Work Text:
White stains the rotten black soil of Burial Mounds.
Resentful beings alike turn their souls toward this white. He is not the red, fluttering ribbon they remember. No, he glares at them with a golden fierceness that forces them back into the deep shadows.
They wonder what he is mourning.
The pure white figure stumbles on, though he leaves a trail of red in his wake. Red strikes fear. They cower. But this creature, while powerful, does not seek to use their rage. He radiates distaste towards them but is not set on their eradication. Instead, his eyes catch on every piece of faded red fabric, every sleeve ordained with flames, each stalk of blackened bamboo. He turns over long-dead bodies and dilapidated skeletons. Not a familiar shape escapes his frantic frenzy.
The spirits of Burial Mounds watch as his white, blue, fluttering robes turn a dark shade of red at the back and black at the hem. His peculiar white headband long ago turned crimson alongside his robes.
It doesn’t wave in the breeze anymore.
Lan Wangji went into the Burial Mounds pure as snow. Now he leaves corrupted, with a small figure in his arms. Hot as coal, the boy sniffles and leans into his chest, gripping his collar. His little, dirty hands leave dark marks on his robes. Regardless, Wangji pulls him in. His hands, too, are dirty.
With every step pain shoots up his spine, into his head, causing his hands to shake. And with every second his fingers and ears turn a shade pinker. His nose burns with the bite of the air. He left his coat on the battlefield. But he came to look for it, no?
When did the world get so cold?
He remembers a time when winter could never reach him, so long as he was covered with the thought of pale, gray eyes filled with mirth. The twitch of a smile, the crinkle of those eyes. Lan Wangji bites his lip and treks on towards Yiling. The boy is growing warmer by the minute.
Yiling is a bustling town. Despite recent events, vendors still call out to civilians, restaurants keep their doors open, and brothel lanterns stay lit. Therefore, it doesn’t take but a few moments for Lan Wangji to be noticed. Red pulls their attention more than anything.
He hears the concerned voices of kind people. Others are critical. Because, why would such a bedraggled man limp down the street with such vigor, with a child in his arms? The few who notice his sheathed sword and jade token fail to voice it. Cultivators never brought them any good.
The pharmacy is an easy find, just a few blocks from where Wangji entered. The threshold is low, permitting his entry without breaking his stride. The pharmacist startles as if he’s seen a ghost.
“Young master…” He fidgets with the brush at his fingertips, “Can I help you?”
“Mm,” He gestures toward the boy, who shuffles as if he knows he’s being watched.
The pharmacist reaches out to place a hand on the boy’s forehead, “Oh dear. One moment and I’ll find something for you.”
Lan Wangji gazes down at the boy as the pharmacist walks off. As he raises a shaky hand to sweep his hair from his little face, Wangji notices something tied to his wrist. A long red ribbon, the tails tucked into his sleeve. He slips it through his fingers, grasping the ends in a tight fist. With a clenched jaw, he examines the frayed edges and smudges of soot. This small piece of fabric once danced in his mind so clearly. Through naivety and sorrow, nostalgia and desperation.
He would never see it dance again.
Untying, folding, and slipping the ribbon into his collar takes but a few moments. Just as he looks up, the pharmacist returns, a small pouch in tow.
“This should reduce his fever,” he places the pouch on the counter, pity in his voice.
“Mm. Thank you.” Wangji reaches into his sleeve and procures a small bag, which he retrieves a few large coins from.
After setting them on the counter, he places the pouch into his sleeve alongside the small bag. Wangji bows and begins to take his leave.
The pharmacist calls, “Young master…”
He pauses.
“Take these bandages. You’re severely injured.”
Wangji shakes his head, “No need.”
“Please, I insist,” He thrusts the roll of bandages towards Lan Wangji.
Releasing a small sigh, Wangji nods and takes the bandages, bowing again. This time, he turns and steps over the threshold again into the streets of Yiling. Walking just a few strides and turning into an alley, he stops and kneels on the cold, wet ground. He takes off his outer robe and wraps it around the boy before placing him on the floor, leaning against the wall. Wangji reaches into his sleeve for the medicine pouch, which he opens to find a blend of herbs. Procuring a handkerchief and spreading it onto the ground, he shakes some herbs onto the handkerchief. He folds the handkerchief and crushes the herbs into a rough powder that he pours into the boy’s mouth and forces him to swallow. From a qiankun pouch, he retrieves a flask that he pours water from to swallow.
Once he is sure the boy hasn’t choked, he scoops him back into his arms and begins making his way out of Yiling. The onlookers from before take a glance at them again. They’re too distracted by his bizarre appearance to notice the little red suns adorning the boy’s robes.
If they had would they try to take him too?
Wangji clutches him tighter.
The exit of Yiling isn’t far. As soon as he leaves the boundaries of the city, he steps onto Bichen and ascends into the sky. The air bites even harder here. Once, he wonders what would happen if he simply stepped off his thin blade.
Would he see that crimson ribbon dance again?
Despite everything, there is no denying he is in severe pain. With every twitch his back flames. Each movement causes his teeth to clench. Not only does the boy need stable ground, but so does he. Wangji feels his spiritual energy slipping. In only a few short hours he will find himself unable to fly. Now, he’s growing dizzy, and Gusu is still an hour's flight away. With not much choice, Lan Wangji increases his speed towards the Cloud Recesses.
The wind blows hard in his face. Tears well in his eyes. A frost grows over him. A realization. What once was, lives on in this boy. He, too, will grow into a strong cultivator. He will attend Gusu lectures and copy rules until he cannot forget them anymore. He’ll do handstands and train sword forms as they did. And Lan Wangji will protect him. Because after all, he is all that remains of that twinkling eye.
The flight straight up to the entrance of the Cloud Recesses is nothing. It is when he steps off of Bichen that the world begins to spin. Overcome with nausea, he has to close his eyes for a moment until everything is in balance again. The balance never comes, but he finds the nausea subsiding with each shallow breath.
“Wangji!”
He looks up to find the familiar eyes of his brother, filled with worry.
Lan Wangji stares blankly as Lan Xichen hovers in front of him, hand outstretched as if unsure if he should touch him. After a few moments, Lan Xichen retracts his hand and meets his eyes. He opens his mouth only to close it again.
“Wangji…Who’s this?” Lan Xichen gestures towards the boy.
“Wen...Yuan,” Wangji pulls Wen Yuan into his chest, cradling the back of his head.
Lan Xichen gives a sorrowful smile, “You found him?”
“Mm. In the burial mounds,” The corners of his mouth turn in a small frown.
“Ah,” He turns Liebing in his palms, “He is healthy?”
“No. Runs a fever. Treatment is needed.”
Lan Xichen nods, “The Head Physician is already on his way.”
Wangji downcasts his gaze, “Shufu is well?”
“Indeed.”
Nodding softly, he once more turns his attention to Wen Yuan. His small hands still grip his collar. Gently prying them away is a task that comes easier than it should–to all, he does not waver as he entrusts what remains to the newly arrived physician. To all but Lan Xichen.
No. Lan Xichen sees how the tips of his fingers curl, how the red adorning his back bleeds with his heart. He sees the twitch of an eyebrow, the way his palms linger just a bit too long in their grip. He feels the pain, the anger; hatred, pouring off of him in waves. His dear brother, his righteous, “go wherever the chaos is,” Wangji. Had it been anyone else, Lan Wangji would have bit his lip and downed his pain in secret. But because it was that one–that once charming boy. The boy who always brought a smile, a twinkle of an eye crinkled at its corners, a voice tinted with glee so insistent on pulling Wangji’s ears. Because it was him, Lan Wangji sacrificed everything. Lan Xichen would almost hate him for it.
But Lan Wangji would hate him more than Lan Xichen could ever hate that boy.
He remembers when that boy became a man. When he traded short, fitted, sleeves for long ones adorned with flames, when that long, boisterous ponytail became a loose spray of silky, black hair. When smiles turned into frowns. When cinnabar became crimson strokes of blood. When he traded a sword for a flute. When he chose justice over family. When he pushed Wangji away and rejected his help. When he called Wangji as, “Lan Wangji.”
Xichen sighs, and smiles at his brother, giving a short bow, “Wangji.”
“Xiongzhang.”
He says nothing as Wangji bows in a way appropriate for acquaintances. Xichen says nothing as he turns and makes his leave, subtly daring him to bring punishment upon him. And he says nothing as the scarlet stains creep down his side. He says nothing even as his face falls to a frown watching him go. And he definitely says nothing as he catches a flash of tattered ribbon around his wrist.
For 3 straight days and 3 straight nights, Lan Wangji plays. First, Inquiry, until the pads of his fingers bleed. He draws arrays and performs Evocation until his head screams to quit. When he’s sure no soul of his will respond, he plays the Song of Clarity, though he knows it has no effect. Rest finally rings through the air. His body, too, yearns to rest. But when his muscles threaten to fail, Lan Wangji catches a glimpse at his bookshelf. In it lies a rule book written by Lan Wangji years ago. With one weak movement, it’s made its way to his desk. Calmly wiping his fingers of fresh blood with a handkerchief, he flips through the book until he reaches a bright red circle. A correction.
Lan Wangji had written:
Nobody may touch one’s GusuLan’s headband unless they are their chosen person.
In bright red, Lan Qiren had circled the sentence, correcting it:
Nobody may touch one’s GusuLan’s headband unless they are their fate-chosen person.
This may be considered the only mistake Lan Wangji has ever made on any written assignment. The small distinction between “chosen person” and “fate-chosen person.” He takes on a bittersweet smile, tracing the phrase with a light touch. A pressed white peony compliments the garish red and blends it into just another color. Hot tears press at the peripherals of his vision. Lan Wangji shuts the book abruptly, places it back on the shelf, and returns to his guqin. But his eyes wander towards a particular floorboard. He finds his hands lifting it, and reaching for a familiar black jar with a red top.
The liquid inside tastes bitter.
The first good day after the Siege on Burial Mounds comes three years later. Lan Wangji sits in a field, running his fingers over a small wrinkle in the skirt of his robes. The field is laden with a colony of rabbits in all shades of white, black, and gray. Just a few feet away stands a young Lan Yuan. Nearly seven now, he shows no trouble following the GusuLan sect rules. Polite as an adult Lan Xichen, Lan Yuan is as gentle as a calm breeze. Even at a young age he carefully strokes the rabbits, paying close attention when they shy away from a spot. He quickly finds that they enjoy a scratch just below the ears, near the crook of their neck. Soon, Wen Yuan is surrounded by teams of them, all begging to be pet in this most superior way. His quiet giggles carry to Lan Wangji.
“Hanguang-Jun! Hanguang-Jun!” He calls as a rabbit jumps into his lap.
This causes Wangji to smile ever so slightly. “Sizhui.”
When he was asked in his seclusion to give the boy he brought to safety a courtesy name, it took only moments before he answered. Sizhui: to yearn for. He doesn’t know it, but Lan Sizhui yearns for a time when he was but a radish growing in a humble garden away from the world. What he yearns for Wangji will never admit.
The sun is soft. It sets a crisp warmth in the air to soothe the fresh bite of the morning. Pale eyes brighten in its light. Sunlight is only a shadow of that bright smile, but as it washes over him, something unravels in his cold heart. The brand over his chest, not quite healed, tickles just slightly. Because as he gazes at the sun he notices not what it is lacking, but what it brings.
Because, someday, when he reunites with Wei Ying in the heavens, he’ll feel this sun and watch it sparkle within those eyes, crinkled at their corners.