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The smell hits him before he sees it—the place he once called home, now reduced to nothing but ashes. It’s the acrid stench of burning flesh and charred wood, thick and suffocating. He gags, his body jerking back instinctively, and deep down he knows this smell will cling to him for the rest of his life. Forever feels like too vast a word for someone so young, but in this moment, he knows it’s the only one that fits.
Jiang Cheng tries to not think about the people, his people, and fails, because he thinks about the woman who always smiled and let him pet her dogs when he slipped out at night. The old man who would sit with him, spinning tales of a time long past. The children who followed him like shadows, their laughter ringing in his ears even when he scolded them to go away, which only managed to make them hug his legs tighter.
Were they still here, buried beneath the rubble? Did they run, or did they burn—slow and agonizing, their cries swallowed by the flames? Were they crushed under the weight of collapsing walls, or dragged away by the members of the Wen Clan, left to suffer in ways he can’t bear to imagine?
He walks through Lotus Pier as though wading through a nightmare. His feet move on their own, carrying him past the training grounds—now a field of ash and shattered wood. Past the lake, its surface once dotted with lotuses, now a barren pit. Past the remains of the building where he slept, ate, laughed, lived.
It isn’t until he stands in the hollowed-out skeleton of his room that the truth crashes over him.
It’s gone. Home is gone. All of it.
The mornings he woke to the sound of his mother’s voice scolding him about something trivial, the evenings spent sparring with Wei Wuxian, his sister’s face as she slept on the wood floor, the nights he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinkin of a future that will never come—gone.
The days he spent there will never come back.
His legs buckle, and he collapses to the ground, his body shaking as though the earth itself is tearing apart beneath him. The tears come without warning, scalding his cheeks, and he chokes on the sobs that rip through his chest, trying to gasp for air. Jiang Cheng claws at his robes, desperate to ease the suffocating weight pressing against his ribs, but it only grows heavier, sharper, until he can’t breathe.
Take it from me. Take it from me. Take this pain from me.
Seventeen. Too young to lose everything, too young to pretend it doesn’t hurt. Too old to cry like a child. And yet, as he thinks of his mother’s last hug—warm, safe, final—he does. He wishes he had gone with her. Wishes he had stayed. Wishes he had done anything but survive.
The sobs eventually quiet, leaving him hollow and raw, but somehow, the silence is worse.
He’s lost so much, more than he can repair. His home. His parents. His sense of safety. His future.
But not all of it. Not yet.
Jiang Cheng still has his jiejie. He still has Wei Wuxian. They’re all he has left.
Tilting his head back, his gaze finds the moon. It hangs in the sky, cold and distant, unchanged by the ruin below, as it always was and will always be. He finds a small comfort in that consistency.
It will be alright.
.
The image of his sister bleeding out is one he wishes he could carve out of his mind, but it’s etched there forever, sharp and unrelenting.
He was too late.
He drops to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as he gathers her lifeless body into his arms. Her face is still soft, still kind, even in death. Of course it is. She had always been the best of them—the strongest, the gentlest, the one who held them all together when everything else fell apart.
Her hand is cold when he takes it in his, but he holds it tightly, as if his grip could somehow bridge the gap between life and death. He squeezes, desperate to tell her he’s here, that he’s sorry, that he should have been faster, stronger, better. He was late, but he’s here now. She is not alone. Isn’t that enough?
It isn’t.
Was she scared? The question claws at him, relentlessly. He thinks of her as a child, standing in front of him with her arms outstretched, shielding him from whatever danger loomed. Her legs would shake, her voice would waver, but she never backed down. She always lied afterward, insisting she hadn’t been afraid, but he knew the truth. She had been terrified—for him.
Now, he holds her close, her body limp in his arms, and lets the tears fall. They come without restraint, hot and bitter, as the weight of her absence crashes over him. He hopes, with every shattered piece of himself, that she wasn’t scared. That, in her final moments, she felt peace. That she knew how much they loved her.
He truly hopes she wasn’t scared. Anything but that.
.
What is the greatest loss of them all?
Death?
Distance?
Or perhaps… forgetfulness?
When Jiang Cheng returns to Lotus Pier, rebuilt into a hollow imitation of what it once was, he sighs, drawing it long and heavy, because now he knows the answer. The greatest loss is not the crumbling of walls or the fading of memories. It is the crushing realization that, despite everything, he is utterly alone.
Hating Wei Wuxian comes surprisingly easy after that. It’s simpler to blame him, to pour all his grief and rage into that one familiar target, than to face the past which breaks his heart at night. Sometimes, he wonders if memories are something he has or something he lost long ago.
Burying himself in his duties as Sect Leader is easier still. He trains new recruits, oversees the reconstruction of buildings, and negotiates alliances with a ferocity that borders on desperation. He fights when he must, pleads when he has to. He hears the whispers—that he’s nothing but a dog now, scrabbling for scraps of power and respect. He tells himself it’s a price worth paying to rebuild what was taken from him.
He sleeps little and eats even less, drowning himself in paperwork until his vision blurs. When the work runs out, he creates more, anything to keep his mind from wandering into the past. He moves through the days like a ghost, present but never truly there, haunted by the reflections that stare back at him in every polished surface.
Months pass this way, a blur of exhaustion and avoidance, until one day, he hears it—a sound that cuts through the numbness like a knife.
Jin Ling.
He forgot.
How could he forget?
Panic surges through him, sharp and immediate, as he rushes toward the source of the cries. He finds his nephew in his room, wailing loudly, while the two women tasked with his care stand frozen, their faces pale with fear. They stammer apologies, promising it will never happen again, but Jiang Cheng barely hears them.
His shame is too loud, too overwhelming. How could he have let this happen? How could he have been so consumed by his own grief that he neglected the one person who still needs him?
He approaches the crib, his movements stiff and awkward, and reaches out to pat the child’s head. Jin Ling’s tiny hands grab onto his finger, holding it tightly, and the crying stops. The boy looks up at him with wide, trusting eyes, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Jiang Cheng feels something other than emptiness.
Jin Ling smiles wide and in that moment he is saved.
.
“ He’s growing up well,” her voice is soft, familiar, and Jiang Cheng turns to see her sitting beside him, her smile as gentle as he remembers. Jin Ling rests in her arms, his small face peaceful in sleep. She pokes his cheek lightly, her touch tender, and the boy frowns slightly but doesn’t wake. Her laughter follows, warm and bright, and for a moment, Jiang Cheng lets himself forget.
He forgets she’s gone.
Jiang Cheng missed her so much.
“He is,” he murmurs, his voice steady only because he forces it to be. “He said his first words today.”
Her eyes light up, sparkling with curiosity. “What did he say?”
“Jiujiu,” Jiang Cheng replies, a flicker of pride in his chest before it fades. In a kinder world, Jin Ling’s first words would have been A-Niang or Baba. Not this. Not him. He is only occupying a space that is not his to fill, purely out of the lack of options.
A light smack to the back of his head pulls him from his thoughts. His sister looks at him, her lips pursed in a playful pout. “Stop thinking such foolish things.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking?” He grumbles, though there’s no real bite to his words.
“I’m your sister, of course I know,” she says simply, as if that explains everything. Her attention shifts back to the child in her arms, her hands rocking him gently. “Besides, I’m glad he called for you first. It means you’ve become his safe place. You’re doing a good job, A-Cheng.”
Her words strike him like a blow, knocking the air from his lungs. He looks down at his hands, clenched tightly in his lap, and fights the sting in his eyes. “I can’t… I can’t care for him the way he deserves,” he admits, his voice breaking. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—it’s that he doesn’t know how. It was hard to accept how he didn’t want to treat his nephew the same way his parents treated him, because It just didn’t feel right. But their harshness is the only model he has. “A-Jie, he was supposed to have his parents. He was supposed to have you.”
Jin Ling was supposed to grow up with warmth and care. To know what his mother’s hugs felt like. To be able to roll his eyes at his father’s dramatics. To know their laugh and warmth. Jiang Cheng can’t offer any of that. He is no father. He is just a man trying to keep the empty of his eyes and pretend the fact he couldn’t build Lotus Pier exactly the same as it was does not bother him.
Jiang Yanli leans her head against his shoulder, her free arm wrapping around him. “He was. I didn’t want to leave so soon either,” she agrees softly. “But I’m glad he has you now. There’s no one I trust more to take care of him.”
He wants to argue with her, to tell her she’s wrong, that she shouldn’t have to trust him because he’s not worthy of it, not really. But the words won’t come. Instead, he closes his eyes and lets himself lean into her touch, just for a moment. Just long enough to remember what it felt like to be her little brother, to be someone she believed in so completely that it left no room for doubt.
They sit like that for a while, her head resting on his shoulder, Jin Ling nestled safely in her arms. The silence is comfortable and Jiang Cheng lets himself sink into it, savoring the moment. There is no one else he would rather be. Not a single place in the world, no matter how beautiful, would bring him more peace.
“Do you remember when you were little?” She asks suddenly, her voice light with amusement. “You used to follow me everywhere, so serious, always frowning like you carried the weight of the world. But whenever you saw me, your whole face would light up, as if I were the only one who could make things better.”
Jiang Cheng lets out a small, rueful smile thug at the corner of his lips. “You were.”
“You were that for me too, you know,” she admits quietly. “And now, you’re that for Jin Ling. You’re his light, A-Cheng. You’re the one who makes him feel safe. Don’t ever forget that.”
Her words are a balm and a blade, soothing and cutting all at once. “You’re doing better than you think. And you’re not alone, never. I’m always with you, A-Cheng. Always.”
He nods, his throat too tight to speak. Before he can say anything else, Jin Ling stirs in her arms, letting out a tiny, sleepy whine. Jiang Cheng watches as she soothes him with a soft hum and a gentle pat on his back. It’s a small, ordinary moment, but it’s one he’s longed for, one he’s missed more than he can bear.
Then he blinks, and the warmth of the dream fades.
The room is dark and the air, cold. Jiang Cheng sits up, his chest aching as reality crashes over him. It was a dream. It was a dream. Of course, it had been a dream. She wasn’t here anymore. She hadn’t been for a long time.
Taking shaky breaths, he rises on unsteady legs, the moonlight spilling through the door. Without thinking, he steps outside, the cool night air brushing against his skin. He sits cross-legged on the ground, his gaze lifting to the moon. It’s the same one he’s looked to since he was a child—when his mother’s scolding was too harsh, when his father’s disappointment was too obvious to hide. It was his silent companion, a constant in a world that felt anything but.
It was company, in a way. It was always there, when he woke up too early to train or when he left to the hunts at night. The moon doesn’t have its own light, he always thought. It reflects the sun’s brilliance, its beauty borrowed, its existence defined by something else. He used to think they were the same, the moon and him. Neither shining on their own, both existing in the shadow of something greater.
Now, as an adult, he still finds solace in its constancy. On nights like this, when sleep eludes him and the weight of his losses feels unbearable, he looks to the moon and pretends it understands.
It’s not the first time, of course. He is too often haunted by nightmares, but it is the first time he had a nice dream. Jiang Cheng doesn’t know which is worse—the nightmares of what happened, or the dreams of what could have been. Both leave him hollow, both leave him aching.
He sits there, alone under the moon, and wonders if this is how it will always be.
.
Jiang Cheng is a Sect Leader now. He is an uncle. He is the head of the Yunmeng Jiang Clan. He is the last one standing from his family line.
But sometimes, when he goes to sleep, he wakes up and is still seventeen.
He wakes to the sound of his sister’s laughter, bright and carefree, and they talk about nothing important. Her voice is warm, her smile effortless, and for a moment, he forgets. He forgets the blood, the fire, the emptiness that followed. He forgets she’s gone.
Other times, he opens his eyes to find himself in his father’s arms, cradled with a tenderness he doesn’t remember ever receiving. He only saw it directed at Wei Wuxian, and the memory still stings. So, he indulges himself. He buries his face in his father’s neck, holds on a little too tightly, and tries to memorize things he only can imagine.
Sometimes, he dreams of his mother. He’s lying with his head in her lap, her fingers brushing through his hair as she hums softly. There’s a warmth in her that he misses more than he can put into words. This was before the arguments, before the comparisons, before Wei Wuxian became everything he could never be. Before.
And then there are the dreams of Cloud Recesses. He’s in a classroom, the sunlight streaming through the windows, and Nie Huaisang is asleep beside him, his head resting on an open book. Jiang Cheng nudges him awake, trying to stifle a laugh. He misses those days—the simplicity. The shared complaints about homework, the secret plans to sneak out and escape the monotony.
They still talk now, but it’s different. Their conversations are laced with politics and guarded words, their laughter replaced by the weight of lives they never asked for. What a weird thought. He never knew he would have to go such lengths for a friend he once held close to his heart.
Sometimes, when he wakes up, he pretends.
He takes a bottle of alcohol and sits outside under the moon and pretends there are people who still want him around, who would listen to his good news and his bad. He imagines Wei Wuxian sitting beside him, teasing him relentlessly about how much he can’t hold his liquor. His sister would be there, though he realizes now he never saw her drink. He wonders what she would have been like, and piles those thoughts together with all the others he will never get to see (how she would have aged, how she would have taught Jin Ling to hold a sword, how–).
On the worst days, he’s content about how pretending is the only thing he has, because he has come to know life isn’t kind to people like him. If Wei Wuxian were here, he wouldn’t care about any of this. If his mother were here, she would find something to criticize, something to make him feel like he is less than he is. If his father were here, he wouldn’t say a thing, but his eyes would look at him like he wanted to see someone else, and that would hurt quite as much.
.
Jin Ling is thirteen the first time he joins Jiang Cheng outside.
They’d had a fight that morning—a nasty one. His stupid nephew had hit another boy, and when Jiang Cheng arrived, he found him seething, his face twisted with rage. He looked furious. He looked enraged. He looked–he looked like him. The resemblance was so uncanny that Jiang Cheng had to fight the urge to recoil, disgusted by the reflection of himself in the boy’s eyes.
And then, as he always did, Jiang Cheng lashed out and ended up saying one too many unkind things, because that’s the only thing he is good at, isn’t he? His words were aimed to cut deep, but they weren’t meant for Jin Ling. They were meant for the boy he used to be, for the father who never held him, for the mother who never stopped comparing him.
When Jin Ling stormed off, tears brimming in his eyes, Jiang Cheng locked himself in the training grounds. He hit the dummies until his knuckles split and bled, until his legs gave out and he collapsed, gasping for air. He hit until his mother’s voice in his head grew quiet, until his father’s disappointed gaze faded from his mind.
And then, exhausted and so impossibly worn out, he retreated to his room, sitting outside under the moon, trying not to think about how he’d become everything his parents always expected he would be.
A failure. Disappointment. No good. Not enough.
“I can hear your footsteps from miles away, you brat. Come here,” Jiang Cheng called out, his voice sharp but not unkind. He’d heard Jin Ling lingering outside the door, his steps heavy and uncertain. The boy had always been terrible at hiding. His footsteps were still too heavy and a clear giveaway of his whereabouts, they would need to work on that soon.
Sure enough, Jin Ling peeked around the corner nervously, biting his lip as if weighing his options. After a few moments, he shuffled out of his hiding spot, dragging his feet as he approached his uncle, who sat stiffly on the wooden steps.
The boy hesitated for a second, casting a wary glance at him before plopping down beside him. He kept a bit of distance between them, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, clearly unsure of what to expect.
Jiang Cheng sighed, running a hand down his face, and with great difficulty, he spat out, “I was wrong. I’m… I’m sorry.”
Apologies didn’t come easily to him. His parents had never apologized—not once. In the Yunmeng Jiang Clan, apologies were demanded, not given. But Jin Ling wasn’t just anyone. He was his nephew, and Jiang Cheng would be damned if the boy grew up feeling as small and unseen as he had.
Jin Ling’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise.
“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” Jiang Cheng continued, his voice rough but softer now. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. You didn’t deserve that.”
The boy blinked, his lips parting slightly as if he didn’t know how to respond. Jiang Cheng wasn’t sure if it was the apology itself or the fact that it didn’t sound like an order that shocked him more.
“It’s okay, jiujiu,” Jin Ling said quietly after a moment. “I know you didn’t mean it.”
And just like that, it was over. Simple. Easy. Too easy. He couldn’t help but feel bitter. If it was this simple, why had no one ever apologized to him?
“I’ll do better,” he said, his voice steady now. “I promise.”
Jin Ling gave him a small smile, and before Jiang Cheng could react, he scooted closer and leaned against him, resting his head on his uncle’s shoulder. He froze for a second, caught off guard by the sudden display of affection. But then, slowly, he let himself relax. He lifted his arm and gently rested it around Jin Ling’s small shoulders, holding him close.
“Don’t think I forgot you started the fight, though,” he muttered, feeling the boy tense immediately.
Jin Ling hesitated, then mumbled, “He was making fun of me. He said I don’t have parents.”
Jiang Cheng stiffened. He hadn’t expected that. His jaw clenched, and his grip around Jin Ling’s shoulders tightened just slightly, protectively, with anger flaring hot in his chest. It took everything he had not to get up right then and march over to find that kid and break his legs—or at least leave a very stern warning.
“I’ll talk to him,” Jiang Cheng promised silently, his resolve firm. No one was going to treat his nephew like that. Not while he was around. “Jin Ling, never throw the first punch, alright? Let them start it. And if they do, make sure to finish it.”
Jin Ling looked up at him, mouth slightly agape in shock, and Jiang Cheng smirked at his reaction.
“What?” He said, raising a brow. “I was in trouble all the time at your age. I don’t exactly have the right to lecture you, but… It’s alright to fight sometimes. But don’t make it your only way. Make friends. Study hard. Trust others.” He hesitated, then added, almost too softly to hear, “Don’t become like me.”
Jin Ling frowned, clearly unhappy with that last part.
“I failed everyone,” Jiang Cheng admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You didn’t fail me,” Jin Ling said immediately, his voice quiet but fierce. And he sounded so sure and earnest that Jiang Cheng felt his throat tighten, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. He just held Jin Ling a little closer, resting his chin lightly on top of the boy’s head.
“Hey, you brat,” he said after a long silence, his voice rough. “Do you want to hear about your A-Niang?”
Jin Ling pulled back instantly, his eyes wide and eager, nodding fiercely. Of course he did. Jiang Cheng had always known the boy hungered for any scrap of information about his parents, piecing together fragments from whispers and gossip. But Jiang Cheng had never been able to bring himself to speak of them. The pain was too raw and consuming.
Now, though, the thought of Jin Ling knowing his mother only through the careless words of others felt like a betrayal. He couldn’t let her become a ghost, a fading memory. She deserved more than that. She had been more than that. He needs to have other people remembering how kind and nice she is, and how, even though she didn’t get to spend much time here, his A-Jie made the world better all the same.
He took a big breath to gather his strength. Long before he started talking, his chest was already hurting, but it was a good kind of hurt. It came from love. “Your mother’s favorite food was lotus root and pork rib soup,” he began, remembering all the time she saw her in the kitchen. “She loved to cook. She was… really good at it.”
Jiang Cheng paused, the memories rushing in—her soft humming in the kitchen, the way she moved with such care, as if every dish she made was a gift. “She used to hum while she cooked. Not a song, just… little sounds. She was happiest there, I think. She liked taking care of people that way.”
“She always stepped up when I and Wei Wuxian fought,” Jiang Cheng said, his voice softening as the memories rushed in, vivid and bittersweet. He could almost hear her gentle voice trying to calm them down, see the way she stood between them, hands on her hips, scolding them both equally, even when it wasn’t really fair.
Jin Ling listened intently, his small brow furrowed as if he were trying to picture her.
“She wasn’t brave, not really. She was scared of a lot of things. But she always protected us.”
His voice broke on the last word, and he had to pause, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. “She was kind,” he said after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper. “The kindest person I’ve ever known.”
“She was…” His voice broke, and he couldn’t finish. The rest of the sentence drowned in the flood of memories surging through him, each one sharper than the last. His sister’s gentle smile. The way she laughed softly at Wei Wuxian’s jokes, even when they weren’t funny. The way she hugged him when he was upset, never saying much, just holding him until the storm passed.
Tears welled in his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, but it was no use. They spilled over, hot and relentless, and before he knew it, he was crying. Not the quiet, restrained kind of crying he’d grown used to over the years, but deep, gasping sobs that seemed to tear out of his chest, because he finally let himself accept the crushing reality.
She is dead.
He will truly never see her again, huh?
“They loved you so much,” he said after a moment, through sobs. A-Jie, Wei Wuxian, even that stupid Jin Zixuan. “Even before you were born, they were so excited. They wanted you to have everything. A good life. A happy one.”
Jin Ling’s smile faded, and he dropped his gaze, his small hands clenching in his lap. “I don’t really remember them,” he admitted quietly, his voice tinged with shame.
Jiang Cheng’s chest ached, but he forced himself to calm down and speak. “You were so little when they… when they left. It’s not your fault.” He hesitated, then added, his voice softer now, “But I can tell you stories. Whenever you want. About them. So you can remember them a little better.”
Jin Ling looked up at him, his eyes shining with something like hope. “Really?” he asked.
“Really,” Jiang Cheng promised, ruffling his hair. “Anytime.”
Maybe, with time, it would hurt less.
Maybe, with time, remembering them would stop being painful and become only nostalgic.
Maybe, with time, he can bring himself to talk about them with a smile, without feeling like his chest was being ripped open.
But, for now, he only holds his nephew close and lets himself grieve.
.
Then, Wei Wuxian comes back—and leaves just as quickly. No surprise there, he has always been like that. Wei Wuxian was like the wind—unstoppable, untamable, impossible to hold onto. He came and went as he pleased, leaving chaos and heartbreak in his wake.
As he stands there, holding Subian in his hand, the blade’s edge starts to bite into his palm as he grips it too tightly. Blood drips to the ground, but he can’t really bring himself to care.
Jiang Cheng looks at the weapon then, and tries to pierce where everything started to fall apart.
Would it change anything if he told Wei Wuxian that he had gotten caught by the Wens to save him?
Probably not.
He wishes they hadn’t talked. That way, Wei Wuxian could’ve just stayed nice in the back of his mind, together with the gentle illusions he had of Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan, preserved in the soft, forgiving light of nostalgia.
Sometimes, he muses, despite what the books say or the poets and the dreamers preach, there is no happy ending for some people.
.
To his surprise, Jin Ling joins him again the following week, sitting quietly beside him under the moon. Jiang Cheng doesn’t ask why he’s back from Golden Carp Tower so soon. He doesn’t need to. He’s certain someone in his sect let it slip that he hasn’t been sleeping much lately.
Jin Ling, ever the curious brat, reaches for the bottle of alcohol beside Jiang Cheng, only to have his hand smacked away.
“You know you’re too young to drink this, right?” He scolds, though there’s no real heat behind his words.
Jin Ling yelps, pulling his hand back with a pout. “I was just curious! You always drink this stuff when you’re sad.”
Jiang Cheng sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “First of all, I’m not sad. And second, just because I do something doesn’t mean you should copy me. You’re supposed to be smarter than that.”
“Smarter than you, you mean?” Jin Ling shoots back with a cheeky grin, and Jiang Cheng can’t help the snort that escapes him.
“Watch it, kid. I can still throw you into the lake, you know.”
Jin Ling giggled, then grew quiet, his smile fading as he looked up at the sky.
And because Jiang Cheng is so worn out and the ghosts are too close to him for his liking, he lets out an admission pass from his lips. Tomorrow, he will regret laying such heavy words on his tiny shoulders (nevermind that Jin Ling is not little anymore. He will always be a baby in Jiang Cheng eyes). Tomorrow, he will go back to being Jiang Wanyin who is ruthless and angry and easy to bother. Tomorrow he will continue trying his best, hoping people won’t notice this is all he can give.
But today he is just Jiang Cheng—a man who’s lost too much and is trying, desperately, to hold onto what little he has left.
“Jin Ling you’re the only good thing that’s ever happened to me.”
His nephew doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he leans over and hugs him, his small arms wrapping around Jiang Cheng’s shoulders. It’s such a simple gesture, but it knocks the air out of Jiang Cheng’s lungs, because he is so much like his mother in moments like this—gentle, kind, unafraid to show love even when it’s messy and complicated.
He still remembers the first time he held him in his arms. How regret clung to him like skin, but the baby smiled nonetheless and Jiang Cheng had been trapped in his little finger ever since.
“Jiujiu,” Jin Ling says, his voice muffled against Jiang Cheng’s shoulder, “You’re scary, and you get angry too easily, and you yell a lot…”
Jiang Cheng lets out a dry chuckle, raising an eyebrow. “Wow. Thank you for your kind words.”
Jin Ling pulls back just enough to look up at him, and Jiang Cheng is surprised to see the soft, serious expression on his face.
“But,” Jin Ling continues, his voice quieter now, “You’re also brave, and strong, and you always protect me. And… you’re my favorite, Jiujiu. You always will be.”
Jiang Cheng blinks, stunned, as those words sink in. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. His throat feels tight, and his chest aches in that familiar, bittersweet way that always comes with love and grief tangled up together.
“I love you, jiujiu,” Jin Ling says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
And just like that, Jiang Cheng is trapped all over again, completely and utterly at the mercy of this small, stubborn boy who has somehow become the most important person in his life.
You are his safe place, his sister’s voice echoes in his mind, a memory from a dream he’d had long ago. He swallows hard, blinking back the sting in his eyes, and pulls him close again, holding him tight.
“I love you too,” he murmurs, his voice rough and unsteady. “More than you know. I love you more than everything in this world. Even if you’re too stupid and naive for your own good sometimes.”
“Everything?” Jin Ling whispers back, clearly taken aback by the admission. Jiang Cheng isn’t used to saying such things, but tonight, he can’t bring himself to regret it. Jin Ling needs to know.
“Everything,” Jiang Cheng repeats, because it’s not just his love he’s carrying. It’s his sister’s love, Jin Zixuan’s love—all of it, bundled together and poured into this one boy.
Jin Ling will grow up. He’ll become a fine adult, strong and capable. But Jiang Cheng will still worry. He’ll worry that Jin Ling doesn’t know how to tie his robes properly, that he’s not eating enough, that he’s too trusting, too reckless. He’ll worry because that’s what he does.
One day, Jin Ling will realize that it wasn’t Jiang Cheng who saved him. It was the other way around. Jin Ling, with his bright smile and stubborn heart, had given him enough light to keep marching on.
For now, though, Jiang Cheng holds him close, the moon casting its pale light over them, and lets himself believe, just for a moment, that maybe—just maybe—he’s done something right in this little life of his.
.
In deepest night, a sudden dream returns me to my homeland,
She sits before a little window, and sorts her dress and make-up.
We look at each other without a word, a thousand lines of tears.
Must it be that every year I'll think of that heart-breaking place,
Where the moon shines brightly in the night, and bare pines guard the tomb.