Work Text:
“A-Ying..”
A-Ying, the man says on the boat off the shore of Lotus Pier. A nickname enunciated with softness, suggesting closeness, familial connection — much like how his shijie would call him A-Xian in a goading but soft tone every time he bickered too loudly with Jiang Cheng. Wei Wuxian leans into it, eyes locked earnestly on his Jiang-shushu, while his shidi writhes against Zidian.
And then — look after A-Cheng.
Wei Wuxian waits, silent. A blink and shallow breaths. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, not quite sure what he was expecting. Perhaps, it is no one else’s fault but his own; that his fingers twitched as the boat drifted away towards Lotus Pier in earnest, hoping to pull the man he calls his shushu back and ask him, to beg him, for more.
Evidence, possibly, that this is not all he was in the Jiang household. That maybe, selfishly, Jiang Cheng’s insecurities had been based on truth, that Jiang Fengmian truly held the servant boy in his heart.
Hope is a fickle thing. Unendurable, born of a stubborn human heart. It is willingly drowning inside an ocean of naivety, though being naive is not willing. This is childlike foolishness, to build expectations based on nothing.
Wei Wuxian has lived with acceptance, of an understanding of his role and place in the Jiang clan ever since he was old enough to realise the debt that was held over his head. He had an obligation, as head disciple, unlike the responsibility of others. He knows, of course he knows. And yet.
Is it so selfish to want?
Or perhaps — this is love. Being chewed and spat out and chewed again. A servant-ward, not a son. To have himself bequeathed to the heir of the clan; as though he were property to be inherited.
He holds no ownership over his being, not with debt, duty and the love that springs from between them, tainted and rotten and pure.
A-Ying. A-Cheng. Similar in address, and yet.
The Jiang Clan’s heir struggles against lightning, squirming and begging. There is a grand fire in the distance, the echo of swords clanging against each other. Blood spilling, drowning, drowning. Lotus pier, defeated. An heir no longer.
Wei Wuxian does not fight against the hands wrapped around his neck; digging into his windpipe as though the mere force of it will wretch out retribution.
His shidi’s eyes are bloodshot, raged. He is shaking fists and trembling teeth. Wei Wuxian lets him have this, relaxing into the hands wrapping tighter and tighter. Watches lips move, wishes of death spat on his face. This is hot, burning grief, and Wei Wuxian can not protest.
Our family, Jiang Cheng says. Wei Wuxian can not understand how this can be family.
The core transfer is an easy decision.
It makes sense, as though this step was predetermined when Jiang Fengmian had returned to Lotus Pier. This is what he had been asked of, and so Wei Wuxian had become the willing martyr the Jiang had groomed him to be from the second the man had recognised those wide brown eyes on the streets of Yiling.
Nonetheless, it is excruciating.
There is cloth stuffed into his mouth and awkward reassurances from Wen Ning, though Wei Wuxian can’t comprehend a single word. A hand wipes his hair from his forehead, soothing. He thinks of his shijie and keens.
Hollowed and spread out, returning what the Jiang had been so grateful to gift. He feels it all and feels nothing. Fingers wrapping around his leg, holding him in place. Wei Wuxian thinks of his shidi and lays still.
“Stupid boy,” Wen Qing curses as she digs into his chest, peeling away his tissue and fascia with practiced incisions.
The next morning, Wei Wuxian feels somewhat relaxed. Smiles at Jiang Cheng while detailing lies, watches the glow on his cheeks. This is success — a debt paid off.
They try to kill him by throwing him amongst the rotted dead. Instead, his rage glues his fractured shoulders together, twists his wrist back into his original position so that he is able to carve a flute out of a nearby withering tree.
At first, when he could not drag himself, this instrument was made not of bark but rather bone. He caresses the dead in his hand and They sing in response.
‘We’re at a point where we urgently need extra forces. Wei Wuxian is on our side. Are you trying to punish our own people?” Jiang Cheng argues in his defense. He sees the use in the resentment twisting between Wei Wuxian’s fingers, though in ignorance of his empty cheeks and dull eyes.
There is an eagerness to his words, to his gaze lingering on his flute. A shield reborn as a weapon. Use replaced with a different use. This is okay — it works in his favour. He will not allow others, including the boy he teased under Cloud Recesses’ moon, face blushing from the frost of the sky and the Emperor’s Smile dangling in his hands, to prevent him from seeking his revenge.
And so, he steps into this new position with ease. The forefront of the Sunshot Campaign belongs to him and the desecrated dead, commanding the Wen to tear apart their own blood. This is the type of familial love he recognises.
The war is won, and the dead still linger against his skin, waiting. And so does Wei Wuxian — for his new position, new role, new sacrifice. It doesn’t come.
He hadn’t expected to make it past the war; his vision of the future had not stretched further than revenge, leaving him resembling a child waiting for more instructions.
Jiang cheng gives them to him — help rebuild Lotus Pier. This is something he can not give, and Wei Wuxian feels his insides twist. Instead, he slings jars of Emperor’s Smile over his chest, though they no longer bring a flush to his cheeks despite it’s paleness, and watches Jiang Zongzhu scowl at him in all his uselessness.
Because that is what he is now, and he’s not sure what to do with this.
Despite no physical value, there are political benefits for the Jiang. The Jianghu are frightened of their one man army, and so they use a much powerful weapon — words.
Though underestimated, it is effective. They paint him as an arrogant servant’s boy with more power than he can handle. They describe the dead he desecrated on the battlefields, though praising him for it a month ago. He is now spoken about as a war criminal rather than a war hero — and it works.
The tides change; they insult his haughty behaviour, his unpolished speech. They speak of a sword that no longer responds to him. They seek to covet the same amulet they fear — solely because of who it belongs to, for if it were themselves there would be no issue. He is merely a servant’s son, at the end of the day. A child picked up from the streets in ragged robes and scars. He is a threat to the status quo — their power.
Fortunately, the Yiling Laozu does not care. Unfortunately, Jiang Zongzhu does.
Jiang cheng is not difficult to read — never has been. Wei Wuxian has always been good at picking up his emotions, and responding to them appropriately. Soothing his insecurities by reassuring him that he is no competition at all in all its self-deprecation. For Jiang Zongzhu is his sect leader and Wei Wuxian, in all his stubbornness, is expected to be submissive to his demands.
He is not. In fact, he actively acts against his sect leader urging him to remain silent, to not insult his superiors to their hardened faces.
And so, they twist this. Jin Guangshan recognises the young sect leader’s vulnerabilities and uses them; tells him Wei Wuxian does not take him seriously and so he must feel as though he is better than him. That he is not worth his respect. Jiang Cheng drinks it all up, unaware of the carefully worded manipulation being fed to him — for this is how he feels himself, it is simply his own thoughts being repeated back to him.
This is part of the process; the manufacturing of a false opponent.
Any deviation from societal standards, from orthodoxy, must be quashed for it threatens the acceptance people have towards oppressive forces. If one person resists, others may follow suit — perhaps, they’ll understand that the elite are not for the people. The way to deal with that is simple — demonise that which threatens their superiority into a plausible target for the public so that they may shift their attention away from the real problem.
Of course it works. The Jianghu and common people alike point fingers at the servant’s child, not realising that a powerlusting man is controlling them like strings on a marionette. They are puppets, after all — easy in their manipulation, with how quickly herd mentality drives their speech. There is no individual judgement taking place in a world where conformity threatens any sense of identity.
Even here, Wei Wuxian is useful — a perfect scapegoat. Used, and used, and used. This is nothing new.
Radish is derived from the latin word radix which means root. That is what they are doing here — attempting to give root to things that can only wither. The rotten vegetation growing with earnest attempts from dirty, wrinkled fingers. A community attempting to live when they can only die.
They know this; their fate, and how despite Wei Wuxian’s optimistic promises, this will not last long. But they don’t linger on it. For now — radishes.
Jiang Zongzhu thinks it’s pathetic wishful thinking; that the politically smart solution is to shove these people — children, young men, limping old, under a guillotine and be done with it.
And for once, Wei Wuxian can not let him have this. Maybe that is the issue, at the core of it all. Maybe Jiang Cheng expected a quick nod, because Wei Wuxian’s submission was inherited by him the night the Jiang fell. Yunmeng Jiang should be at the centre of all his motives. They should be the Twin Prides of Yunmeng, though there is nothing identical about their roles. This is wishful thinking - this idea that they are on the same level, that there is no power dynamic between the two.
And yet — when Wei Wuxian stays firm on his actions, Jiang Cheng crumbles.
Why won’t Wei Wuxian listen to his every whim? Why must he be so stubborn, so good? Why must he use every chance to show how he is better than him all while abandoning him? Why won’t he give Jiang Cheng the submission he expected?
The cracks of their long rotted relationship are more visible now. The veil has been lifted, and Jiang Cheng can not stand it. You promised, he thinks. But Wei Wuxian can not be leashed. Not here, not now.
“Why don’t you make them stop first?” Wei Wuxian’s voice was hoarse as he countered. He needed so desperately for the man in yellow robes to understand this.
Stubborn is what he calls him, instead; even now, with dozens of arrows and swords threatening to spill his organs out from within. We’ll talk, deal with the issue honestly, and set the record straight.
Adorable, how ignorant one can be — there is no talking, here, when these people have already decided what they want to be true. There is no honesty, when he is described as stubborn even while being ambushed on his way to his nephew’s anniversary.
They do not understand the way Wei Wuxian understands. Why would they?
Maybe it is some sick type of retribution, when Wen Ning’s fist punctures a hole through Jin Zixuan’s chest. Wei Ying watches him fall, fall, fall. There is an immediate dawning realisation that there is no coming back from this.
He hadn’t meant to kill him. He didn’t — he didn’t mean to. He was cornerned, and scared, and small. He just wanted to see his shijie; gods, his beautiful, beautiful shijie — and little A-Ling. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t, he — this isn’t what he wanted — he tried so hard — the gift — shattered, broken, torn to pieces — useless. Useless.
For the first time since Yunmeng Jiang fell, he allows himself to cry.
They do not listen to him, atop Nightless City, when he tries to explain — of course they don’t. There are no changing minds here.
Rage and cruelty destabilises him, shakes the very core of his being. He chokes on his sorrow, resentment bleeding out of him. He’s bleeding out, right here, in front of thousands of cultivators. His bones are galvanised under his skin. The Yiling Laozu does not fear his own madness, even as his organs burn, and burn, and burn. Even as the young boy in mourning robes he once shared laughter with begs. He does not care. They’re all the same.
Ugly rage and ugly snarls, but at the centre is a child, small. Grieving. Thinking, much like a kid, this is not fair. Can they not see how this is unfair? What have I done wrong? Do they not see? Shijie, shijie.
A-Xian, she responds.
A-Xian, in that same goading but soft tone every time he bickered too loudly with Jiang Cheng.
A-Xian, because ridiculously, unfathomably, she loves him. Wei Wuxian wish she hadn’t. Hatred would be better, now. But still, he moves — cradles her loving face in his hands, makes promises that are too late, and then there’s blood.
There’s so much blood. In front of him, around him, on his hands. His hands.
He didn’t want this, he thinks pathetically, as his shidi pushes him away from Jiang Yanli’s still body.
Tragedy exists because of rage, and rage exists because of grief. Of love. It is what slaughters the same cultivators who swore to shed the Yiling Laozu’s blood moments ago.
Is this what it means to be both weapon and lamb?
It is Jiang Zongzhu who leads the siege against him months later.
Wei Wuxian decides that if he were to die, it must be worth something — useful, even on his deathbed.
The Yin Tiger Tally shatters between his fingers, and so does he.
They ensure he is rid of first, before slaughtering the Wen — as they have lost their only protection. How would they stand a chance without him? They are just people. Innocent, with a singular desire to live for as long as they can. What can they do?
And yet, the Jianghu saw them as a threat; their barely stable wooden homes, stone-made beds, rotting vegetation. Their smiles, their hope.
They do not allow them a simple death. It is a complete dehumanisation, the way they are massacred.
Funny, how this had all started from Wei Wuxian’s eagerness to do what is right. They think him stupid for not considering the consequences, but he had. Still, he could not sit by and watch.
Is it possible for something to be both a virtue and a tragedy?
悲剧