your baba when he gets back, right?”

Her pout doesn’t abate, but she does pick up her brush again, grumbling as she carefully holds her ink-stained sleeve and moves to copy the character for ‘jin’ once more.

Late in the morning, she and A-Qing have each copied their given names one hundred times.

Yujin’s hands and sleeves are stained black. A-Qing isn’t stained, but only because the ink does not stick to her form.

“Is it lunch time now?” Yujin asks hopefully. Both of her new front teeth have grown in, and she’s eager to put them to work.

“Not quite yet,” he says, passing her a small bowl of peanuts. Sizhui had given him a bag of snacks and told him that Yujin was going through a growth spurt.

She sighs dramatically, and A-Qing steals a handful of peanuts before Yujin shoves a fistful in her own mouth.

“That is not how we eat,” he reminds them both.

Yujin snaps upright with a sheepish look. A-Qing merely chews more deliberately while making eye contact.

“Now that you can write your given name, you must learn how to write your family name,” Lan Xichen tells Yujin as he demonstrates the smooth, stately strokes forming the Lan clan name.

He then writes out her full name for her to see.

Yujin is halfway through butchering the third stroke when she realizes A-Qing’s brush is resting on its side. “Qing-Jiejie, aren’t you gonna write, too?”

A-Qing shakes her head and takes more peanuts from the bowl.

“Why not?”

She shrugs and then sighs, appearing very much like a normal teenage girl, for all that he can see the sunlight through her lithe form.

When Yujin’s frown doesn’t lessen, A-Qing’s fingers form signs.

‘No,’ he and Yujin translate the first sign. The second, she presses her fingertips together, forming a mountain with her hands.

“Home?” Yujin guesses.

A-Qing considers and then shakes her head.

“Family,” Lan Xichen realizes.

A-Qing nods and repeats the signs. ‘No family.’

Lan Xichen feels the words between his ribs like a blade. Realistically, he knows that there are many children without kin in this world. He had personally seen to the relocation of many orphaned children in his own sect after the war. His niece was one until Wangji and Wuxian brought her home.

It does not prepare him for seeing the casual, matter-of-fact way A-Qing conveys it.

Yujin’s brows furrow in thought. “I didn’t have a family name until Baba and Diedie adopted me. If they adopt you, too, maybe you can share my name!” She turns hopeful eyes on Lan Xichen.

He pats her head. “That is very sweet of you to offer—“

A-Qing smiles, but she still shakes her head. ‘No, thank you.’

“Why not?” Yujin wonders, tilting her head exactly like Wuxian does when he’s working through a problem. Lan Xichen cannot help wondering what traits she will pick up from others, himself included.

‘I already have a name I want,’ A-Qing informs them.

Lan Xichen swallows hard. He can guess whose surname she would prefer. He wonders if she will let him teach her the character.

…

After they recess for lunch, Lan Xichen sits on his porch, draped in a thick wool cloak and holding a steaming cup of tea to warm his palms. The strength of his golden core makes the cold negligible, but he appreciates the warmth regardless.

Song Zichen sits beside him as Yujin and A-Qing run around the snowy yard, pausing every now and again to add more pine needles to the goatee on their snow sculpture of Shufu.

The winter sun cuts a sharp glare on the hill, and Lan Xichen closes his eyes for a moment to simply breathe in the bracing air. It burns pleasantly after so long spent surrounded by incense and his own misery.

He watches Yujin sign a question to A-Qing, and he turns to Song Zichen and works up the nerve.

He practiced this with Wuxian many times before he left for Yunmeng. He can do it now.

While he steels himself, Yujin breezes past claiming she needs something from inside. Likely her tiger hat, which she left on the table with her calligraphy.

“Song Daozhang?”

His guest turns and tilts his head just enough to encourage him to continue.

‘I am glad of your company,’ he signs. ‘You are always welcome here.’

Song Zichen’s eyes soften, and his lips move in a small smile. He bows, signing, ‘Thank you.’

Song Zichen’s hands rise with his bowed head, and he begins to say something more when a sudden clatter interrupts.

Lan Xichen is on his feet in a flash. Old instincts from the war have his pulse hammering in his neck even as he dashes toward the sound.

“Yujin?”

He comes to a stop before he trips over her.

She’s in a heap on the floor, both palms bloody; big tears fill her eyes. Shuoyue sits in front of her, its blade partially unsheathed.

There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then she starts wailing.

Lan Xichen can’t breathe.

There is blood on his sword.

Yujin’s blood is on his sword.

Yujin got hurt on his watch. He was supposed to be taking care of her, and he failed. He failed his family again.

Something cold and sharp passes through his frozen form, feeling like a full-body slap.

A-Qing pushes through him, goes to her knees, and pulls Yujin into her arms, rocking her back and forth.

Lan Xichen shakes himself and goes to his knees, too, pushing the sword away with a sleeve-covered hand.

“Yujin, let me see your hands,” he says, willing his voice not to shake.

She bawls harder and tries to hide her bloody hands behind her back. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” she says around snotty, hiccuping gasps. “I didn’t mean to! I’ll be good, I promise!”

“Oh, Jin’er, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. But you’re hurt. I need to see your hands, please.”

She whimpers, but slowly, with coaxing from A-Qing, she shows him the cuts on her palms.

He doesn’t gasp, but it is a near thing. “Can you move your fingers for me?”

She does, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Deep, but not too deep.

“I’m going to bring you to the medical pavilion now, okay?”

She hasn’t stopped crying, and he cannot blame her. She gives a shaky nod, and he scoops her up. She buries her face in his shoulder, and he could not care less about the snot and tears soaking his robes. In a way, it’s quite nostalgic. He used to comfort Sizhui like this in the years when Wangji was healing.

He dashes through his yard and makes haste down the path toward the healers.

Song Zichen and a doctor greet him partway there, and the woman takes one look at Yujin’s palms before giving a brisk nod. “This way.”

A-Qing appears a few minutes later with Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi in tow.

“Meimei!”

“Jin-mei!”

“No raised voices,” the doctor reminds them, scowling. She shoos the teenagers out of her way, but, to her credit, she does not make them leave, nor does she seem to mind the presence of their two non-living guests.

Lan Yujin’s sobs have quieted to devastating little hitching breaths and whimpers.

Lan Xichen rubs her shoulder when the doctor cleans the cuts with alcohol. “Shh,” he murmurs when she yelps. “You’re being so brave, Jin’er. It’ll be okay.”

“It hurts,” she says, sounding so small and so young.

“I know. But it will heal soon.”

Shufu arrives shortly thereafter, hovering at the edge of the circle until Yujin calls shakily for her shugong.

The doctor numbs her hands and repairs the cut with small, neat stitches while Lan Jingyi tells stories about the rabbits in the meadow. It is the better way to keep her attention after Shufu’s recitation of the rules fails to do anything but make her start crying again.

It is a harrowing shichen, after which, Lan Yujin falls asleep on Lan Sizhui’s shoulder.

“I’ll take her home to the Jingshi,” he says, swaying gently with the sleeping little girl on his hip.

“Let me know if I can be of any assistance,” Lan Xichen hears himself say. He’s been holding himself together with fingernails clawing at frayed fabric. He’s about to slip, and he’s sure they all see it.

Sizhui gives a tired smile as the three of them walk back toward the inner family residences. Shufu had left to settle a dispute between the elders, their guests went to feed the rabbits in Sizhui’s place, and Jingyi went back to class. “Thank you, Zewu-Jun. I will let you know.”

With just his niece and nephew here, Lan Xichen feels his exhaustion catching up. But he cannot falter here. He must be strong for them.

“I will contact Wangji and Wei Wuxian,” he says.

“Thank you.” Sizhui shifts Yujin’s weight, and she snuffles, burying her face deeper into her brother’s shoulder. “I am grateful it was not worse.”

“And I.”

The moment his nephew and niece disappear into the Jingshi, Lan Xichen falls to his knees and empties his stomach into a snow-dusted shrub.

He feels pathetic and useless as his stomach heaves and his hands scramble against the fence and the snow.

Though he knew it was a mask and a lie, he had almost convinced himself that he was healing. That he could handle the world again.

But one glimpse of blood— his family’s blood— on that pale silver blade…

He has never used profanity, but he is almost tempted to now.

“Xichen.”

He turns his head, meeting Shufu’s eye. He expects disappointment, but all he sees is sympathy.

Shufu holds out a hand. “Come now,” he says, his usual gruffness softened like tumbled stone. “Let us get you home.”

His uncle walks beside him on the path back to the Hanshi. Lan Xichen feels like a child. He almost wants to cling to his uncle’s sleeve or ask if everything will be okay.

Shufu brews a fresh pot of tea and pushes Lan Xichen behind his dressing screen with fresh robes. “I will bring the children dinner tonight and see how Jin’er is faring,” Shufu says when Lan Xichen pours tea with a fine tremor in his hand. “You should rest, Xichen. It has been a stressful afternoon.”

“I must write to Wangji and Wuxian.”

“Very well, but be sure to rest afterward.”

“I will, Shufu. Thank you.”

It takes him several drafts before he finally pens a letter that he’s willing to send to Wangji. He thinks back on the many years of passing butterfly messages back and forth; his stomach flips. He deliberately seals the letter with Lan talismans and shoves the thought away.

When he opens the door, he startles, his eyes falling on Song Zichen, who is climbing down his steps.

The other man looks equally startled.

Lan Xichen glances down at the dinner tray, still steaming, which has been placed outside his door.

Song Zichen goes to continue down the path.

“Wait!”

He stills, glancing back at Lan Xichen, who swallows hard.

He sends the letter off with a burst of qi, and then, before he loses the nerve, softens his voice to say, “Please. Won’t you join me?”

Song Zichen waits on the step a moment longer, but then he nods and climbs back onto the porch.

Lan Xichen picks up the tray.

“Was this from you? Thank you.”

Song Zichen’s hands, still slow and precise, even in the cold and the dark, say, ‘Think nothing of it.’

As the moon rises, Lan Xichen’s stomach and nerves begin to settle.

Song Zichen sits across from him, and slowly, as they talk and write, Lan Xichen’s shaking hands steady enough to continue learning the other man’s language.

…

“Zewu-Jun!” A frantic knocking joins the shout, and Lan Xichen jumps out of bed, his hand closing around Liebing as he races toward the door.

“What is it?” he demands, coming face to face with a panicked Sizhui, who’s wearing a winter cloak haphazardly over his sleepwear.

“Sizhui,” he tries to yank the boy inside, but he won’t budge. “What are you doing outside in this weather?” The gentle evening snowfall has given way to a proper storm.

“Have you seen Yujin?”

His blood runs as cold as the winter wind. “What? She’s not at home?”

Sizhui shakes his head, looking more frantic. His hair is in a windswept braid. It is far past curfew, and the cold is as bitter as burnt tea. “I woke up feeling something was amiss, and when I went to check, her bed was empty, and her toy monkey was gone, too.”

Adrenaline howls through his blood like the snowstorm currently brewing on their mountaintop. “No,” he whispers to himself, already yanking on his cloak and boots.

“I don’t know where to look,” Sizhui says, wringing his hands. “I didn’t see any tracks, either, but her boots and cloak are gone.”

“She cannot have gone far.”

It’s past curfew, but not yet midnight.

But Lan Yujin is small. She has no golden core to warm her. The mountain is massive.

“We’ll find her,” he tells Sizhui, injecting his voice with a certainty he won’t allow them to question. They will find her. There is no other option he can live with. “Alert the patrols, get them on the search. Then wake Shufu. I’ll start searching by the meadow.

Sizhui takes a steadying breath, and then nods. He’s always been so strong, that at times it is easy to forget how young his nephew is. He pats Sizhui’s shoulder and then walks into the snowstorm.

There is something he can do now.

He lifts the cold jade of his flute to his lips and plays the melody he has to be strong enough to play. It’s never been tested on such a wide range, but Lan Xichen’s golden core is stronger now than before. There is no time to test his theory – only to prove it.

He works his fingers over the tone holes, weaving the melody into a spell strong enough to cast over the mountain.

It has been a long time since he asked so much of his golden core, but he keeps pushing, feeling the qi flow through his meridians, through Liebing, through the sky.

The storm howls and shrieks as the iridescent blue waves of music spread wider and wider, like a fishing net.

Finally, a dome forms over the mountain, and the storm goes silent.

Lan Xichen sways on his feet, but only for a moment.

He wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth, tucks Liebing into his belt, and sprints toward the meadows.

Without the raging storm, Lan Xichen can now hear the calls going up across the mountain, can hear the alarm bells being rung, and can see the red paper lanterns bobbing along paths as every disciple searches for their young mistress.

“Yujin!” he calls, throat stinging as he stumbles through the snow.

The rabbits are all snug in their hutches and burrows. No signs of a little girl among them.

He tries to think back to every favored hiding place she’s mentioned. Every nook and cranny where she could have gone.

He searches the hot springs, the cold springs, and the plum blossom grove. He searches the gardens of the Hanshi and Jingshi. He searches Wei Wuxian’s workshop. He even forces himself to search the long-empty Gentian House, which holds nothing more than cobwebs and bittersweet memories.

“Yujin!” He calls again and again as he runs through the Cloud Recesses. Over and over, he passes by disciples, none of them with any news.

The night grows deeper, and though the storm is held at bay, his spell won’t last forever.

He slides on an icy step and skins his palms when he lands on his knees. “No running in the Cloud Recesses,” he laughs bitterly to himself.

His eyes are burning, but he cannot cry or give up. His niece is still missing. His niece needs him.

When he opens his burning eyes, he spots shimmering flecks of golden qi floating in the air.

He blinks, but the lights only grow stronger. He’s never seen a soul do this before.

“You know where Yujin is?” he asks the spirit.

The golden light dances and drifts toward the fork in the path that leads east to the stables. Lan Xichen drags himself back to his feet and chases after the dimming golden light, taking the steps down two at a time.

The golden light fades, but Lan Xichen doesn’t stop.

“Lan Yu—“ His breath catches in his chest, and his heart gives a painful lurch.

Song Zichen is coming up the path with a bundle of white in his arms. His gait is slow and stiff. The freezing snow works against his joints, but he keeps trudging up the path with single-minded determination.

The bundle isn’t moving, and for a moment, Lan Xichen fears the worst. But then, Song Zichen spots him, and he must do something because a moment later, Yujin pokes her head out of her cloak.

“Bofu?”

He runs to meet them, tears streaming down his face. Yujin turns in Song Zichen’s arms, and Lan Xichen catches her in his own before she can fall.

“Jin’er. Oh, thank Guanyin!” He crushes her to his chest and then collapses to his knees when relief overwhelms him.

She sobs into his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to touch the sword. Don’t be mad. Please don’t make me leave.”

He makes a wounded noise and presses kisses to her frozen hair. “No one will ever make you leave,” he swears. “Never.”

“But I made you angry. I broke the rules,” she says around her tears. “I didn’t mean to. I don’t wanna go,” she confesses.

“I was never angry,” he promises. “I was scared because you were hurt. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“So I can stay?”she asks, voice heartbreakingly small. For a moment, Lan Xichen is angry. Angry at the world that made a child feel so unwanted. Feel so conditional.

“You can always stay, Jin’er. You are family. This will always be your home, for as long as you want it to be.”

“Promise?”

He pulls back enough to stare into her round, watery eyes. “I promise.”

She throws her arms around him, and Lan Xichen clings to her just as tightly. He quickly sends a talisman to Shufu and another to Sizhui.

Lan Yujin has been found.

When he goes to stand, he almost falls, but Song Zichen catches his arms.

Their eyes meet, and Lan Xichen sees the soft worry in the other man’s eyes. “Thank you,” he breathes.

They step apart.

“Will you come with me?”

Song Zichen nods.

They make it halfway up the path before Lan Xichen stumbles again, and Song Zichen’s stiff joints seem to be causing him pain.

Lan Xichen shifts Yujin to his left hip. “May I?” he asks, extending an arm.

Song Zichen hesitates for a moment, but then he nods, letting Lan Xichen’s arm fall to his shoulder. A moment later, he brings his arm up to Lan Xichen’s waist.

Somehow, together, they make it back to the Jingshi just in time to catch A-Qing, Shufu, Sizhui, and Jingyi running toward them from the main paths.

After many tears and hugs, they all settle around the fire in the main room, warming Yujin with soup and tea.

Even Shufu seems to realize now is not the time to chide the child. He simply holds her in his lap and rocks her to sleep the way he used to when he and Wangji were young. He has not seen his uncle do so since Sizhui was equally small.

Sizhui falls asleep soon after, using Jingyi as an unintended pillow.

Lan Xichen wants to share in the relief, but every time he thinks of Yujin’s sobs, his heart aches all over again. Yujin has been living here for almost half a year now.

Has she always thought that her welcome was conditional? That the moment she slipped up that she would be cast out?

It makes him sick to think so.

When the children are all sleeping, Shufu tucks them into bed and then returns to the table. In a hushed tone, he asks, “What happened?”

Lan Xichen’s voice trembles as he relays what she told him through sticky tears.

“She’s been hoarding food, too,” he whispers. “I imagine it was scarce in her past.”

The furrow between Shufu’s brows deepens. “We must tell Wangji and Wuxian as soon as they arrive. Perhaps Wuxian will know ways of helping that we do not.” He then turns and bows to Song Zichen. “Thank you, Daozhang, for returning my great niece to us safely.”

Song Zichen tries to deflect the gratitude, but it is far from misplaced.

“Where did you find her?”

Song Zichen pulls a piece of paper and the ink stone closer. He quickly grinds a small amount of ink and writes, “Lan Yujin was in the stables with the donkey. She said she broke a big rule this time. That her fathers and her brother would not want someone like that. Mentioned an aunt who called her ‘more trouble than she was worth.’”

Lan Xichen’s sorrow grows as he reads each word. When he hands the note to his uncle, he sees the same devastation there.

It would almost be funny if it weren’t so sad. Wei Wuxian has never been called anything but trouble. Has broken every rule that does not serve his moral compass. And Wangji, who once adhered so strictly to their scriptures, injured 33 members of their own clan and was not expelled from it.

Even Lan Sizhui, who will no doubt become their next Head Disciple, disregards the letter of the law for their spirit.

Lan Xichen dashes away his tears.

It seems Lan Yujin is even more like Wei Wuxian than he thought. She, like her father, like A-Yao, hides her pain behind a smile until it shatters.

Lan Xichen stares at the fire in the brazier as the howling winds outside begin to roar once more.

…

While the morning sky is still gray when Lan Xichen hears something and snaps awake.

Song Zichen stands at the Jingshi’s door, one hand resting on his sword’s hilt, but then he relaxes.

A split second later, Wei Wuxian’s voice rings out.

He rises quickly, uncaring of his disheveled appearance as he meets them in the front garden of their home.

“Xichen-Ge?” Wei Wuxian’s eyes go past him to his home. “Where is Yujin? Is she alright?”

Wangji stands at his husband’s side, a delicate worry in his shoulders and between his brows.

“Yesterday, she cut her palms on Shuoyue’s blade. The cuts required stitches from the doctors, but there will be no lasting damage.”

Wei Wuxian's shoulders sink in relief, but Lan Xichen forces himself to continue.

“She mistook my anxiousness for anger. Last night, she tried to run away.”

Wei Wuxian makes a wounded noise, and Wangji’s face goes pale and stricken. Lan Xichen explains the horrible, panicked hours last night, keeping his sentences short and concise, the way they teach junior disciples to report their night hunts.

Voice shaking, Lan Xichen adds, “She thought that since she broke a ‘big rule’ we would no longer want her to stay here. She was going to leave on Little Apple’s back.

There are tears in Wei Wuxian’s eyes as he swallows hard. Lan Xichen recalls that once, while wine-drunk and mellow, the man confessed to running away from Lotus Pier his first night there.

Lan Xichen bows low, in shame.

“Xichen-Ge!”

“I am sorry. You placed your trust in me, and I have failed you.”

Wangji grabs his forearms and forces him to stand. “Xiongzhang, accidents happen. You are not all-knowing.”

Wuxian gives a small smile as he pats Xichen’s shoulder. “You took her to the doctor when she was hurt. You found her.”

“I did not really do anything,” he insists. A-Qing was the one who spurred him into motion the first time. Song Zichen the one who found her. “It was our guests.”

“But you left your house. You were there in the medical pavilion, right?”

He nods to Wei Wuxian’s question.

“And you searched for her in the snow. You stopped a fucking snowstorm to search for our little girl. I’d hardly call that a failure.”

“But—“

Wangji squeezes his arm. “Thank you. I am glad that she has you.”

Lan Xichen’s heart squeezes in his throat, and then subsides. His niece is alive and whole. There is much to be grateful for, and much to learn from the harrowing night. With effort, he sets aside as much guilt as he can.

Wuxian gives him a wan smile. “Thank you for showing up.”

Lan Xichen lifts his head to meet their eyes in turn. “Thank you for allowing me to be part of her life.”

The Jingshi’s door slides open, and Lan Yujin gives a little squeal. “Baba! Diedie!”

“Jinjin!” Wei Wuxian dashes up the steps before she tries to run down them.

She throws herself into his arms the moment he drops to one knee.

“Oof! Did you get bigger while Diedie and I were away?”

“No!”

“Really? I would swear you’re taller than you were a few days ago,” he teases, holding a hand over her head and measuring against his own head. “Look at this! Almost as tall as your old baba!”

She giggles and shakes her head. “Baba, you’re kneeling!”

Wei Wuxian stands, hefting her on his hip. “How about now? I’m standing and you’re even taller now!”

Yujin laughs, wrapping her arms around his neck and locking her legs around his stomach. “Silly.”

Wangji climbs the steps to stand beside them and press a kiss to Yujin’s head. “We missed you.”

Yujin blinks once, eyes shiny, before burying her face in her father’s neck. “Missed you, too,” she croaks.

Her fathers hold her, rocking her gently and singing a lullaby as she works her way through her upset. Every little touch, every action, it all comes back to how much love Wangji and Wuxian have to give. How well-matched they are.

Lan Xichen had thought, once, that he had found such love. And, perhaps in Mingjue he had. Perhaps, despite the horrible secrets, he had found it in A-Yao, too. He does not think himself lucky enough to find love a third time.

That morning, Yujin hardly leaves her fathers’ laps, though when she does, it is to cling to Lan Xichen.

He tucks away his lingering loss.

Today, he is here. Today, his family is home and safe, and for that, he is grateful.

Song Zichen finds his gaze, and Lan Xichen smiles.

…

The snow begins to recede when the new year arrives.

Lan Xichen is growing more fluent in Song Zichen’s language. They can have whole conversations now, and he never has to strain his voice.

Though there is still an ache deep in his ribs, and though his sword and guqin still gather dust, he feels lighter.

Song Zichen does not like to speak of his burdens, but one-by-one, he begins to entrust them to Lan Xichen.

He tells Lan Xichen of Baixue temple. Of the monks who raised him to be righteous and diligent. Of the weight of their loss.

‘I was grieving. Furious. Devastated,’ he says, always slow and precise to ensure Xichen can follow. ‘We knew at once that it was Xue Yang.’ Here, he pauses. Lan Xichen understands now, by the minute twitch of his face, that this is how fierce corpses cry.

Lan Xichen hesitates, but then offers his hand. Song Zichen takes the hand, gives an affirming squeeze, and tucks it into the crook of his elbow, leaving his hands free to speak.

‘I should never have blamed Xingchen. I knew it, even then.’ Song Zichen stares at the pale silk pouch sitting on the table before them. ‘I wish I had never said such things.’

Those warm brown eyes return to Lan Xichen’s face. He wonders what color eyes Song Zichen had before. He wonders what these eyes looked like in Xiao Xingchen’s face.

What a miraculous gift. What a horrible burden.

He thinks of Wuxian, who had given his core to his brother. He thinks of Wen Ning, resurrected by the grief of his sister and friend.

Stories such as these are not destined to have happy endings.

“We often say things we do not mean when our emotions get the best of us.”

He feels the weight of his last words to A-Yao, like poison on his tongue. Perhaps they had been earned. Even so, they gave Xichen no closure.

Song Zichen squeezes Xichen’s hand against his body like it will ground them both. ‘One day I will apologize to him.’

“I do not know if my ghosts are willing to hear my apologies,” Lan Xichen replies, sadly. His lovers now lie in a coffin together, locked in perpetual strife.

‘You are a cultivator,’ Song Zichen reminds. ‘And someone precious.’ Lan Xichen blushes, even knowing that Song Zichen means he was precious to A-Yao and Mingjue. ‘Perhaps you can bring them peace.’

Lan Xichen catches a glimpse of his sallow reflection in the still teacup. “Perhaps.”

Song Zichen turns, facing him more fully. ‘You may ask for help. Many here would wish to help you.’

He blinks, and then laughs. What a fool he feels. “You’re right. Wangji and Wuxian would help.”

Song Zichen nods and then indicates himself.

“You would help? After everything?”

Song Zichen nods again without hesitation. ‘Every soul deserves a chance to rest. A chance to be reborn.’

“I agree.”

They hold their cups in a toast and drink.

…

The world outside still feels too great a weight for his weakened shoulders, but he knows now that one day, he will be ready to bear it again.

He knows that if he falters again, there are people who will catch him, regardless of whether or not he thinks he deserves to fall.

Though the world of politics remains fraught, and though public opinion is still as slippery as iced stone, the next generation will be better.

He can see it in Sizhui and Jingyi in the kindness they extend to every citizen, regardless of social standing. He sees it in Jin Ling, when the boy discusses with Wei Wuxian theory and talisman classes that would once be called heresy. He sees it in the way Ouyang Zizhen advocates for the women in his clan to be ranked equally with their martial uncles and brothers.

The world is not a kind place, perhaps, but there is kindness in it.

There will always be injustice, but so too are there those who will stand against it.

The world needs more people like Wei Wuxian. People like Song Zichen. People like Xiao Xingchen and A-Qing.

…

During the Spring Festival, Lan Xichen finds himself alone one morning with the spirit-keeping pouch. Song Zichen and Wen Qionglin are testing new talismans for Wei Wuxian. Outside, Yujin recites children’s poems to A-Qing. He hears many giggles on the breeze.

He smiles, setting down his paintbrush. A delicate moon watches over the frosted ink forest on his page.

“That night,” he begins, “it was you who lead me to Song Zichen and Jin’er.” He pauses, trying to gather his words. Ultimately, he gives up and merely bows deeply. “Thank you.”

Xiao Xingchen does not answer. His shattered soul never has before.

But Lan Xichen had felt the bright moon and the gentle breeze that night.

“I will watch over Song Zichen and A-Qing. You have my word.”

Though it may just be wishful thinking, he thinks he feels the wind caress his face.

…

When the winter thaws, heralding spring, Song Zichen and A-Qing embark on their travels once more.

It is harder than Lan Xichen expected, watching them leave.

Though very little can hurt A-Qing now, he still worries after her the way he worries for Yujin.

He worries for Song Zichen, too, though the man’s mobility has increased now that Wuxian’s talismans are inked into his joints.

Lan Xichen had been privy to a spar between Wangji and Song Zichen one afternoon when the snow began melting. It made something in his soul itch for relief. For release.

That night, he had unsheathed Shuoyue halfway before the panic clawed up from his throat and spilled into tears.

Perhaps by this time next year, he will be ready to pick up his sword and meet Song Zichen in the ring.

“Jiejie, do you really have to go?” Yujin clings to A-Qing’s waist. Her sniffles forecast tears to come.

A-Qing tuts, pulling back to pinch Yujin’s chubby cheeks. ‘Yes, but I will come back soon, little bunny.’

Yujin only pouts harder. “I don’t want you to go.”

‘We have to help Xiao Xingchen.”

Yujin wipes her cheeks with her gloved hand and steps back to take Wangji’s hand. “Is Xiao-Shushu going to be with you next time?”

A-Qing gives an elaborate shrug. ‘Hard to say.’

Yujin considers this, but doesn’t look satisfied. She directs her gaze at the little pouch at Song Zichen’s hip. “Xiao-Shushu, I hope you feel better soon! Qing-Jiejie and Song-Shushu miss you lots. If you are feeling better next time, you can pet the bunnies,” she says solemnly.

Lan Xichen hides his amusement behind his sleeve. Wei Wuxian laughs softly as he strokes his daughter’s hair. “That’s very sweet of you, Jinjin. I’m sure Xiao-Shushu would love to meet the bunnies.”

“I’ll introduce you to them all,” she vows, still talking to the soul. “Mr. Butterfly and Lady Whiskers will have babies soon. You should name one.”

A-Qing’s smile goes wide, and her eyes glimmer even if she can’t shed tears. She gives Yujin another big hug and then steps back, bowing to the assembled adults and teens.

Thanks to Wuxian, both girls will be sending letters back and forth while their friends travel. It is an excellent way of both assuaging Yujin’s tremendous pouting and also ensuring both girls continue to practice their writing and reading.

Lan Xichen’s heart thuds quickly in his ribs as the sun rises overhead and the departure looms. He commands his nerves and passes the letter into Song Zichen’s hands. Though the man’s skin is cold, Lan Xichen thrills at the slight brush of their fingertips.

“I hope I am not being presumptuous,” he says, signing the closest equivalents as he speaks. “I have grown to enjoy our conversations immensely, and I would quite miss them in your absence.”

Song Zichen’s face does something that could almost be a smile, and his dark brown eyes go soft.

He bows, and Lan Xichen bows back just as deeply.

“I look forward to your safe return.”

Song Zichen tucks the letter into his lapel and says, ‘I look forward to your continued company.’

Lan Xichen feels his ears warm in the morning sun as he smiles.

A-Qing tugs on his sleeve, and Lan Xichen pats her head. “I will miss you, too, A-Qing.” His eyes fall first to the jade tokens at their waists and then to the spirit-trapping pouch at Song Zichen’s hip. “I hope he is able to find peace.”

A-Qing strokes the ivory fabric with a conflicted smile. ‘One day.’

…

Across the Cloud Recesses, flowers begin to bud, and the last snow melts away.

Though Lan Xichen still feels the weight of his failings, he no longer wants to hide from them.

One morning, he rises, bathes, and dresses in his full robes. He spends a long while combing his hair, working oil into the parched strands, and then pulling it up into the elaborate silver guan that has been passed from one sect leader to the next since Lan An’s days.

It had almost been lost to the war. Lost when his father died here in this very home. But Wangji had reclaimed it from the Wen vaults with Jiang Wanyin at his side.

Lan Xichen will strive to be worthy of its weight once more.

He slides back his door, blinking for a moment against the bright, golden sunlight, and then walks down the path through his now-blooming garden. Bending down, he breathes in the vibrant pink and purple blossoms and lets himself simply enjoy it.

When he straightens, he takes a steadying inhale and makes his way down the residential path, mindful of his increasing pulse as he crosses through the grounds. He repeats the rules softly under his breath until his heart rate settles once more.

This is his home. He deserves to live in it.

Several disciples spot him, each one bowing low and nearly breaking the rule about running as they scurry off to surely break the rule about gossiping.

Lan Xichen lets himself have a laugh at that. Oh, how he has missed his people.

With his spine straight and his head held high, he opens the door to the dining hall and crosses to the raised dias waiting for him.

The gentle murmur of conversation from those yet to be served goes hushed.

He can feel all eyes watching him. It feels nauseating, but he breathes through it, focusing instead on Wangji and Wuxian who sit together to one side of his table.

Between them, Yujin smiles around her porridge-filled cheeks.

The tension in Lan Xichen’s spine relaxes as he smiles back and crosses the last few steps to sit beside his family.

Yujin swallows her congee and whisper-shouts, “Bofu! You’re here for breakfast!”

Wangji sighs and Wuxian looks amused.

A servant quickly places a tray before him, and, after thanking the man, he turns back to his niece. “I am. I was hoping you would be here, too.”

She clambers over Wangji’s lap and tumbles into his. “Are you going to come to breakfast every morning? I really like the breakfast here! The youtiao and scallion congee are the best!”

“Sit properly,” Wangji reminds, and Yujin quickly snaps into a proper posture, giving her father a sheepish look before turning back to Lan Xichen with eager eyes.

He chuckles, wiping a grain of rice from her cheek. “I don’t know if I’ll be here everyday, but I will be here more often now.”

Yujin nods decisively, no doubt mimicking Shufu. “Some mornings we even have fruit. You should definitely come on fruit days.”

Lan Xichen picks up his chopsticks. “I will endeavor to do so.”

Yujin picks up her bowl and spoon, still sitting at Xichen’s table, though she dutifully maintains her silence as she eats.

She neither spills her congee on his lap, nor does he spill his on her head. Lan Xichen counts that as a victory.

…

Song Zichen’s letters tend to come once each fortnight, and Xichen looks forward to them with what is probably an unhealthy level of eagerness.

They are a welcome break in the monotonous duties he has taken on once more.

While Wangji and Shufu continue to represent the sect at speaking engagements, Lan Xichen has resumed drafting trade proposals and letters of protection. The spring and summer rains will be bringing a new batch of water ghouls with them, and the towns of Gusu need to know that they are protected.

In fact, Wuxian’s latest inventions may help reduce flooding and drowning by as much as half if his estimates are correct. Lan Xichen knows that despite claims of his arrogance, Wuxian often downplays his ingenuity. Based on the explanation of the wards he gave to the elders, Lan Xichen is sure that the death statistics will be quartered.

But it’s not as if he can simply tell random town leaders that the Yiling Laozu will be coming to carve runes on their gates and to please be nice to him.

He truly dislikes politics more often than he would like people to think. He does not lay his head on the desk and groan when another incredulous, outraged letter greets him, but it is more because such behavior is unbecoming rather than a lack of wanting.

His assistant, Lan Xiuying, laughs a little at him. Sometimes, it is very clear that she and Lan Jingyi are first cousins.

“Are you well, Sect Leader?” she asks, masking her amusement as she places the next pot of tea before him. When she stands, her daughter wiggles in the sling across her chest, making a soft mewling sound that makes both adults smile.

“Quite,” he replies, pouring himself a cup and drinking it as quickly as decorum permits. Perfectly brewed, as always. “Thank you.”

“Song-Daozhang’s letter has arrived,” she adds, not hiding the smile in the corner of her mouth as she rocks the waking child in her arms.

Lan Xichen likewise does not bother trying to stifle his delight.

Song Zichen’s neat, steady words tell him of the village he and A-Qing aided after a flood disturbed the local cemetery. Though it is not easy for a fierce corpse to gain trust as a wandering cultivator, Song Zichen does not ask to be understood.

After laying the spirits to rest, he went to the local temple and prayed. Despite being small and rural, apparently the temple boasted an impressive mural of the nearby mountains. Song Zichen enclosed A-Qing’s rendition, sketched in one incense stick’s time with a charcoal stick.

Lan Xichen smiles, his fingers not quite tracing the peak of the distant mountain. Skillful lines and an eye toward defining characteristics are apparent in her work. A-Qing’s clearly unpracticed, but she could learn.

He could teach her.

He shakes his head and keeps reading. A-Qing is not his ward. He can worry over her all he likes, it does not change anything. She is wandering with her daozhangs while he remains here.

Reading the letter with the same appreciation Shufu gives his favorite teas, Lan Xichen doesn’t even notice the morning sun as it treks across the sky. The midday bell echoes long before he resumes his work with a lighter heart.

…

In late spring, Lan Xichen goes to the family shrine with his brother and the other members of his clan.

They carefully tend to the funerary plaques, wiping away any dust before laying fresh offerings of fruits and rice and flowers.

They teach Yujin how to light incense and give her bows to the ancestors.

Afterward, Wuxian stands beside Lan Xichen. “I am bringing Yujin to Yunmeng in the morning,” he says. No doubt to pay their respects to his other family. “It’s no trouble to add another stop.”

Lan Xichen wants to play a fool, but he is tired of it.

Wuxian places a gentle, but firm hand on his shoulder. “I will go with you, if you want to see them.”

He closes his eyes and draws a deep breath, trying to calm his frantic heartbeat. To calm the panic in his veins. “May I tell you in the morning?”

Wuxian’s eyes are always keen, no matter which face they peer out of. Sometimes, it makes Lan Xichen feel bare and small. His expression softens, and Lan Xichen draws a full breath. “Of course. And it doesn’t have to be now, Xichen-Ge. Whenever you are ready.”

“Thank you,” he says, and means it.

…

The next morning, he joins Wei Wuxian and Lan Yujin on a small riverboat.

Though he has been on boats before, it was often to investigate river ghouls and lake spirits. He has never traveled by boat until today. Sword, carriage, and horseback are all much more familiar.

Though Wuxian is able to unsheathe his sword again, he cannot fly for long, and he cannot fly with passengers. Shuoyue is packed in his qiankun bag, but Lan Xichen has no intention of removing it from there.

After they wave goodbye to Wangji and Sizhui on the docks, Lan Xichen turns to his brother-in-law. “How may I be of assistance?”

Wuxian gives him an assessing look. “Have you ever sailed before?”

He has not. Wuxian laughs and plops Yujin in his lap. “Hold onto this little rascal and stay seated. I’ll get us going.”

“I’m not a rascal,” Yujin protests.

Lan Xichen laughs, unable to resist pinching one of her puffed up cheeks.

She gives him a look of the utmost betrayal before crossing her arms and scowling at the now-distant shore. Wuxian ruffles her hair as he passes, making sure to brush her forehead ribbon.

Lan Xichen knows that, of the Great Sects, the Jiang have the most knowledge of waterways, just as people know the Lan for musical cultivation and the Nie for their sabers. It is one thing to know this. It is another to see the former Jiang Head Disciple in action.

Wuxian weaves across the deck like a dancer, pulling and loosening ropes, adjusting the sail and the tiller.

Lan Xichen watches, hanging on every answer Wuxian gives to Yujin’s never-ending questions. He learns how to knot the rope, how to steer their vessel, and how to navigate the dangers lurking beneath a river’s churning surface.

They only hit a rock once, and it is while Yujin is steering.

Shortly before sunset the next day, they enter Lotus Cove.

Wuxian’s energy grows a little frenetic, the way it often does when his brother is close. Lan Xichen knows that the pair are close again, but he knows that things have yet to fully settle.

Sect Leader Jiang is waiting on the dock when Wuxian steers them against the wooden pier and hops off to tie their boat in place.

“Jiang Cheng!”

“Took you long enough. Dinner will be ready soon,” he snips, even as Wuxian wraps him in a hug. His face has always had a sour twist to it, but this time, Lan Xichen can see through the performance as the Jiang Sect Leader squeezes his brother back.

“Shushu!” Lan Yujin calls, gathering up her bag and clambering onto the edge of the boat.

Jiang Wanyin has her in his arms before she can slip into the water, and he clucks like an affronted hen as he settles her on his hip. “Did your idiot father not teach you to be careful on the water? What if you fell in?”

“I can swim!” Yujin declares, looking very proud of herself.

“She knows how not to drown,” Wuxian says when Jiang Wanyin raises a brow, “though she could definitely use more practice before I’d call it swimming.”

Yujin huffs, and turns her nose up at this affront.

Wuxian offers a hand to Lan Xichen, and he takes it, allowing himself to be pulled up from the boat.

“Welcome to Lotus Pier.”

He trails after his brother-in-law, niece, and the Jiang sect leader, trying very hard not to show the way the pit of anxiety in his stomach grows larger with every step.

It has been a long time since he left the Cloud Recesses.

Every step and every moment now brings him closer to a reunion he does not know if he is strong enough to handle.

He runs a finger across the charm at his belt. A-Qing sent with Song Zichen’s most recent letter. Its small petals are roughly carved, but sculpted with care. He wonders after her and her guardians. He hopes they are well. He hopes to see them again soon.

Taking a deep breath, he crosses the threshold into Lotus Pier.

Wuxian is waiting just inside, his gaze empathetic. He does not ask if Lan Xichen has changed his mind, and for that he is grateful.

…

The next morning, after a breakfast punctuated by the brothers bickering and sneaking food onto each other’s plates, Jiang Wanyin takes his niece and loudly declares that they’re going to have some real swim lessons.

“Is it not still too cold?” Lan Xichen asks.

Wuxian shrugs. “Not at this time of year. Maybe a little cool, but nothing dangerous.” He stretches like a cat, and then turns those too sharp eyes on Lan Xichen again. “Jiang Cheng would cut off his arm before harming her.”

Lan Xichen can’t help flinching, thinking of the garrote around Jin Ling’s neck, and Wuxian’s expression turns to contrition.

“Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

When all is said and done, the ruins of the temple are not far. Sometimes, Lan Xichen wonders what it was like for A-Yao to have been raised in the brothel that once stood here. Now, only two living people have seen the childhood his once-lover fought so hard to surpass. Wuxian has never deigned to share what he saw in Empathy, and he could not bring himself to ask Sisi.

Each step through the bustling crowds of Yunping feels like an eternity and an instant.

Long before the midday sun, they stand at the temple’s golden walls. The whole complex has been suppressed by a mix of Wuxian’s arrays, Nie seals, and Lan talismans.

Lan Xichen stares at the walls behind the shimmering barrier and tries not to let his breathing grow shallow.

He wants to flee. Hide. Cover his eyes. But then, that mindset is what brought him here, to the scene of his unraveling.

No more hiding.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them, Wuxian is not alone.

“Song Zichen,” he says around a startled exhale.

His friend bows, and Lan Xichen catches his arms, this time without freezing.

“I don’t understand,” he continues. “How did you know to find me here?”

Song Zichen’s lips twitch at the corners, and his eyes slide to Wuxian, who is twirling Chenqing and examining the sealing arrays around the ruins.

A swell of emotions tumbles across Lan Xichen like a wave.

He smiles around the burning in his eyes. He bows to Song Zichen. “Thank you,” he whispers, hoping the river breeze will carry the emotions he does not know how to put to words.

“I can get us past the array,” Wuxian announces, pulling a dagger from his sleeve. “Are we all ready?”

Xichen nods, and then whips back to Song Zichen. “A-Qing?”

‘At Lotus Pier with Xingchen,’ Song Zichen says.

Wei Wuxian’s grin returns. “I’m sure she’s bossing the disciples around with Yujin already.”

Lan Xichen laughs at the image, feeling something in his stomach soften a fraction. He turns to face the ruins where his lost loves lay together. He owes it to himself to face them. He owes it to them to soothe their souls.

It has been more than a year.

He hopes they will forgive his delay.

Upon entering the courtyard, his first thought is that, despite the wreckage, it is a beautiful place. The trees have grown taller, uninhibited by human maintenance. Weeds and flowers split the cracks in the courtyard, painting fresh life in a place of death.

Wuxian leads the way, and Lan Xichen is relieved that he does.

With a shrill whistle, Wuxian summons the ghosts of the Jin men and monks who died here. Their spirits seethe, but with a quick tune on Chenqing, they obediently lift the collapsed lumber.

Wuxian watches them with narrowed eyes, prepared for any trouble.

Lan Xichen watches for a few minutes before it strikes him how accustomed he has grown to his brother-in-law’s unusual cultivation methods. His younger self would be shocked to stand beside Wei Wuxian like this.

Nearly a full shichen passes before the entryway is fit to walk through. Beyond it is a shimmering barrier woven of Wuxian’s arrays and the sealing spells of the Lan and Nie. Combined, the spells seem to have kept the coffin sealed.

When the spirits’ work is done, Wuxian plays Rest, and they dissipate like mist burnt by the morning sun.

Lan Xichen steps forward. First one step, then another, until he is standing before the foot of the great stone coffin. He sinks to his knees and kowtows. How funny, he thinks without humor, that the goddess of mercy is being used to seal A-Yao and Mingjue inside their hell.

He feels Wuxian’s eyes on him along with Song Zichen’s, but this moment is not for them. It is for him. It is for the men entombed here.

“I am here,” he tells them. “I hope you will allow me to help you now as I failed to when you were both alive.”

Though he regrets many things in his life, he does not wish this one to continue any longer. Rising from the floor, he opens his senses to the spirits haunting his memory and haunting this temple.

He settles himself before the coffin and summons his guqin. It smells sweet with the oil he worked into the parched wood last night. The freshly-tuned silk strings shimmer with a power he has not called upon in so long. Though he has neglected his instrument for many months, it still sang beautifully when he worked through the scales last night.

This morning, he had shown Lan Yujin where to place her fingers on the strings. He lets the memory of her small hands under his wash away the hesitation.

He does not feel ready.

He plays Inquiry anyway.

Nie Mingjue’s spirit comes to him first, strong as a mountain, and just as unswayed. “Mingjue,” he greets. Nie Mingjue’s soul feels like standing in front of a blazing forest fire as it strums the strings of the qin with aggressive, clear chords. It grieves him to feel so little left of his once-lover’s mind. Little more than hatred remains .Lan Xichen could easily be consumed by the burning anger.

Had he come any sooner, he would have gladly let himself be incinerated, but now he has people to return to. Wangji, Shufu, and Sizhui wait for him at home. A-Qing and Yujin wait for him at Lotus Pier. They will worry if he is not there to join them for dinner.

Wuxian and Zichen wait at his back.

Though he will always regret his ignorance and where it led, he cannot atone by joining his sworn brothers here in this coffin.

He allows the thrashing soul to wash over him like a wave, but he does not allow himself to be swept away in its rage.

“Who are you?” he plays, just to hear it one last time.

Mingjue’s soul clamors for attention, plucking angrily at his strings. “Nie Mingjue.”

“How did you die?”

“Beheading.”

Lan Xichen’s slams his fingers down on the chords, regretting the question. His death had been cruel and violent, and now his afterlife is shared with the culprit. He looks down at the dark lacquered wood, startling when he feels a cold hand on his shoulder.

Song Zichen gives him a small, sympathetic twitch of his lips. Lan Xichen cannot help the sad smile he offers in reply. Cautiously, he reaches up and squeezes Song Zichen’s hand. Zichen returns the gesture, and Lan Xichen finally feels his lungs draw a full breath. “Thank you.”

“Do you know who I am?”

There is a pause, and then the chords pluck back an affirmative.

Lan Xichen ignores his tears. “What is your saber’s name?”

“Baxia.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“The Unclean Realms.”

“What is your brother’s name?”

“Nie Huaisang.”

With each question and response, the cacophonous rage of the spirit is tamed, piece by, piece, back into a coherent soul.

“What is my name?”

“Lan Xichen.”

“When did we first meet?”

“When Gusu held a cultivation conference in winter.”

“When was our first kiss?”

He hears Song Zichen make a small, surprised sound, and he almost slices his finger on the string. His ears burn. He had nearly forgotten the two men behind him. And he had definitely forgotten that Song Zichen, as a member of the dead, could understand the chords of Inquiry.

Mingjue’s soul has no such embarrassment. “It was the spring after your courtesy name was bestowed. You visited Qinghe, and I kissed you beneath the willow tree.”

Lan Xichen’s cheeks darken to match his blushing ears.

With the last question, he feels something shift in Mingjue’s spirit.

Though it still burns, as if he had placed his hands too near a flame, he can tell now that his first love is more than shattered fragments of hatred.

He plays the next question carefully. “How can I help you move on?”

He listens to Mingjue’s reply, and sighs. That, he can do. “It will be done.”

When he plays the opening chords once more, the strings pluck themselves with a quiet grace.

A-Yao’s spirit is weaker; fleeting like the clouds encircling the mountaintop. His spirit does not greet him with vengeance, but with a cautious interest.

Lan Xichen has had many years to mourn Mingjue, but it has not been nearly as long since he lost A-Yao. For a selfish moment, he holds the spirit close, lets it caress his cheek as a tear falls.

But A-Yao has beguiled him before. And Lan Xichen is done being tricked.

As Sect Leader Lan, he is here to repay a debt. As a cultivator, he is here to put souls to rest. As a lover, he is here for closure.

Spirits cannot lie in Inquiry, so he asks the same questions, though he does not ask how A-Yao died.

He cannot help asking, “Did you love me?”

“Yes,” the spirit promises.

“Did you move?” he asks, needing to know and fearing it in equal measure.

“Not against you.”

He’s not sure how the answer makes him feel.

“What would give you peace?”

“Erect a memorial tablet for my mother.”

”You have my word as Sect Leader Lan that it will be done.”

When the chords grow still, he dashes the tears from his cheeks and nods to Wuxian. “They are ready.”

Chenqing’s lacquered wood glimmers in the darkness as Wuxian brings it to his lips.

Lan Xichen banishes his guqin, draws Liebing from his sleeve, and begins to play.

This composition, written by Wangji and Wuxian, feels gentle, like a cool cloth against a fevered brow. Like the patter of rain at night. As the two flutes weave the song together, the resentment soaked into these bloody grounds begins to purge itself.

They liberate the spirits of the men who died in this temple.

They liberate the women who were burned alive in the brothel that once stood on these grounds.

And then there is only the coffin remaining.

Lan Xichen lowers his flute.

Wuxian comes to stand beside him, one hand cocked on his hip.

Song Zichen stands at his other side with Fuxue at the ready.

Though he is tired, Lan Xichen is not ready to stop.

Not yet.

“Wuxian, are the barriers set?”

His brother-in-law flicks a talisman toward the temple’s entrance. The yellow paper flies toward the blue sky and then freezes, bouncing off a red barrier that had been invisible until that moment. Lan Xichen can feel the strength of it, and he shivers.

He is grateful that Wuxian is a moral man. He appreciates now how easily the cultivation world could have fallen had he truly declared himself against them.

He nods once to Zichen and once to Wuxian before playing a trill on Lliebing. Chenqing joins in, and the containment array around the coffin breaks like porcelain.

For a moment, Lan Xichen braces for the worst.

It does not come.

Song Zichen relaxes a fraction, and Lan Xichen breathes out a soft sigh.

He calls the two spirits to him, and with a gentle suggestion woven through the notes, the apparitions of Jin Guangyao and Nie Mingjue stand before him.

“Da-Ge. A-Yao.” He bows to each in turn.

Mingjue’s apparition is stitched together like his body. Lan Xichen’s eyes trace the careful black stitches and wonder, not for the first time, whether it had been Huaisang’s hands that had threaded the needle and taken up such a painful task.

He had thought such revenge, if it were truly premeditated, to be cruel. He still finds it so. So many innocents could have been lost along the way were it not for Wangji and Wuxian.

And yet, on the days when he’d dared shift some of his blame to Nie Huaisang, he had always thought, would he not turn just as vicious had someone he trusted done such things to Wangji?

Turning from the victim to the culprit, Lan Xichen forces himself to look at A-Yao. His spirit is missing the arm Wangji had cleaved. The sparks-amidst-snow on his chest is nearly indecipherable for all the blood. Lan Xichen had as good as killed him with the blow. It was Shuoyue’s blade that inflicted the fatal wound, even if Nie Mingjue killed him before he could bleed out.

The apparitions bow to him, and Lan Xichen feels more tears slip down his cheeks.

“In this life, I failed each of you,” he admits. “In the next life, should our paths cross, I will not repeat those same mistakes.”

A-Yao steps forward first. He smiles, but it is not one of the pretty, gleaming things. This one speaks to exhaustion. A year trapped with a resentful ghost of his own making will do that.

“Er-Ge, it is time to let go.” A-Yao’s look is equal parts fond and worn. “Do not grieve in excess,” he reminds Xichen.

“It is hardly excessive,” Mingjue grumbles, but he, too, is looking at Xichen softly. “Take care of him. Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

Wuxian steps beside Lan Xichen in the ensuing lull. “It’s time,” he murmurs.

Together, they play Rest. Lan Xichen keeps his eyes open this time, watching as the men he loved fade away until only the physical remains.

The resentful energy disperses like shadows chased away by the light that cast them.

When the echo of the last note fades, Lan Xichen tucks Liebing back into his sleeve and sits down, not bothering to staunch the flow of his tears.

Wuxian steps past him, lifts A-Yao’s corpse from the coffin, and lowers it carefully to the temple floor. He struggles under Mingjue’s weight at first, but he manages to carefully arrange his body, too.

Soon, Lan Xichen will get to his feet. And soon they will find proper coffins for the bodies, and plots of land to bury each of them in peace.

But for now, just this one moment, he lets himself grieve.

They are both gone now. Off to be reincarnated. To become new people, whose lives will have little or nothing to do with his own.

He feels like a small child, watching the petals of his favorite flower scatter on the breeze. That flower will never be the same again. Even if he were to catch every last petal, they would never be what they once were.

Song Zichen sits at his side in solemn sympathy.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and he looks up into Zichen’s dark eyes.

They do not exchange words, but words are unnecessary.

Song Zichen offers a handkerchief, and Lan Xichen accepts it with a small laugh. “Thank you.” His voice is hoarse and thick, but his friend does not mind.

He dries his eyes and tucks the cloth away. They get to their feet.

Song Zichen pulls on a pair of gloves when it comes time to move the bodies, but he assists.

When Wuxian lowers the barriers around the temple, the gates creak open. Lan Xichen is not quite surprised to see Nie Huaisang waiting with a cart and a dozen disciples.

“Da-Ge?” he asks. Though there is not the same innocence in his eyes that Lan Xichen once saw, there is a great sadness still.

“He has been laid to rest. His soul will be reincarnated soon.”

Huaisang does not bother hiding the tears in his eyes, but he also does not throw himself forward and wail as he once did. “Thank you, Xichen-Ge,” he says, bowing around his folded fan.

The Nie disciples step forward to take Mingjue’s body.

Lan Xichen has already said his goodbyes. There is nothing left to part with, but that does not make it any easier to let go.

“May I visit?” he asks Nie Huaisang.

The younger sect leader looks startled for a moment. “Visit? As Sect Leader Lan?”

He shakes his head. “As Lan Xichen. To pay my respects. And to give you my apologies,” he concludes, bowing.

Huaisang’s eyes widen. “Why are you bowing so deeply! Wei-Xiong, what is he doing? I don’t know!”

“I cannot control my sect leader,” Wuxian says with a shrug.

Nie Huaisang flicks his fan out and flutters it with apparent distress. “Of course Qinghe is always happy to welcome you, Xichen-Ge.” He pauses for a moment, wearing the grief they have shared for more than a decade now. “You are the only brother I have left, after all.”

Lan Xichen supposes he is. The thought makes him ache.

“Likewise, Gusu Lan welcomes you, whether as Chief Cultivator, or simply as my brother.”

Nie Huaisang catches his hands before he can bow again. “Visit soon,” he says. “And you, too, Wei-Xiong” he adds, glancing at Wuxian.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Wuxian replies. “I’ve been meaning to try the wine in your region once more.”

Huaisang narrows his eyes at his friend, and for a moment, he sees the shrewdness the younger man often hides. “Qinghe Nie recently uncovered a fascinating tome relating to the saber spirits. If only we had someone willing to decode seal script on this ancient curse.”

Wuxian laughs, slinging an arm around Huaisang. “Twist my arm, why don’t you?”

Huaisang demures, “I have no idea what you mean.”

Chapter Text

Lan Xichen had thought he would feel lighter after laying his ghosts to rest.

He thought that closure would feel different from this. He thought it would feel like the end of a story. A final page to turn before closing the book and opening a new one.

It doesn’t.

The guilt no longer threatens to strangle him, but the grief still might.

After saying their farewells to Huaisang, he doesn’t quite recall the trip back to Lotus Pier.

At dinner, he did not take the first sip of wine on purpose, his cup had been too close to A-Qing’s. He does recall taking the second sip and the third, and then a bottle of the Hefeng wine. He doesn’t remember much of that night after that point, to be blunt.

He remembers Yujin’s eyes full of concern, remembers Jiang Wanyin taking her away, despite her protests, the moment he started sobbing. He remembers Wuxian confiscating the wine. Remembers waking up in a cold bed, feeling more alone than he has since he ran away from his burning home a lifetime ago.

He doesn’t remember deciding to go to the pier, but he recalls thinking that if he could just sit under the moonlight, then maybe some of the dark shadows plaguing his heart and mind would be chased away.

He doesn’t remember anything else until he’d slipped, too drunk and desolate to steady himself on the algae-slicked planks.

A cold, shocking plunge had startled him sober just in time for a large hand to snatch him out of the black waters.

He remembers spluttering, coughing up the water that had gone up his nose, and wiping his hair from his eyes.

He remembers Song Zichen grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing him up until his gaze met those frantic eyes.

He remembers the worry in them, visible despite the faint moonlight filtering through the foliage.

He remembers falling into Song Zichen’s arms and clinging tight. Song Zichen had no body heat to offer, but he had scooped Lan Xichen into his arms and carried him back into his chambers, heedless of the water soaking through his robes.

Lan Xichen’s limbs had felt as cold and heavy as the midnight waters. He gave in and rested his weight against Song Zichen’s chest, burrowing his face into a black-veined neck.

He remembers being too tired for embarrassment, remembers soaking in a talisman-warmed bath, and remembers giving Song Zichen his own spare robes to wear, unable to let him leave for his own quarters.

Though Song Zichen has always looked striking in black, a small, possessive part of Lan Xichen had settled like a proud cat curled in his chest when he’d donned the white and blue robes.

That pride faded quickly as shame caught up.

He remembers the pitiful way he asked, “Will you stay?” of his friend when Song Zichen stepped too close to the door.

He remembers Song Zichen taking the chair by his bedside. He remembers those cold, calloused, perfect hands signing, ‘Rest. I am here.’ And then nothing.

When he wakes, he keeps his eyes closed, fighting back the way they sting like nettles.

He can tell it’s morning, but his head aches almost as much as his heart. He really should know by now that ghosts are not the only way the dead can haunt you.

He feels a presence at his bedside, surprised to find not Song Zichen but instead A-Qing. Her pale eyes are not sympathetic in the slightest.

‘Fell off the pier like a drunken idiot, huh?’ Her expression implies both disappointment and amusement.

No wonder she and Wuxian get on like oil and flame.

He cannot defend himself, so he merely sighs, sitting up.

It’s a bad move. His head immediately protests, followed quickly by his stomach.

A-Qing sticks a bucket in his lap, though he thankfully keeps the bile down.

“What brings you here, A-Qing?” he asks, when the room stops spinning around his stomach.

‘We were all worried about you, asshole.’ He squints at her agitated hands, too tired to be impressed by how much she has managed to stretch the swears she and Wuxian created in this language. ‘Were you trying to fucking die?’

“No,” he protests weakly. He can’t speak louder than a whisper; his head feels like it will split like a melon. “I slipped in.”

Her eyes narrow at him, and she paces like an agitated kitten. Even if he’s still horrifically hungover and nauseated, he cannot help the swell of fondness at her concern.

“I am sorry to have worried you,” he says, folding his hands in a slight bow.

She whirls on him. ‘Who said I was worried?’ she snaps, almost too fast for his sluggish brain to decipher.

“Apologies for my presumption.”

She huffs irritably and turns her back.

“Is Yujin alright?” he asks as memories of his niece’s crying come back to him.

‘She was worried. You scared her, but Wei Wuxian explained. She’s helping him prepare spicy congee to help your hangover,’ A-Qing tells him, facing him again, but still glaring. At least her hands have slowed now that she realizes how intensely he’s having to focus. ‘You will eat the whole bowl in punishment.’

He sighs. “That is fair.” His eyes land on the pile of wet robes behind her, and his stomach drops. The mortification arrives moments before Song Zichen.

The man enters with a tray of food, which he places at the low table.

‘Can you eat?’

Lan Xichen shakes his head. “Not yet,” he comments, eyeing the deep red rice warily. He can tell by the small portion that he’s getting off easy with his brother-in-law. His brow still sweats preemptively.

Song Zichen’s eyes soften, and he brings a steaming cup over, takes the bucket away, and gently folds Lan Xichen’s hands around the hot tea before stepping back.

‘It’s ginger. To soothe the stomach.’

“Thank you,” he rasps.

As he nurses his tea, A-Qing sits at the low table and begins poking at a dumpling.

“You are welcome to it.”

She flashes him a grin and takes a big bite.

Song Zichen shakes his head, but there’s no admonition in it– only the tired fondness of someone well-acquainted with her manners and lack thereof.

Lan Xichen chuckles, and it’s worth the momentary throb in his head.

The ache in his heart on the other hand…

He knows that A-Yao and Mingjue are gone now. Truly gone. Their bodies will never rise again, and their souls have been liberated.

He is the last of the Venerated Triad.

Never again will he wake with A-Yao beside him, offering him a dimpled smile and chaste kisses.

Never again will he feel Mingjue’s calloused palms against his skin.

He had always known that their love story would never have a happily ever after. Sect leaders cannot marry each other, after all.

But Lan Xichen had always been an optimist. Even when A-Yao had married Qin Su, some part of him expected them to share a bed again one day. He was wrong.

Now, looking at a walking corpse and a ghost, he wonders if he is willing to pretend once more. He smiles as A-Qing takes another dumpling, grimaces as he takes the first bite of congee, and thinks it is worth it for the amusement clear in Zichen’s eyes.

Maybe this story will have a happy ending.

Somehow.

…

The next morning, he erects a memorial tablet for Meng Shi. As he watches the incense burn, Wuxian says, “That statue of Guanyin was never meant to be Jin Guangyao, you know.”

Lan Xichen, who had mapped the planes of A-Yao’s face too many times to count, can only nod. “He had the Jin cheekbones. Like you.”

At that, Wuxian snorts. They stand in silence for a few minutes and watch the smoke curl up toward the heavens, trying to become one with the distant clouds.

They leave Lotus Pier the following day with Song Zichen, A-Qing, and the small mountain of toys and sweets Jiang Wanyin has spoiled Yujin with.

A-Qing sits at the bow of the boat, sketching charcoal landscapes in the bound book Lan Xichen had acquired for her at the market.

Wuxian runs the sails while Yujin helps by getting thoroughly underfoot.

While Song Zichen takes his turn wrangling the little one, Lan Xichen approaches the bow. “May I join you?”

A-Qing glances up at him and then nods toward the bench.

“Thank you.”

He risks a glance at her page, and he smiles. “You are quite good.”

Her raised brow doesn’t believe him.

“I do not give absent praise. You have talent. I hope you will nurture it.” He gestures to the mountain she is drawing and then to her page. “You have a good sense of scale and of lighting. Many artists are hesitant to use darker tones. They are permanent. They require commitment and confidence. You have both.”

She considers his words and finally nods, saying a quick, ‘Thank you,’ without putting the charcoal stick down. She bites her lip, frowning at the foreground.

“Xichen-Ge is a talented artist,” Wuxian announces over the wind. “I’m sure he’d be happy to show you some tricks.”

A-Qing looks up at him eagerly. ‘Really? Can you teach me?’

“Wuxian is exaggerating. While it is true that I paint, it is no more than a gentry man is usually expected to. Wuxian is the better artist between us.”

“No need for such modesty! Xichen-Ge’s the one who painted the piece you’re so fond of in the Jingshi.”

A-Qing’s mouth pops open in surprise, but then the pleading redoubles, and Lan Xichen laughs, holding his hands up in defeat. “Alright, alright. I suppose I can show you a few things.”

She hands him the charcoal stick, and they spend the next few hours passing it back and forth as he goes over how to imply foliage, how to depict moving water, and how to flick one’s wrist for quick blades of grass.

A-Qing is an eager student. She dutifully follows the exercises he prescribes and then puts the pieces together in quick, readable sketches.

Watching her enthusiasm like this, it feels like even more of a shame that she will never have the chance to grow up. Lan Xichen knows that she would have been a force of nature, more than she already was and is.

He watches her work, and his heart aches at the thought that one day, when Xingchen’s soul has mended, he will have to part with her, too. The future is often unpredictable, though. Regardless, Lan Xichen will not count it selfish to savor this time he has with her and Song Zichen.

…

The winds are favorable, and they manage to reach Gusu just after nightfall the next day.

Wen Qionglin, Sizhui and Wangji stand at the dock, waiting with lanterns. Jingyi waves to their vessel as he jogs down the planks to help, and Yujin and A-Qing wave back eagerly.

Wuxian casts the rope around the docking post and helps each of them up while he straddles the boat and the pier. Wangji then scoops his husband into a kiss that makes Lan Xichen’s ears and cheeks burn.

Song Zichen, Sizhui, Jingyi, and Wen Qionglin bring up the bags and gifts while Yujin declares how much she loves frogs and lotuses from her place on Wangji’s shoulders. A-Qing takes the time to show off her sketches to Wuxian, who dutifully examines and compliments each one while offering his own tips.

For a moment, Lan Xichen simply watches them all. He takes a deep breath and lets some of his grief stay behind on the boat. He will always miss Mingjue and he will always miss A-Yao, but they are gone and he is not. His family and his sect await, so he takes the first step forward.

Their party travels to an inn in Caiyi Town, knowing it is too late to arrive in the Cloud Recesses before curfew.

When they settle into a relaxed dinner, Yujin regales her Da-Ge and her Yi-Gege with stories about swimming with frogs and giant leaves and how Shushu can yell loud enough to be heard underwater. A-Qing adds a running commentary about the gullibility of the Jiang disciples, which has Zichen and Wangj smiling.

Wuxian and Wen Qionglin seem engaged in some kind of debate, which Song Zichen occasionally weighs in on. Likely it is about a new talisman for maintaining the bodies of the two fierce corpses, then.

A year ago, Lan Xichen had been holed up in his home, trying to hide from the world around him.

Now, he thinks that perhaps being alone in his grief was the mistake. Grief is much easier to bear when surrounded by those who will help him carry its weight.

…

Late summer brings with it great rain storms and great trouble.

Though the talisman designs Wuxian and the senior disciples dispersed throughout the low-lying villages has greatly reduced the deaths associated with regional flooding, the winds and rain are capable of plenty of destruction long before they drown people.

The disciples of Gusu Lan are stretched thin as requests for aid stack higher and higher on Lan Xichen’s desk.

His days are filled once more with paperwork and headaches and problems without immediate solutions. People seem to forget that cultivators are not deities. They cannot not stop the rain from falling.

“You stopped a snowstorm,” Wuxian points out.

“Temporarily, and with a great expenditure of spiritual energy.”

Wuxian’s eyes glimmer in a way that suggests he’s planning something inconceivable.

“You have already created demonic cultivation and returned from the dead. Please do not tamper any further with the laws of reality,” Lan Xichen says, pinching his brow.

“I’m just saying…”

“Please work on wind resistance for civilian dwellings first. At least wait a few years before controlling the weather.”

Wuxian makes a very put-upon noise, but he dutifully goes back to inventing complex talismans with the same air as Yujin when asked to copy the characters she is learning.

Some days, Lan Xichen almost feels bad that his genius is given to the Lan Sect first, but Wuxian is a fair man. He shares his designs widely, and if all four great sects embrace them, then the minor sects would be fools not to use life-saving tools, no matter their lingering prejudices.

…

As the storms continue to rage, Lan Xichen continues to take solace in the meals spent with his family, tea taken with Song Zichen, and art lessons with A-Qing.

He and Wangji are still splitting the duties of Sect Leader, and Lan Xichen is immeasurably grateful for the continued reprieve. Though he knows Wangji has never desired a role in leadership, and though his little brother grates under the niceties demanded of their station, he is an inestimable force of good for the common people the sects are meant to serve.

While Wangji on his own is one of the best, it is at Wuxian’s side that he truly shines. Together, they are even greater than they are apart.

Halfway through monsoon season, there is an anomaly in Yiling. Fifteen civilians are found dead at the foot of the Burial Mounds.

Though the people of Yiling are far from Gusu, they send the plea to their Laozu.

Fourteen years may have gone by since his death, but the people of Yiling still remember how Wei Wuxian cleansed centuries old resentment from desolate city. The shrines there were well-tended long after the rest of the world celebrated his demise.

Wuxian and Wangji leave that night, tucking Yujin into bed and leaving her to Shufu and Sizhui’s care. Lan Xichen sees them off. Though he knows they will return safely to him, an elder sibling’s prerogative includes worrying over his brothers.

Spinning Chenqing in one hand, Wuxian hops onto Bichen, wrapping an arm around Wangji’s waist. “Don’t worry, Xichen-Ge, we’ll be back before you even have time to miss us.”

”I shall hold you to that promise,” he threatens. He looks at Wangji as Bichen rises. “Be well, Wangji.”

“And you, Xiongzhang.”

The first day is uneventful. He spends his meals with Sizhui, Yujin, A-Qing, and Song Zichen. Their gatherings remain a welcome reprieve from the endless paperwork. But reality always comes crashing back in.

Lan Xichen is up to his neck in missives when Lan Xiuying enters his office with speed. Her daughter is wailing, but Lan Xiuying’s attention is fixed on him. The hand not stroking the baby’s back holds a damp letter out to him. “Zewu-Jun, there is urgent news.”

He straightens. “What is it?”

She catches her breath, clearly having run, despite the rules and the rain. “A temple has caught fire in Yueling.”

“Caught fire? In this weather?”

“Struck by lightning. At least twenty are suspected to have perished.”

He waits, because while tragic, this does not explain the urgency or the call for a cultivation sect.

“The survivors reported that the fire is spreading from the temple, but not naturally. The flames are a perfect dome, expanding to swallow the forest, and soon the neighboring villages.”

He stands, picking up Shuoyue. His hand doesn’t shake, even if his heart still clenches. He takes the letter, skims the missive from a nearby town, and nods. “I’ll leave at once.”

Lan Xiuying trails after him, holding an umbrella over their heads as he strides toward Wuxian’s workshop. “Zewu-Jun, this disciple implores you not to travel alone.”

Were he another man, it might feel patronizing. He is one of the top cultivators in his generation. There are very few situations he is not fit to handle on his own. But he is himself, and Lan Xiuying is speaking from honest concern. They have worked together long enough for her to know him better than most.

He considers her counsel. Their disciples are spread thin already, and with Wangji and Wuxian away, he can bring neither Sizhui nor Shufu.

He comes to a halt outside of Wuxian’s workshop, turning a look that’s not quite scolding at Lan Xiuying.

Song Zichen and A-Qing are already waiting for him.

Lan Xiuying gives them a brisk nod and turns back to Lan Xichen. “If my sect leader wishes, I will assign myself punishment for the presumption.”

He sighs. “No such thing is necessary. Please alert my uncle and Lan Sizhui of our departure.”

“As Zewu-Jun commands,” she replies, bowing to hide her smile.

In her sling, Xiuying’s baby stares at him with soulful brown eyes. Lan Xichen runs a finger over Lan Shuilan's soft cheek. She gives him a gummy smile as her mother departs, and Lan Xichen refocuses on the matter at hand.

He presses his palm to the arrays guarding Wuxian’s workshop. The security measures recognize him and grant entry. He grabs several varieties of talismans before returning to his companions.

“This may be dangerous. Are you sure you wish to join us, A-Qing?”

She scoffs, tossing her head and crossing her arms.

“Right, foolish question.” He smiles and stows the talismans. “Ready?”

Song Zichen nods, so Lan Xichen mounts his sword and points it south. Fuxue joins him in the air a moment later.

The wind and rain make flying a challenge, but Lan Xichen knows that Yueling will be little more than ashes if they wait for clear skies.

Lightning splits the clouds, and thunder shakes the very air he rides, but he does not relent. Beside him, he can feel Song Zichen steering through the same harsh winds as A-Qing clings to his robes.

Smoke is the first thing to greet them.

Despite the downpour and the gales, a thick cloud of it hangs over the horizon. Lan Xichen points his sword toward the black plumes with grim determination.

From there, it doesn’t take long until they reach the flames.

The blue blaze scorches the air, turning the downpour into burning steam. Lan Xichen hasn’t seen flames this unnatural since the Sunshot Campaign, only this time, it’s not Wei Wuxian commanding the resentful fires.

He glances at Song Zichen. No words need to be exchanged.

Song Zichen takes the lead, his body less vulnerable to the scorching heat. He draws Shuanghua and holds it close in a moment of prayer. He points the frostwork sword at the center of the dome and dives.

For a moment, golden light seems to envelop the sword, and Lan Xichen can almost see another hand holding Shuanghua steady as ice crystals climb the blade.

A-Qing whoops in delight as they hurtle toward the flames.

Lan Xichen follows, clutching Liebing tight in his hand.

Shuanghua pierces the blue bubble, and they slip through the opening in a shower of ice before the tendrils of flame can recover.

The spells woven into his robes protect Lan Xichen from the worst of the burns, but his skin feels dry and strange.

None of that matters, though.

They land on razed lands. The charred remains of trees and homes litter the blackened earth. Despite the torrential rains, it is bone-dry within the sphere of flames.

The only thing that still stands is a temple in the distance– a temple that was supposedly destroyed by the storm outside this inferno.

He sheaths Shuoyue and watches Song Lan sheath the twin swords on his back. A-Qing squares her shoulders, and they cross the barren wasteland that was once a village.

The smell hits Lan Xichen first.

Many people mention the sickening scent of burnt flesh. What they do not tell you about is the scent of burnt hair. Lan Xichen had never known how bad it could be until the day the Wen set fire to the Cloud Recesses. Now, he breathes shallowly through his mouth, so as not to gag with each inhale.

The temple stands apart from the ruins. It shimmers with gilded eaves and fresh paint, looking not dissimilar from Guanyin Temple.

Except this temple is a mirage.

Lan Xichen can feel the illusion whispering over his skin like a ghost’s sigh. Lulling and deadly.

Song Zichen sees it, too. He adjusts the horsehair whisk in his hand, stepping in front of A-Qing as they approach the beckoning entrance.

The doors open wide, like a warm, welcoming maw.

Incense smoke spills out, sweet and heavy after the stench of the wasteland.

Lan Xichen ties cloth over the lower half of his face. It will not do him well to breathe the illusion in.

Song Zichen gives him a nod, and they cross the threshold.

The doors slam closed behind them. A non-cultivator would have been swept off their feet by the force. Lan Xichen does not falter, but his knuckles creak around Liebing’s jade body.

A-Qing gasps, and Lan Xichen quickly finds what has drawn her attention. The center of the temple is empty; the deity’s golden pedestal is unoccupied.

Goosebumps rise along Lan Xichen’s flesh as he scans the building with bewitched eyes. Despite the spell, she is impossible to miss.

He has read the reports of the Dancing Fairy Statue from Mount Dafan. Though powerful, that statue had never been a deity.

This woman is divine.

There is no mistaking the aura of power, nor the ancient air she carries.

Dark strands of hair frame her narrow, painted face. Metallic eyes glint when she tips her head at them in consideration. Her robes are elaborate, layered things, glimmering with twinkling threads and blossoming flowers.

Lan Xichen stands still, his heart thudding in his chest.

He has encountered spirits and ghouls and all manner of inhuman creatures in his night hunts, but this is the first time his plane had intersected with the heavenly realm.

The woman’s lips are melded shut, but Lan Xichen feels like she is sizing them up as a meal.

Though this should be a holy site, the temple is thick with yin energy. Lan Xichen can feel it clawing at his heart and his mind, trying to pry him apart and drive him mad.

He’s laid his ghosts to rest, but this goddess wants them exhumed.

Song Zichen orders A-Qing to hide as he steps closer to Lan Xichen. This time she doesn’t fight him. She takes the pouch holding Xiao Xingchen’s soul and finds shelter behind a distant pillar.

Lan Xichen bows low, still determined to try diplomacy first. He does not wish to test his strength against a deity. “Forgive these lowly cultivators our trespass. We mean you no disrespect and no harm.” He rises, still keeping his hands folded in respect. “Please, allow us to set right whatever has angered you. There is no need for more lives to be lost.”

The goddess howls, the sound echoing in hair-raising waves from behind her sealed mouth. Her eyes blaze like a blacksmith’s forge.

Lan Xichen holds steady. He has been a fighter for too long to flinch now. “Your temple was damaged, was it not? We can repair it.” He signs as he speaks this time.

She makes a low hissing sound that slithers up his spine like a viper. It appears that she cannot speak, nor sign, but Lan Xichen knows he has been heard.

She steps closer, towering over them. Her bronze body moves like flickering flames, sharp and quick, licking at their heels.

Lan Xichen dodges the first blow, stepping back from the crater where he had been standing.

He still hesitates to draw his weapons. Liberation, then suppression, and then elimination. He is Sect Leader Lan, and he will do this right.

He needs to unravel this illusion and find out what has so enraged the goddess.

He wishes there had been villagers to speak to, someone closer to the town and this shrine than the neighboring village several li away. Understanding the threat is often key to managing it. If only he knew the domain over which this goddess has sway.

She bears no scythe nor grains, so probably not harvest.

She swings again, and Song Zichen leaps over her head, drawing her attention away from the entrance and A-Qing.

Lan Xichen follows, scanning the temple for clues. His eyes try to skitter over the glamour, but he forces himself to see past it and to search for what has been hidden.

He ducks beneath her nails, each one glinting like a newly polished blade, and probably twice as deadly.

Lan Xiuying said that lightning started the fire. Likely the temple was struck by lightning and set ablaze, but that alone wouldn’t do this to a protective deity. Fire does not corrupt like this.

He ducks behind Song Zichen and raises Liebing to his lips. He keeps his eyes open as he plays, weaving calming spells around the goddess even as Song Zichen meets her blow for blow, sending fresh sparks into the air.

Her movements slow, not by much, but by enough for Lan Xichen to run a circle of cinnabar runes around her while she is distracted. Song Zichen leaps away from the containment array a moment before he activates it.

The goddess howls, pounding against the spell. Cracks begin climbing up the walls within seconds. The flickering blue barrier won’t hold for long, but Lan Xichen doesn’t need long.

He plays Liebing with more force now, layering melodies like rows of seeds scattered across stone. It doesn’t take much for those seeds to grow through the cracks, disrupting the illusion.

The fresh paint and shimmering magic peels away, revealing the scorched ruins of a humble temple.

The goddess slams her fists against the array, and this time, it shatters, sending shards of light through the air before the qi dissipates.

Lan Xichen looks around the temple and feels a chill across his skin.

Though incense lingers in the air, he can smell now the burning hair that the smoke covered.

His stomach turns, and his blood runs cold. So thrown by the revelation, he barely manages to sidestep the goddess’s next blow. While dodging her strikes, he makes his way over to the pedestal, which is far from empty.

He crouches beside one of the small, charred lumps that may once have been a human.

He doesn’t even need to see Song Zichen’s pinched expression to confirm it. These were children.

Nausea churns his stomach, and as he looks up at the enraged goddess, he understands.

They cannot set this right.

Justice is too late to spare the lives of these innocents. Lan Xichen tucks Liebing into his sleeve, drawing Shuoyue with reluctance.

Sometimes, he almost forgets how cruel the world can be. Forgets the cruelty of people who would kick a child down the stairs, set dogs after them, throw them under a wagon, and set fire to a sanctuary.

The goddess shrieks, and Lan Xichen feels the heat slamming into him like a physical blow even before she launches herself at him, driving him away from what remains of her people.

He dodges again and again, parrying her claws with his sword.

Song Zichen tries to draw her away, but Lan Xichen is the only living human here, and she wants blood.

The goddess grows more vicious and less coordinated as time continues. Still, Lan Xichen cannot focus on anything else but staying in one piece. He must avoid both her blows and the blackened hunks of ceiling littering the ground.

He slips on a patch of ash, and Song Zichen is there, shielding him with Fuxue. The sound of her nails on the blade is piercing and makes every hair stand on edge.

“Thank you.”

Song Zichen nods, doing his best to sign with one hand, ‘Talismans?’

Lan Xichen draws the stack from his sleeve. Most of them are fire repelling or quelling. He had not known what they were getting into.

Despite Song Zichen’s excellent swordsmanship, they remain on the defensive, trapped inside the lair of the fallen divinity.

Wuxian’s suppression talismans are impressive, but Lan Xichen knows he did not have a raging goddess in mind when he designed them.

Another chunk of roof falls, crashing down close enough to pelt his back with debris.

Song Zichen’s eyes snap over to him, and it’s a mistake.

The goddess howls, knocking Fuxue from his grasp.

Lan Xichen doesn’t think.

He moves.

In that moment, as his legs pump, and his mouth forms a cry, he’s standing in another temple watching another man get torn away from him.

Not again.

He can’t.

He can’t.

Shuoyue slices into the goddess’s fingers with a metallic shriek that he feels zip up his arm and into every bone in his body.

She rears back with a scream, wrenching Shuoyue from his grasp. This time Lan Xichen isn’t quick enough to dodge both hands.

He feels her nails rake across his back, hears Zichen cry out, and feels his own mouth shape a scream.

Zichen catches him when he stumbles.

His back is on fire, and for a delirious moment, he wonders if this is how Wangji felt. His stomach immediately heaves.

The goddess swings again, and Song Zichen draws Shuanghua, still holding Lan Xichen upright.

Three things happen at once.

Lan Xichen throws a talisman drawn in blood.

A-Qing materializes in front of them, arms thrown wide.

A gentle breeze sweeps through the stagnant air.

And then, in a flash of golden light, the world goes white.

…

He is floating.

He feels weightless, senses distant and muffled. It reminds him of when he was young and would trek to the back of the mountain to find the little secluded spring he thought of as his own.

The waters there were cool, but never cold.

When his lessons and responsibilities as sect heir weighed him down, he would go there and let the water carry him. He’d stare up at the cloud-painted sky and let the peace wash away the heaviness in his heart.

He blinks his eyes, and the white void shifts, settling into a pale morning.

The temple around him is still humble, but it is well-kept. He can feel the gentle hum of protection, of promise.

Men, women, and children bow at his altar, offering incense and fruit and prayer.

He feels their wishes, and he whispers blessings their way.

He has been here for centuries, and he will be here for centuries more. Though this village will never become a great city, he ensures that it flourishes.

Tragedy is not inescapable, though.

Street children flock to his hems, and he does not begrudge the food they take from his offerings– not when they tidy the shrine and whisper their hopes and dreams in his ear.

Time passes like this. Prayers and answers, children growing up and leaving, and new ones taking their place.

And then, one day, the raiders come.

He has little power beyond the walls of this temple, but he can hear the screams. Can smell the smoke. Outside, the villagers die. Their deaths feel like a thousand small cuts across raw skin.

The children run into the temple, seeking sanctuary. The caretaker, little more than a girl herself, herds them into the back and barricades the doors.

She falls to her knees in prayer, but there is no martial god here.

The goddess loves her children. She loves her village. She is a protector, but she was not meant to protect her people from this.

Agonizingly, she forces life into her bronze joints. Forces her feet to move. Rips herself off the pedestal just as the doors give way to the invading force.

They are quick and brutal. She is slow and untrained.

She is powerless to save her children.

The caretaker is run through with a dull sword. She dies with her eyes open and blood soaking through her humble robes.

The goddess cries, but she cannot mourn, moving quickly to stand in front of the children.

Though some of the men run from her, too many stay. The children scream and cry, and her heart aches, but she’s too slow. Unskilled. Powerless. The ones who fight die, and the ones who don’t are stolen away.

The invaders rob the temple, ransacking the candleholders and altars for scraps of metal and jade, but there is little here to be stolen.

And then the fires catch. The raiders withdraw, having gotten what they came for.

She howls in desperation, clawing at the doors, but there is a suppression seal on the other side, and she is too weak, too young to break through its inscription from within.

She can only pull the remaining children into her arms and hold them until the end comes.

The smoke fills their tiny lungs, and then the flames engulf them all.

She sobs and screams, feeling it roar through her bronze body and split the heavens. A bolt of lightning strikes her outstretched fingers. The flames turn blue as she sets the children down with a gentleness they cannot feel.

Rage bleeds from her body as she pushes against the seal.

The doors splinter apart, and, for the first time in centuries, she crosses the threshold of her ruined temple. Her robes flicker like flames in the wind.

Outside, a storm is raging, turning the ashen ground muddy and black.

More corpses litter the ground. They are the bodies of her supplicants, her people.

Her fires caress them, but do no further harm. They are hers, after all.

The thunder howls down from the heavens, and she roars back in answer.

The flames rush past her, crackling as they envelop the ruins of her village. She raises her arms, pushing outward until the distant trees begin to burn.

The invaders cannot have gotten far, and she will ensure that they never do.

The world shifts, going black. There is nothing to see, but that does not mean that there is nothing to feel.

He feels a wetness coursing down his cheeks, but it’s copper not salt that he smells.

A drowning, overwhelming helplessness fills his veins. His fingers tremble around the raised strokes of a name as familiar as his own. Fuxue.

He denies it, doesn’t notice when he cuts his palm on the blade of the man he loves. It cannot be true. It cannot be. Nausea and understanding dawn in his stomach and spread with every beat of his unsteady heart.

“Zichen…Song-daozhang… Song-daozhang… Is that you…?” He’s trembling so hard his words fall like leaves scattered across the ground.

There is no answer, and dread and horror eats their way through his heart.

Xue Yang cackles, lauding his revenge, his victory. And he just keeps talking. Won’t stop talking. “Save the world! What a joke, you can’t even save yourself!”

The floor is unforgiving when he crashes to his knees, but the pain is nothing against his guilt and grief and all-consuming horror. He prostrates himself at the feet of his friend. His love. The man he has hurt over and over again.

The man he has killed.

“You’ve accomplished nothing!” Xue Yang screams. “Failed utterly! You have only yourself to blame! You reap what you sow!”

The words resonate like a gong, and Lan Xichen splits from the memory. He opens his eyes and his mind, standing in a mortuary in front of Xiao Xingchen’s trembling form.

He kneels down and feels his heart ache in sympathy. His tears mirror the streaks of bloody red on Xiao Xingchen’s sallow cheeks.

He touches a hand to the man’s shoulder and gentles his voice. “That is not true.”

Xue Yang’s jeers fades like mist on the wind, falling away until only the two of them remain.

Xiao Xingchen’s head jerks up, turning an ear toward him. “Who…?

“My name is Lan Xichen. You may not know me, but we both know Song Zichen.”

A sob comes from the prone man. “He’s dead! I killed Zichen!” He lets out an agonized moan, burying his face in his hands and falling to the ground.

Lan Xichen takes his elbows in his hands and carefully draws him from the kowtow. “Yes, that much is unfortunately true. But that is not the end of his story.”

Xiao Xingchen tilts his ear toward Lan Xichen. “His spirit?”

“Strong and undamaged. He may not be alive, but he is far from gone.”

“I don’t… How?”

“Xue Yang was a vile person, but the work he copied was that of your martial nephew.”

“Wei Wuxian?”

“Indeed.” Lan Xichen carefully wipes the blood from Xiao Xingchen’s face, heedless of the stains it left on his sleeve. “When Wuxian found Song Zichen as a fierce corpse; he was able to destroy Xue Yang’s control and restore Zichen’s consciousness.”

Xiao Xingchen still shakes in his grasp. “That does not excuse what I have done to the innocent people in this city.”

“No,” Lan Xichen agrees, thinking of the Dafan Wen and the He Clan he helped eradicate. His sword may have needed little blood wiped from it, but that did not make him innocent. As a sect leader, he carries the weight of every life taken under his command. “No, those people died and that is unerasable. I know that the knowledge of Xue Yang’s deceit will not bring you peace.”

With another tilt of his head, Xiao Xingchen appraises him. It is strange to feel watched by a blind man, but Lan Xichen is done hiding from his sins.

“Yes,” Xiao Xingchen breathes as the memories pass between them like a dance or a spar, two bodies and souls paralleling each other. “Yes, you know.”

Getting to his feet, Lan Xichen outstretches a hand. “Though I cannot promise that the guilt and grief will lessen, I can promise that there are people still waiting here for you. People who will help distribute the weight of it.” He has always worn his emotions more plainly than Wangji, and he makes no attempt to hide it now as he pleads, “Will you come?”

Xiao Xingchen hesitates, his hand hovering between his own chest and Lan Xichen’s palm. Finally, fearfully, their palms brush. Lan Xichen steadies Xiao Xingchen’s trembling hand with his own as he pulls him to his feet.

He smiles and gives the hand a squeeze.
…

Lan Xichen blinks, coming back to himself and his mortal body slowly. Exhaustion has soaked into his marrow, but he does not sway as he gets to his feet.

Though he no longer feels the goddess’s burning rage nor Xiao Xingchen’s helplessness, the sorrow is his own, and it remains. This temple and that man have suffered great tragedies that cannot be erased, but the world will go on, and Lan Xichen’s duty is to help shape the shards into something new.

The goddess is on her knees, not unlike the people who once prayed to her. Moonlight tears stream down her copper face, and Lan Xichen lowers and sheaths his sword.

Her eyes meet his, and understanding passes between them.

At his side, Song Zichen has gone still. It takes a moment for Lan Xichen to register the small, shuddering sound of a fierce corpse’s sobs.

When he turns, lips open around a question that will never be spoken, Lan Xichen understands.

Shuanghua is not in Zichen’s hands now.

Instead, the famous sword is held by a tall, slender man with bone-white hair. He runs careful fingers over the blade as he sheaths it and bows to the goddess. Swirling black designs lick up the length of his hems and sleeves, making a sharp contrast against the pristine white. He angles his head toward the sound of Zichen’s sobs, and Lan Xichen’s breath catches on a gasp.

A white ribbon covers the sunken space where this man’s eyes once were. “Xiao Xingchen,” he breathes, awed. He would recognize the man’s soul anywhere.

Zichen, too.

Song Zichen takes a step toward the man, eyes wide, outstretched hand trembling.

The goddess gasps, and their collective attention snaps back to her.

There is a living, breathing girl standing before her in simple green skirts. Even in profile, he recognizes the shape of her brow and the roundness of her nose. Lan Xichen feels a sob in his throat, and he cannot name the mix of joy and shock and fear when he realizes A-Qing is stepping closer to the goddess.

A-Qing stands in front of the deity, holding a dirty bundle in her arms. He can’t see her face clearly, but he knows her posture by now. She’s every bit as stubborn as Wangji and nearly as clever as Wuxian. She knows what she is doing, he just has to trust her to do it.

After a moment, Lan Xichen hears the soft, discontented cries of an infant.

“He survived,” A-Qing tells the goddess as she offers the wriggling bundle to the goddess. Lan Xichen startles at the sound of a voice he has never heard before. “Not everything was lost. You saved him; without you, he would be gone, too.”

Broad, copper fingers brush the infant’s face with infinite care as more tears drip down the goddess’s face.

The baby calms and settles into sleep. The goddess looks at him with all the love of a mother before gently giving him back to A-Qing.

When her hands are free, she signs, ‘Thank you.’ The tears on her face begin to slow as the baby cuddles closer to A-Qing in his sleep.

Xiao Xingchen places a hand on A-Qing’s shoulder and wears the same proud smile Wei Wuxian often gives to Lan Sizhui.

“He will live a good life. I promise you this,” A-Qing says, bowing to the goddess.

The candle flames throughout the temple fade from blazing blues to warm reds.

Lan Xichen stands and bows deeply.

“We cannot undo what has been done, but I swear to you that your people will be laid to rest. We will find the stolen children and see their needs taken care of.”

Xiao Xingchen bows, too. “I will ensure that the culprits will be served swift justice if any remain.”

Zichen comes to stand between them, bowing with his hands clasped respectfully around Fuxue.

She nods to them and then brushes the infant’s cheek once more, giving the snuffling child a small smile before she rises and returns to the dais where she once stood. When the last of her tears fade, she goes still, settling into repose.

Lan Xichen leaves an offering, placing fruits and incense from his qiankun bag on the charred remains of the wooden altar. “I will see your temple restored. Thank you for what you have given to us.”

It is only as they depart that he realizes that the wounds across his back are gone.

…

The moment they step outside the temple, A-Qing turns to Lan Xichen. Her skin is healthy and flushed, and she’s so alive that he cannot stop staring. “Zewu-Jun, could you please hold him for a minute?” She offers the bundled babe to him. Bewildered, he settles the tiny child in his arms just in time to watch A-Qing fling herself at Xiao Xingchen.

“Daozhang!”

Despite his lack of sight, Xiao Xingchen catches her with ease. He folds her into his arms, and they sink to their knees together, heedless of the soot-stained ground.

“A-Qing,” he murmurs into her hair. “My little fox. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

She sniffles against him, shaking her head and clinging tight enough to wrinkle his robes. “Don’t be. You didn’t know.”

“I wish I had left with you,” Xiao Xingchen whispers. “I shouldn’t have left you alone. I was selfish.”

A-Qing shakes her head, likely rubbing snot into the silk, but he only pats her head with an abiding affection and patience. “Don’t leave me ever again! Or else!”

Xiao Xingchen laughs, resting his cheek atop her head as they cling to each other. “I will not.”

Lan Xichen can feel the steady stream of tears on his own face.

When A-Qing pulls back, and when he’s wiped her tears with a careful sleeve, Xiao Xingchen rises, bringing her to her feet with him.

The smile on his face grows hesitant as he angles himself towards where Zichen stands.

“Zichen,” he whispers, softly. He raises a hand, falters, and stands there.

Zichen does not hesitate. He steps closer and takes Xiao Xingchen’s slender hand in his.

Xiao Xingchen laughs wetly, and his bandage grows wet as golden liquid trickles down his cheeks. “Is it really you?”

Zichen hums urgently and takes Xiao Xingchen’s hand, bringing it not to the characters carved on Fuxue’s blade, but instead to the planes of his face. The sunrise casts them both in warm shades of pink.

Like this, eyes open and soft, Zichen looks beautiful. He glows with an affection strong enough to make Lan Xichen’s knees quiver. Lan Xichen could never know him as the distant snow and cold frost– especially not after this.

Xiao Xingchen traces his fingers along Zichen’s strong jaw and defined cheekbones. He brushes the slope of his nose and the shape of his lips, and he sobs. “Zichen... I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I wouldn’t—“ More golden tears fall, and Zichen cries, too, as much as his undead body is capable of.

He brings his hands to Xiao Xingchen’s face and presses their foreheads together.

The gesture is intimate enough that Lan Xichen knows he should turn away and give them privacy. And yet his neck will not obey him.

Zichen’s thumbs stroke Xiao Xingchen’s cheeks before he takes the man’s wrists and guides Xiao Xingchen’s hands into place until his palms are up. He slowly, carefully traces the characters for words that Lan Xichen knows have rested in his heart for so long.

‘Not your fault. I am sorry.’

A-Qing narrates the apology. Xiao Xingchen sobs again, and Zichen wipes away his shimmering tears as they fold into each other’s arms.

Lan Xichen looks away as his heart grows heavy like an anchor.

He swallows the emotion and looks down at the baby in his arms. His emotions are second to his responsibilities, and this child was entrusted to them. The baby appears to be a few months old. Though he should be covered in burns, it seems that whatever has given A-Qing and Xiao Xingchen bodies once more has also healed the bleary-eyed babe as well as Lan Xichen’s back.

Still, they will have to make haste for the Cloud Recesses to ensure proper medical care for the child. A wetnurse will be needed, too.

The baby kicks a small foot, and Lan Xichen smiles, tucking it back into the blankets. It has been a long time since he held a baby this small.

Perhaps one day, he will be able to think about Jin Rusong without the ache in his soul, but not yet.

“This child is referred to as Yichen,” Xiao Xingchen says, stepping closer, and holding out a finger, which the bleary-eyed baby grabs and tries to gum at. “He was left at the temple a fortnight ago.”

“He’s pretty cute,” A-Qing says, poking the boy’s cheek. Yichen makes a noise of displeasure and shakes the finger he’s still holding.

Lan Xichen smiles, rocking him gently in his arms until he quiets. “The Gusu Lan Sect can provide for him.” He wonders if Wuxian and Wangji would choose to raise him. They are doing well with Sizhui and Yujin. Surely, if he brought home an orphan, the child would not be parentless for long.

His arms tighten around Yichen.

“Lan Xichen.” Xiao Xingchen takes a step back and bows, so low that Lan Xichen can’t help protesting verbally, even if the baby in his arms keeps him from pulling Xiao Xingchen up.

“Please, there is no need.”

“There is every need,” is the reply. “Though my memory of the years since my death are scattered, I must thank you for all you have done for me, for A-Qing, and for Zichen. You are an honorable man, Lan-Zongzhu. The world would benefit from more sect leaders like you.”

Lan Xichen does not laugh at the statement. Though it is painful, he accepts it. “I am not perfect, but I seek to better myself.”

Xiao Xingchen nods. “We are all capable of being deceived. It is how we choose to proceed in the aftermath that matters.”

Lan Xichen feels his lips twist in a weary smile. “Indeed.”

There is no scar on Xiao Xingchen’s neck, and for that he is immeasurably grateful.

He opens his mouth to suggest their next move, but Yichen starts to cry.

“He is hungry,” Xiao Xingchen says, with the same certainty someone might say that it was going to rain.

Lan Xichen bounces Yichen gently, but the cries only grow louder and more pitiful. “I must return to the Cloud Recesses to get him settled in the nursery. Will you be joining me?”

Zichen appears torn, but he shakes his head. ‘I will lay the people here to rest first.’

Lan Xichen relays this to Xiao Xingchen, who considers for a minute. “I will search for survivors, including those who set the fires.”

“I’m coming, too. No taking criminals home this time,” A-Qing huffs, crossing her arms.

Lan Xichen keeps his face locked in a soft, neutral smile. “Very well. Our goals are divided for now.”

Zichen steps closer. ‘We will return to you soon,’ he promises, as if able to read Lan Xichen’s mind.

“I anticipate it will take no more than two or three days’ time before we return to Gusu,” Xiao Xingchen confirms. “Our little one likely cannot wait that long for care, though.”

Lan Xichen agrees. “I will send any available disciples to aid in the burial and rebuilding efforts.” He carefully shifts Yichen enough to draw three flares from his sleeve. “Should you require aid, Gusu Lan will come.”

‘Thank you.’

“Thanks, Zewu-Jun,” A-Qing says, dividing the flares amongst them. “Tell Yujin she owes me a game of cards when I return!” She knocks her shoulder into his, and something relaxes in his core.

He laughs a little, even as he rocks the squalling babe. “I will. And I believe Xiao Xingchen has a rabbit to name upon his return.”

Xiao Xingchen laughs heartily. “Yes, I seem to recall something of the sort.”

He secures the wailing child in his robes, tying the cloth to form a secure sling, which he steadies with his left hand. He hums softly and bounces the baby until Yichen’s hungry wails quiet to pitiful whimpers.

He mounts Shuoyue, still feeling as if he is leaving part of himself behind. But this is a beginning, he tells himself, not an end. He will see them again soon.

He silences his heart and focuses on his duty. He must get Yichen fed; he must send his people here and fulfill their promises to the goddess.

With the wind at his back, he makes it back to the Cloud Recesses just before mid-morning.

After an unsatisfying and tearful nap, Yichen has grown louder in his yowling, so Lan Xichen ignores the rules about courtesy and lands right in the courtyard adjacent to the nursery.

One of the minders is drinking tea, and he startles, nearly dropping his cup when Lan Xichen lands in a flurry of robes.

“Zewu-Jun,” the man says as he promptly rises and bows.

Lan Xichen shifts his robes, revealing the red-faced, writhing little boy. “He needs to be fed and changed. I will bring a healer.”

Reluctantly, he passes the squirming child over to Lan Yong and strides purposefully toward the medical pavilion.

When he returns minutes later with Lan-Daifu, Yichen is in fresh clothes, and he nurses from a clay bottle. His deep, warm brown eyes find Lan Xichen’s, and he kicks a little foot, as if in acknowledgment. Lan Xichen tickles it gently, smiling.

After he’s finished feeding, Lan-Daifu pronounces the boy to be about five months and healthy, though underweight.

“He’ll need to feed more often. I’ll draft a schedule for the nursery.”

“Thank you.”

Shortly after she departs, there is a knock at the door. He turns, finding Sizhui and Yujin.

“Come in.”

“Bofu, we heard you brought home a baby!” Yujin exclaims, her voice not quite quiet enough for the now-sleeping child.

“It did,” he says, whispering. “Would you like to meet him? You’ll have to be quiet, though. He’s napping.”

She nods, and Lan Xichen lifts her onto his hip so she can see where Yichen sleeps on his back in the crib.

Her eyes go wide. “Wow!” she exclaims in hushed excitement. “He’s so tiny!”

Sizhui steps closer, and he smiles down at the sleeping infant. “He is very cute. Will he be staying?”

Lan Xichen nods. “Accommodations will be made, but, yes, he will be raised as a Lan.”

Sizhui watches him for a moment. There’s a clear question in his eyes, but Lan Xichen is thankful he does not yet ask it.

“I love him,” Yujin declares. “Do you think he’ll like the bunnies?”

Lan Xichen strokes her head. “When he is old enough to play with them, I’m sure he will.”

Yujin considers this and nods severely. “The bunnies will like him, too.” There is no room for leeway in her declaration. Lan Xichen can’t help smiling and pressing a kiss to her sun-warmed hair.

…

Shortly before nightfall, Lan Xichen finds himself making haste toward the medical pavilions once more.

“How is he?” he asks the moment he spots Wangji.

“I’m fine,” Wuxian calls, sounding petulant.

“He is bleeding from the seven apertures,” Wangji says, more annoyed than worried. Lan Xichen breathes a sigh of relief.

“A qi deviation?”

“Mn.”

“Just a small one,” Wuxian insists as one of the medical assistants wipes the blood from his ears. “Ghost cultivation is a little different when you actually have a golden core,” he says with a laugh.

Lan Xichen gives him a scolding frown, but Wuxian ignores it.

“So I hear we have a new guest.”

“Yes. An infant was rescued this morning in Yueling. He has no relatives, so the Lan Clan will be adopting him .”

Wuxian’s eyes crinkle with a humor that he knows will be at his expense. “We leave you alone for a weekend and you come back with a baby? What does Song Lan think of this?”

Lan Xichen feels his ears burn, but he doesn’t flinch. “I am not sure why his thoughts on the matter are necessary.”

Wuxian’s smirk doesn’t believe him.

Before his troublesome brother-in-law can ask more invasive questions, Lan Xichen turns back to his brother. “Was your night hunt otherwise successful?”

“Yes. Wei Ying resolved the matter.”

“Aiyah, we both did.” Wuxian settles into his mound of pillows, and his eyes glint like steel. “Turns out the Jin Sect did some experiments in the remains of my cave, and when they stopped monitoring the experiments, things began to…let’s say fester. But we resolved it easily enough. Lan Zhan had things well in hand.”

Wangji gives his husband a stern look. “Wei Ying did the majority of the work. I merely guarded him.”

Wuxian huffs, but he doesn’t try to refute the praise again as, moments later, Yujin comes running into the medical pavilion with a worried look on her round, little face.

“No running,” Sizhui scolds, a few steps behind his sister.

She freezes and gives apologetic bows to Xichen and Lan-Daifu before running again to close the last few steps separating her from her fathers.

“Baba! Are you okay? You’re bleeding!”

“Just a little bit. I’m okay, Jin-er. Promise.” Wei Wuxian’s mirth softens as he looks at his children.

Yujin’s eyes narrow at him, and she turns to Wangji for confirmation despite Wuxian’s indignation.

“Your father is okay,” Wangji confirms. “He merely needs rest now.”

She huffs and climbs into the bed beside Wuxian. “I’m mad at you,” she declares, crossing her arms.

“Oh noooo!” Wuxian wraps his arms around her shoulders. “How will I ever survive if my Jinjin is mad at me? I need snuggles to get better!”

“Liar.”

“Nope. It’s true,” Wuxian tells her. “Just ask Diedie if you don’t believe me again.”

Wangji doesn’t roll his eyes, but his left eye twitches in amused exasperation. “It is true that your father recovers sooner when given affection.”

Lan Xichen feels his cheeks burn as he quickly turns away with a cough. “I am relieved to see that you are well, Wuxian. I must bid you goodnight.”

When he nods, Yujin is already snuggled in Wuxian’s arms. She’s pouting in a way that foretells a conversation about her time in the orphanage and on the streets, and he knows that Wuxian sees it, too.

Outside, the birds are calling their goodnights, and the cool air smells like a night rain.

Lan Xichen considers returning to the Hanshi, but his feet direct him back to the nursery.

Su Xiang, who has run the nursery since Wangji was equally small, gives him a knowing smile when he asks after Yichen.

“He was just about to have a bottle. Would Zewu-Jun like to feed him?”

A few minutes later, Lan Xichen sits at a low table, holding Yichen in the crook of one arm as he steadies the little clay bottle with the other. It has been more than ten years, but his muscles remember things his heart sometimes wishes he did not.

Yichen looks nothing like Rusong, though. Yichen has a wide nose and soft cheeks. His skin is pleasantly warm and slightly sticky when he wraps a tiny hand around Lan Xichen’s smallest finger.

“Hello, little one.”

He remembers when Rusong was this little. He recalls rocking him through a fit of colic when A-Yao had brought him to Gusu for a few days one summer.

Though he and A-Yao could never have married once he joined the Jin, Lan Xichen had always privately regarded Rusong as his lover’s child more than a sworn nephew. His foolish heart had dreamt of a world where that little one could have been theirs.

Lan Xichen has had time to grieve. Has had time to lay that ghost to rest. He refocuses on the present.

Yichen whines, and his gaze snaps back to the squirming baby. Yichen has thick, little brows that are bent in a serious scowl that reminds Xichen of his brother’s infancy.

He bounces the little boy until he settles and resumes nursing from the bottle. Then, he runs a fingertip over a soft cheek, gratified when the baby’s brows soften a little.

“What troubles you, young master?” He remembers Qin Su talking to Rusong and Jin Ling like this, long before they were old enough to reply.

Around his bottle, Yichen grumbles, his dark eyes growing heavy.

When he stops suckling, Lan Xichen takes a rag from the nearby cradle and gently pats the baby’s back until he burps and settles.

Su Xiang smiles when Lan Xichen carefully deposits the sleeping child on his back some minutes later. There is a knowing curve tucked into her expression, but Lan Xichen is not ready to face it head-on.

He returns to the Hanshi and stares at the mural on his wall for a long time.

There are many families in the Cloud Recesses who would be willing to care for the child. He knows Wangji and Wuxian would happily take him in, should he want the child close.

And yet…

He huffs out a breath and places his thoughts on hold. There is no need to make such decisions tonight. He draws himself to his feet and prepares for bed.

It both has and has not been easy for him to return to his seclusion-broken routines. He washes, slowly and carefully, and then takes his time combing his hair. It is soothing, and he regrets having denied himself such care for so long.

He wonders if Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen have reunited now that the junior disciples are helping in Yueling. He wonders if A-Qing has eaten yet tonight. Even as a spirit, she enjoyed food. He hopes she is well-fed. He didn’t think, in his haste to get Yichen to the healers, to leave supplies with her.

He wonders when the three of them will return to the Cloud Recesses.

As he lies in bed, he lets his mind wander to the rustling susurrus of the trees until sleep claims him.

…

The next morning, Yujin and Wangji join him at the nursery. Wangji carefully instructs Yujin on how to hold the baby, bolstering her small arms with his own steady ones.

Yes, Lan Xichen thinks. Yichen would do well with Wangji and his husband.

And yet…

And yet, there is something small and selfish burning in his heart when he watches the way Yichen gums at his fingers when he plays with him.

When he was younger, Lan Xichen had resigned himself to taking a wife and providing heirs for his clan. Once his brother claimed Lan Yuan, he was relieved. Between Sizhui and Jingyi and Yujin, he’s never had to consider siring a child with a woman he could never love.

It was freeing to sidestep the expectations of marriage and fatherhood tied to his position.

But now, he looks at the small face of a sleeping orphan and he wonders.

…

It is late afternoon when the commotion starts.

Lan Xichen does not run, but he makes haste toward the front gates. The letter preceded them, but not by much. Lan Xichen knows that the raiders have been arrested and that the thirty rescued children are being settled into an orphanage that Gusu and Yunmeng both contribute to.

As they near the entrance, he hears juniors whispering in awe and shock. He tucks away the smile that threatens to split his face.

Wangji is in a meeting with the new head of the Moling Su Sect, so Wuxian is the one who walks beside him. His brother-in-law makes no attempts to hide his mirth.

Song Lan and A-Qing have long been in possession of entry tokens, but there is one more figure in their party now than there had been.

Wuxian comes to a halt, sucking in a small, surprised breath. “A-Qing…”

Lan Xichen discreetly squeezes his wrist as they cross the last few steps to greet their guests.

A-Qing grins, bracketed by her guardians. “We’re back, Xian-Ge.”

Wuxian laughs, stepping closer and ruffling her hair before folding her into his arms. “So you are!”

If his eyes shine more than usual, no one finds the need to comment on it.

Wuxian steps back, smiling at Zichen and then turning to drink in Xiao Xingchen’s presence. “Shishu,” he says, grinning.

Xiao Xingchen smiles gently, bowing first to Lan Xichen and then to Wuxian. “Greetings, Zewu-Jun. And greetings, Wei Wuxian, my shizhi.”

“Welcome to the Cloud Recesses,” Lan Xichen says, and the disciples at the gate lower the wards to let him pass.

As they begin making their way down the well-walked paths, Wuxian sidles up to Xiao Xingchen. “I love the white hair, by the way. Very dramatic.”

Xiao Xingchen chuckles, touching a strand of his own hair. “It’s white now?”

…

They go to the nursery first to check on Yichen.

The moment Xiao Xingchen enters the room, the baby’s eyes find him. Lan Xiuying, who has been kindly nursing him along with Shuilan, is promptly forgotten. She continues burping him until he lets out a disgruntled puff of air.

“Zewu-Jun,” she greets.

Yichen squirms, angling toward Xiao Xingchen and reaching his tiny fingers toward him.

“May I?” Xiao Xingchen asks.

“Of course.” Lan Xiuying shifts the baby into his arms and shows him how to support Yichen’s wiggly weight.

“He is quite small,” Xiao Xingchen admits, sounding both awed and afraid.

“He is,” Lan Xichen agrees, watching them. His heart feels as warm as the summer sun and just as likely to get him burnt.

A-Qing coos, tickling Yichen’s toes, earning a small, perplexed frown. “Are you keeping him, Zewu-Jun?”

“I am,” he says. The decision was already made, and he sees it in Wuxian’s smiling eyes and A-Qing’s decisive nod.

“Good. He deserves the best.”

Zichen places a hand on his arm and gives a light squeeze as he, too, smiles down at the drowsing little boy.

…

The next week is busy.

Lan Xichen learns how to change a diaper, reads five books on parenting practices from various scholars, gives up on that and spends an afternoon in Caiyi speaking to the mothers tending their stalls. He makes sure to buy wares from each of them in thanks for their time and insight.

In between learning how to care for a child, he still attends to all of his usual paperwork and correspondence, so he does not manage to see much of his guests outside of meals.

Yichen will be moved from the nursery to his home soon, and he spends an afternoon discussing furniture for the child with a craftsman.

When he returns to the Hanshi, Wuxian is sitting at his desk wearing a contemplative frown. Somehow, Lan Xichen doubts this conversation will be about the efforts to rebuild the temple.

Lan Xichen is not even surprised to find his brother-in-law in his home. Wuxian is rather like water; the more you fight the tide, the more likely you are to be swept away.

Pushing a steaming cup of tea across the table, Wuxian watches him with those too-sharp eyes. When Lan Xichen brings the tea to his lips, Wuxian says, “You need to tell Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen of your affections.”

Lan Xichen chokes, coughing into his cup. As he wheezes, he supposes this is retribution. He had not spared Wuxian’s feelings in the courtyard at Guanyin Temple. Why should he expect more courtesy?

“My affections are unimportant in the matter,” he replies, dabbing at his lips with a cloth.

Wuxian does not look impressed. He arches one brow. “I beg to differ. You and Song Lan clearly share a regard for each other, and I have seen how you watch Xiao Xingchen, especially with the baby.”

“Their connection is deeper with each other than mine is to either of them.”

“And it will never get deeper if you sever it by letting them leave!” Wuxian snaps.

“Leave? So soon?” The floor beneath him suddenly feels far away, floating, crumbling.

Wuxian’s ire softens and turns to sympathy. “They don’t live here, Xichen-ge. They were wanderers before. They are wanderers now.”

“Yet more reason not to tie them down with my feelings,” he replies, forcing the words from his mouth. “It is for the best.” He thinks of Zichen’ soft touches, thinks of A-Qing’s curious mind and deft hand, and thinks of Xiao Xingchen’s infectious, sunlight smiles. The time they already spend with him has to be enough. “They do not need me.”

Wuxian sighs, knocking back his tea like liquor. When he leans forward on the small table, his voice is gentle, the way he speaks to little ones. “Xichen-ge, it is enough to be wanted. Lan Zhan doesn’t need me.”

Lan Xichen opens his mouth to protest, but Wuxian forestalls him.

“He loves me and is happier with me, but he does not need me. He had a fulfilling life long before I returned. Song Lan does not need Xiao Xingchen. He wanted to help him, wanted his soul to have peace.” Wuxian is very talented at smiling in a way that makes Lan Xichen feel like one or both of them should be crying. “You are wanted. You are loved, whether you tell them or not. But I think you should tell them. I think they would be happy to have a home to return to.” His smile widens into something brighter as he looks through the window toward the Jingshi. “I was.”

Lan Xichen feels a burning sensation behind his eyes, and he swallows hard. “I will consider your words.”

..

He does meditate on Wuxian’s advice, but he does not reach a decision before Zichen and Xiao Xingchen announce their intentions to travel.

Lan Xichen, who has a sect to lead and a baby to care for, cannot leave with them and cannot ask them to tie themselves to him in this way. Maybe someday, but not now.

The night before he is set to depart with A-Qing and Xiao Xingchen, Zichen finds him in the Hanshi, rearranging one of the smaller rooms to fit Yichen’s crib and necessities.

‘May I assist?’

They both know that Lan Xichen can easily carry the weight on his own. They also know that the weight is not why Zichen offers.

“Yes, thank you.”

They work in companionable silence, putting the crib near the window and then carefully folding and stowing the many tiny garments purchased and gifted. Yichen will, if all goes well, want for very little in life.

Zichen stands beside the changing mat, running a careful finger over the small plush rabbit Wuxian made for the baby. He knows now that Wuxian had made the faded tiger that Sizhui arrived with when he was small and feverish.

‘You will be a wonderful father.’

Lan Xichen blinks hard and glances toward the window. Though he raised Sizhui when his brother was in recovery, an infant is so small and malleable compared to the vivid personalities toddlers can barely contain in their tiny bodies. “I hope so.”

Zichen steps closer until their feet are like black and white mirrors. He tilts Lan Xichen’s chin up with a gentle finger so their eyes meet. ‘I know so.’

The next morning, with Yichen in his arms, he bids their visitors goodbye.

Wei Wuxian and A-Qing stand to one side, whispering to each other. It is rude, but Shufu has long since given in to their antics and no one else will dare call them on it.

Xiao Xingchen bows, and Lan Xichen cannot help admiring how right the entry token looks hanging from his belt. The carved jade cloud is subtle against his white robes, but it will tell the cultivation world whose protection Xiao Xingchen has.

That is all Lan Xichen can ask for.

“Thank you for your gracious hospitality,” Xiao Xingchen says.

“It is yours whenever you wish it,” Lan Xichen tells him earnestly.

Xiao Xingchen’s smile feels warmer than the fading summer sun. “Our paths will cross again, Zewu-Jun.”

“Please, call me Xichen. It is what Zichen calls me.”

Xiao Xingchen’s brows raise, but then his smile softens. “Very well, Xichen.”

“Can I call you Xichen-Ge, then?” A-Qing asks, sidling up to him.

He and Xiao Xingchen laugh. “If it pleases you, that would make me quite happy.”

Her pale eyes sparkle like sunlight off a river, wild and blinding and beautiful.

Zichen is the last to linger, passing an envelope to him as he bids the baby goodbye.

“You’ll return?”

He smiles, small, but present, and Lan Xichen loses his breath. ‘Always.’

…

Summer begins to wilt into autumn, and Lan Xichen settles into his role as a father and a sect leader in earnest.

Leading up to a discussion conference, he, Wangji, and Wuxian bring Yichen and Yujin to meet their Nie-Shushu.

In Qinghe, Huaisang spoils the children rotten, though Yujin steals the show. As she is almost seven now, she makes for a better conversationalist than the teething, very discontent baby.

Lan Xichen, Huaisang, and Wuxian spend an afternoon entertaining Yujin by drawing the characters and settings in her outlandish, delightful stories. Even Wangji is visibly delighted by the story of the castle-sized jade rabbit who was jealous of Tiangou and decided to take a bite of the stars instead.

At the conference, Jiang Wanyin claps him on the shoulder in welcome. “I hope you missed the sound of Yao-Zongzhu’s voice because we’re going to be hearing a lot of it tomorrow.”

Lan Xichen’s face must do something because Jiang Wanyin laughs and pats his arm before moving on to yell at his brother for withholding his beloved niece.

Yao-Zongzhu is as insufferable as usual, but Lan Xichen’s headache vanishes the moment he lays eyes on two unexpected guests.

In their first lives, Zichen and Xingchen declined to attend discussion conferences. They had no interest in worldly affairs. Something about that seems to have changed as the pair walk into the smoky gray hall with their chins raised and their steps measured.

The assembled cultivators reach for their swords as two names fall from every pair of lips.

On his throne, Nie Huaisang hides his grin behind a fan painted with three Mandarin ducks. Lan Xichen cannot look away from the new arrivals long enough to notice.

Huaisang stands and bows to the two wandering heroes. “Song-Daozhang and Xiao-Daozhang, I welcome you to the Unclean Realms.”

With the show of hospitality, the gathered cultivators grumble and sheath their weapons.

The rest of the conference goes smoothly, especially after Wuxian starts spinning Chenqing whenever a minor sect leader gets too close to insulting their undead friends.

When the proceedings conclude for the day, Lan Xichen is unsurprised to find A-Qing waiting in his quarters.

She holds up her charcoal stick and bamboo paper. “You owe me some lessons, Xichen-Ge.”

“Yes, A-Qing,” he says, smiling. “I believe I do.”

So, while Xingchen and Zichen mind the baby, he shows her how to draw subjects to scale using the charcoal to measure.

When he looks up and sees Xingchen humming a lullaby to a fussing Yichen, his heart flutters. Still, this is only one night. He cannot ask for more than they are willing to give.

…

One morning, when winter is not far off, Lan Xichen is hosting Zichen and Xingchen. Over time, Xingchen’s grasp of sign language has grown. He and Zichen can now communicate basic sentences and common night hunting phrases. Zichen presses his hand to Xingchen’s palm and signs against his skin.

At times, Zichen will then help Xingchen draw the character to explain. Sometimes, A-Qing or Wuxian translate verbally. Sometimes it is Lan Xichen.

Today is one such morning.

‘Dawn.’

“Dawn or sunrise,” he tells Xingchen, who copies the motion and repeats the word aloud.

‘Morning.’

“Morning,” he echoes.

‘Sunlight.”

He narrows his eyes at Zichen but translates anyway. The words are very close to his courtesy name and Xingchen’s, but not quite enough to mean anything.

‘I love you,’ Zichen signs against Xingchen’s palm.

Lan Xichen startles, blinking at Zichen.

Xingchen tilts his head innocently. “What was that?”

Zichen holds Xichen’s gaze and signs the words once more.

“I love you,” Lan Xichen says, and then clears his throat. “That is what those signs mean.”

Xingchen’s cheeks flush, and he smiles. He mimics the signs, and Zichen corrects his form with infinite patience. Lan Xichen’s heart swells with an overwhelming, aching fondness. He presses his metaphorical fingers into it, just to feel the bruise.

“I love you, too,” Xingchen whispers.

Xingchen and Zichen are a good pair. They match each other in the way few couples can. One to imagine and one to carry out. One for stability and one for flexibility. Two halves forming one whole. Zhiji. The one who will best know the other.

He loves them too much to feel envy as they smile, faces close, but not quite touching.

Yichen starts crying, so Lan Xichen stands and automatically makes his way to the smaller room that Zichen helped him with. It has the added benefit of offering privacy to the pair.

His baby is standing on the tiny mattress in the crib. His little face is wet with tears as he looks balefully up at Lan Xichen. Yichen is standing now, though only with the help of the fists he has clenched around the railing.

“Hello, a-bao,” Lan Xichen says, softly scooping up his son. “Did you have a pleasant nap?”

Yichen has started to get more and more talkative. Soon those babbled syllables will become words. He’s only had the little boy for a few months, but some part of him feels like this is always what he was meant to do.

After changing and feeding the now-smiling child, he finds A-Qing has joined her guardians in his sitting area.

She quickly breaks off her hushed conversation with them and turns, beaming up at Lan Xichen. “Can I take Chenchen to the rabbit meadow?”

Lan Xichen considers for a moment and then holds Yichen out when he stretches a plump little hand toward A-Qing. “Very well. Yujin will want to go, too, so bring Sizhui or Jingyi to help supervise.”

She scowls for a second before settling Yichen on her hip and acquiescing. She gives Zichen a meaningful look before she departs, though Lan Xichen cannot imagine what she wishes to impart.

Xiao Xingchen laughs, sounding fond and a little bit exasperated. “She is quite forceful in her opinions, is she not?”

“She is indeed rather headstrong. I find it endearing, though I suspect the opinion is not universal,” Lan Xichen comments dryly.

Xingchen bursts into giggles, and Lan Xichen marvels at the sweet stardust sound of it.

He sees his fondness echoed in Zichen’s eyes, and in that moment, he knows that he does not need his love to be returned in equal measure. This joy and this companionship are plenty for him.

His companions do not agree.

Xingchen reaches across the table until his fingers brush Lan Xichen’s. He blinks down at their intertwined hands and then looks back up at the warm, bright planes of Xingchen’s face.

Despite the white hair and lingering glow, he looks so human. The world has been cruel to them both, and that knowledge has been woven into every fiber of Xingchen’s being. However, as his sword-calloused hand traces the matching marks on Lan Xichen’s hand, they put aside their guilt and their grief.

Whether or not they believe their second chances were deserved, they have them.

Xingchen turns Lan Xichen’s hand over so it lies palm-up on the table. There, he shapes the familiar words once more, no hesitation in his hands now.

Lan Xichen gasps, his eyes darting to Zichen. There is a softness about Zichen’s face as he kneels beside Xiao Xingchen and signs the same words.

All at once, he is drawn back to the first day when his eyes met Zichen’s across the bursting pink garden. Now, his heart feels like it, too, may burst.

“You both love me?”

“We do,” Xingchen tells him, squeezing his hand.

‘Very much,’ Zichen adds.

“We have been planning how to tell you.”

‘A-Qing has had many opinions on the matter, too.’

Lan Xichen laughs, perhaps a little wetly. Though the winds are tilting toward winter, all he feels under their combined regard is a warm, gentle breeze. He takes one of their hands in each of his and squeezes. “The feeling is reciprocated. Wholeheartedly.”

Zichen brings their joined hands to his lips and places a chaste kiss on the back of Lan Xichen’s hand. He grins helplessly and returns the gesture. Together, they bring Xingchen’s hands to their lips and repeat the motion.

Xingchen’s smile is wide and crooked, perfectly imperfect. Someday soon, Lan Xichen will kiss that smile. For now, he simply marvels at it.

Later, when the morning sun has burnt away the last of the fog, he and Xingchen sit on either side of Zichen. Behind Zichen’s back, Xingchen offers a quick suggestion against his hand, one which makes Lan Xichen’s ears warm.

Nevertheless, when Xingchen leans forward, Lan Xichen mirrors him, and each of them press a soft kiss to Zichen’s cold cheek.

Zichen startles, trapped between them, and then his chest shakes with a quiet rumble of something like laughter.

Xingchen, who laughs freely and easily, soon breaks into giggles, and Lan Xichen isn’t far behind. Zichen leans into him, chuckling quietly against his neck. Lan Xichen brings a hand up to the arm wrapped around him. He can hardly believe that this is his.

He reaches over and tugs Xingchen’s sleeve until the three of them are sitting together, laughing helplessly.

Their three shadows become one imperfect, lumpy blot stretched across the wooden floor; Lan Xichen has never seen anything so wonderful.