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Each breath is heavy. His chest rises slowly, torturous waves in a dry pond.
“Wangji,” someone says.
Do not call me familiarly, he wants to say, but instead he says nothing at all.
“It's time,” someone else says.
He stands from where he had been kneeling, but he remains hunched over, gaze distant. Around him elders hover, their eyes mapping wounds into his skin before his punishment has even begun. They urge him on in a way they do to an execution.
But this is no execution, it is worse.
Fire spreads through his chest.
This is much worse.
The moment he sees the gate to the pavilion of punishment, something in him rises. Where once had lain the heaviness of grief, something terribly ugly rears its head. The elders around him must feel it to, for one grasps his arm as if fearing he will once again raise his sword against them. He freezes and whips his head around.
Whatever the elder sees on his face makes them let go so quickly the other elders tense and move closer.
“Do not touch me,” he whispers.
And with fierce determination consuming him he steps forward out of the little circle. He holds his head high and his body relaxed. Like this, with the elders hurrying after him he looks nothing like the criminal he is supposed to be. No, instead he walks into his death with straight shoulders. Even the immodest and inelegant robes made of cotton reserved for such a punishment are unable to diminish the power he holds in that moment: Instead of the repentance he should be showing — the shame, the disgrace he has brought to his sect, his clan, his family — he is the only person that arrives with an air of grace.
Instead of laying himself to the feet of the Instigator of Punishment, instead of begging for forgiveness, instead of showing regret, he kneels once again. He does not bow, he does not even greet the man.
He does not look at his family.
Lan Xichen stands mere feet away, but Lan Wangji does not grant him anything. No glance, no word. Nothing. Lan Qiren stands right before him, but Lan Wangji stares ahead, right through him.
Around him voices mumble and huff about his lost dignity. Such a thick face!
Shameful! Who knew what lay under his skin! Who knew what he hid behind his silence!
Just like his father!
“Silence,” Lan Qiren commands. It echoes through the pavilion. “The council declares as following: For the transgression of raising his sword against thirty-three elders, the offender will be punished by the whip of discipline! For the transgression of standing by evil, the offender will repent one year in seclusion!”
Lan Wangji exhales slowly. He knows one year would not be enough to cure him from the wounds he will receive. Not even one lifetime would cure him from this punishment, and even all of his next lifetimes won’t be able to cure his soul.
There is a barely hidden anticipation in the atmosphere. The elders whom had been attacked seem to rave from within. Their expressions are greedy. Greedy for honour, their beings demand: Justice. Justice. I want justice!
But there is also something else. Something heavy. It’s not tangible. Not attainable. But everyone in the room seems to feel it.
Elders shift uncomfortably. Lan Qiren has just taken a breath, preparing to continue the decree, when he pauses. There is something looming heavy in the air; Something in the grey clouds covering the Cloud Recesses, something in the wind that is howling at the edges of the pavilion’s roof.
Something looms over their necks with the sharpness of a blade.
Lan Qiren inhales. “The council declares as following: As for his punishment with the Whip of Discipline…” His voice tapers of, like he cannot quite believe it himself. But there is a quiet defeat in it. Lan Wangji, for a mere moment, considers his uncle’s expression. And the moment he looks at him, he knows. “The offender shall receive a strike for each elder he wronged.”
“Uncle!” Lan Xichen gasps. “No, no, no, you can’t, it’s too much… Uncle, that will kill him!”
Whispers rise again and outside the wind picks up. It roars now, as if someone is screaming.
“Xichen! Stand down! This has already been decided. There is no other way!” Quickly an elder steps up to his brother, grasping his shoulder. Lan Xichen flinches, shaking his head.
Lan Wangji glances at him. His brother is frantic, his eyes wide and his pupils shrunken. His whole body is tightly wound but it stays frozen. He stays in his place and listens to his elders.
Lan Wangji…
Lan Wangji kneels, still, straight, and there is nothing on his face. No shock, no fear. It would be unsettling, but somehow it is not, because the one emotion that is visible on him in that moment…
Lan Xichen sacks down, now, as well.
Lan Wangji stares again at his uncle. “This one will defer to the council’s judgment.”
He says this as if he not only accepts the punishment but as if he truly understands; As if he knows why they chose such a heavy punishment; As if he knows he deserves it. However, while there is guilt in Lan Wangji’s eyes, it’s not the guilt the council is looking for, and it’s not the guilt his uncle wants to see. The guilt they wished for is nowhere to see.
In it’s place is pride.
His uncle grits out, “You may speak before the punishment. What do you have to say?” An elder is already stepping up behind Lan Qiren, a sturdy chest in his arms.
Everyone is holding their breath, staring at Lan Wangji.
They expect him to beg, now. To pray for something other than a punishment that may not only cripple him, but kill him. He should kowtow to lower his punishment!
Every strike less is a mercy!
Lan Wangji says nothing. And as the time goes by, the elders around begin to hush. Then, as more time goes by, they begin to scoff. Lan Qiren closes his eyes and turns around. His whole form is slumped, because his nephew, the one he raised, has sullied their family and therefore Lan Qiren has done it with him.
His uncle is ashamed.
Lan Wangji wants to ask him, “Did you agree to the punishment?” But he does not want to know.
In that moment, as he gazes around the room, at his defeated brother and faceless uncle, and the vying eyes of his elders, he realises something.
No one stands by him. No one here would defend him.
Instead, Lan Wangji says, “I stand by the righteous. To my last breath.”
The words roar through the pavilion silently.
No one dares to speak.
Lan Qiren looks at him once again, and in his hand the Whip of Discipline shines silver.
“The devil made you blind to the right path.”
Lan Wangji opens the ties of his robes until they pool loosely over his lap and around his legs. His back is bare, the skin soft and bright, even in the darkness of the pavilion.
“If the devil is righteous I will follow him blindly. On every path he takes.”
I did not follow him once. I will never stay behind again.
His uncle gives no answer to this.
The elder that had held the chest with the whip steps forward, and so does his uncle.
The elder calls, “For the first elder, the first strike!”
A stillness lingers in the air. No one moves, and for a moment Lan Wangji thinks time has stopped. Something slides over his shoulders and he wonders if the first strike has already come down, that already his blood is spilling, but no, it hasn’t yet.
With a sealed core Lan Wangji feels cold, but now warmth covers his back.
And then he can’t breathe.
The whip clashes against his back like a bolt of lighting. It rings like thunder.
He leans forward slightly, the pain surging through him. For a moment the world is white. Still, he straightens again, even if it burns, but before he can, already the next strike comes down. Again, his vision swims.
“For the second elder, the second strike!”
He gasps.
Where the first strike had gone perfectly over his back between his shoulder blades, the next strike etched right over them. His muscles cramp together, and his golden core trashes miserably in its seal.
He coughs.
“For the third elder, the third strike!” the voice rings overheads.
The strike lines over his spine perfectly and only deviates a little to his ribs. He has to lean forward again, this time on his arms so he doesn't falter.
When for a moment he can see his surroundings blur at the edge of his vision. There is a movement.
One of the elders is leaving. Is he already satisfied? Is the sight to gruelling?
Lan Wangji thinks, it’s not enough yet.
It’s not nearly enough.
As the fourth strike comes down he closes his eyes. It burns, it freezes, it runs through him with such power only a spiritual tool can cause it, and the earth may be shaking or it may only be him. His ears ring. And he sees…
He sees Wei Ying.
He sees him smile and laugh.
He sees him tease.
He sees the drops of Emperor’s Smile as they travel along his neck, glittering in the light of the moon. Wei Ying grins at him, the moon so bright at his back he wonders if this is an immortal. A fairy. Perhaps a god.
“For the fifth elder!”
It sears over his shoulders, right over the second strike, and like this, for the first time his skin flays open. Muscle becomes visible.
An elder averts his eyes.
But Lan Wangji does not notice. He leans forward and he straightens again.
The elders look at each other with wide eyes.
One strike brings disciples to their knees! Two and you will cry for mercy! Three and you cannot stay up!
But Lan Wangji straightens after the fifth. He hears Wei Ying cry, ‘Lan Zhan!’ and it fills him. Consumes him.
He sees Wei Ying smiling where he cradles a-Yuan.
He sees Wei Ying scream for the remains of his family.
He sees Wei Ying.
And he sees him fall.
And he thinks, it’s not enough.
It will never be enough.
The sixth strike strays to his lower back. He tries to get air into his lungs, but it does not come, not until the seventh. For a moment the world is numb, but the he sees the stone underneath his eyes. He pushes himself up.
His arms shake, but then he stares forward and his head holds high.
“...an!”
Lan Wangji sees Wei Ying.
Lan Wangji sees him paint his portrait, sees the bunnies dangling from his hand, sees him throw flowers and then…
“Lan Zhan!”
He can hear him.
‘Lan Zhan, you’re amazing!’
‘Lan Zhan, don’t be so stiff!’
‘Lan Zhan, can you lend me your headband?’
“Please, please, stop it!”
“For the eight elder, the eight strike!”
Lan Wangji hisses with the pain. He can feel blood trickle down his back, though it is nothing more than a tickle against the numbness spreading. This time he does not fall forward.
“For the ninth elder!”
“Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan!”
“For the tenth elder!”
Lan Wangji thinks, for Wei Ying. For Wei Ying. For Wei Ying.
“For the eleventh elder!”
Each time Lan Wangji sits up. Each time he trembles a little more. Each time his head hangs heavier.
“For the twelfth!”
Bone.
A sliver of something white shines through the shredded flesh. Lan Wangji straightens, and all he can think is, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
“I’m sorry! Please! Stop it! Please, please! Lan Zhan!”
Lan Wangji tries to focus outwards. His gaze slides to his brother, but Lan Xichen has collapsed into himself, unable to look up, unable to witness his brother’s execution.
“For the thirteenth!”
Wei Ying, he thinks, let’s meet in the next. In the next life. The next. I will find you. This time I won’t let you go.
“For the fourteenth elder, the fourteenth strike!”
I will stay with you.
When the mountains crumble and the sun shines no longer.
Forever.
“For the fifteenth!”
Lan Wangji falls forward. He does not righten himself.
The elders hold their breath.
Lan Qiren pauses. His expression is frozen, as if he finally realises what is happening, as if only now he sees whom is lying before him. He nearly takes a step back, but already his boots are stained by his nephew's blood.
Then, horrifically, Lan Wangji sits up. It’s slow, and harrowing. It looks torturous. Yet this brief respite was enough. His muscles are visible where they work at his back to help him sit up.
“For the sixteenth!”
Lan Wangji is sitting once more.
More and more elders avert their eyes. No disciple has ever received more than ten strikes, perhaps not even eight.
“For the seventeenth!”
And Lan Wangji sits up.
Impossible.
This is impossible!
He is still kneeling straight!
“For the eighteenth elder, the eighteenth strike!”
Lan Wangji lets out a guttural sound from so deep in his chest, it echoes in the ears of everyone present.
Lan Xichen sobs. The sounds overlap and outside the wind stops screaming.
The world turns silent.
There is nothing.
Lan Wangji straightens, so slowly, so, so slowly, and all he hears is a high-pitched sound.
The next strike and he falls again. His knees give out. He can only sit sideways now.
“For the twentieth elder, the twentieth strike!”
But Lan Wangji does not hear. He stares a the red earth beneath and he thinks, Wei Ying. Wei Ying. Wei Ying.
The world is silent. The wind rattles the trees and the clouds rush over the sky. Yet, the pavilion is silent. Something slides over Lan Wangji’s shoulders, but what drips down is not blood. Something translucent mixes into the small puddle beneath him. It glares silver like a sword’s blade or like a river lit by the moon.
Lan Wangji feels warm. His stomach feels warm, his back, despite the pain, despite the numb fire flaring through it, tingles softly. Something tickles his neck, the side of his face.
“Lan Zhan…”
“For the twenty-first elder!”
Lan Wangji gasps. But it is not the pain that runs through him.
He rasps, near inaudible, “Wei Ying!”
“Lan Zhan!”
It surges through him, in panic, in hope. “Wei Ying!”
The next strike comes when he still sprawls on the floor and runs over his whole back with so much force that he is unable to sit up again.
He stays down.
Wei Ying.
Wei Ying.
Wei Ying.
He’s here.
He closes his eyes.
He’s here for me.
“For the twenty-third elder, the twenty-third strike!”
Lan Qiren lets the whip run through the air, perfectly on the lash where the first strike had landed. The whip comes down but this time there is no impact. No hissing of flaying flesh. No blood seeping into white robes.
The only thing that could be heard was a high, deafening wail and a steady drip, drip, drip, like raindrops hitting a pond.
The pavilion is silent.
Not even Lan Xichen makes a sound.
Only drip, drip, drip, and the heavy breathing of Lan Wangji.
“What is this!?” the counting elder exclaims. “For the twenty-fourth elder, the twenty-fourth strike!”
Lan Qiren shakes his head, as if rattling away an illusion, and the whip soars through the air. But it does not land. It makes no sound and slides off Lan Wangji and onto the earth. Again, a high pitched howl cuts through the air, so loud some elders stumble back.
Lan Qiren too steps back. With wide, horrified eyes he stares at Lan Wangji’s back.
There are no new marks. Not even one new nick in the skin. Instead the skin shimmers. It reflects as if covered by silver silk.
Lan Wangji…
He can only think, Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying.
Are you here for me?
“Wei Ying…” he whispers.
The wail goes on. It sounds as if it’s part of the wind, a background noise so loud it’s unnatural. The longer it goes on the more people can hear it scream, “Stop!” The screams sound like words:
“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan! Stop it! Stop it! Leave him alone!”
Some elders begin to cover their ears but Lan Qiren simply turns more horrified by every next moment, for the silver silk that covers his nephew is now a person. Something patters, drip, drip, drip, and silver fuses with Lan Wangji’s blood.
“What is this?!” one elder screeches.
“Who is interfering?” Another steps forward.
“Someone play, someone bring a qin! Someone must disperse the ghost!” the next shouts.
Lan Qiren is terrified, his expression pulled tight. His hand flies up and the whip goes down.
Another wail travels through the void and at last the world comes back. Still that silver thing lies over Lan Wangji, its body curled over his bleeding back and its limbs clutching around him.
Lan Qiren feels his hand twitch, feels the urge to make this thing wail until it finally crumbles away, but instead the whip hits the floor and tumbles from his hand.
The world moves once more.
“Continue,” the counting elder demands.
A loud wail sounds again, but this time it's worldly. Lan Xichen stumbles forward. “Please! It's enough now! He’ll die, he’ll really die! Can't you see?! Please uncle?”
Lan Qiren looks away and the counting elder grimaces.
Lan Wangji is still panting, though sometimes his breath stops for moments too long until he chokes on another breath. Lan Xichen crawls next to him, his hands flying around him in urge. “Wangji, Wangji, it's alright. You’ll be fine. It's okay.”
When Lan Qiren looks at this sight again he lowers his head. “The sentence is absolved. The offender has served his punishment. Does any elder object?”
Unbelievably, no elder does. They only stare at the scene in horror, at the strange thing that hovers there, whose screams sound just a little bit too much like the Yiling Patriarch when he fell to his death.
“Healers,” the counting elder says, and stalks away quickly.
“Disperse the demon!” someone calls.
Lan Wangji lurches forward, and his brother tries to hold him, but the touch makes Lan Wangji groan. He shakes his head, and he tries to grasp his brother's robes. He says, “Wei Ying.”
Lan Xichen makes a distressed sound, “Wangji, Wangji, it's alright. You’ll live. You will.”
But Lan Wangji says, again, “Wei Ying.”
Lan Xichen looks at his sweaty face, his dull eyes, and then he gazes upon his brother’s back. His eyes widen.
The silver form is flickering. It looks as if a large crack is running through its translucent body. Small tears wind along it’s surface and deepen. The thing has a head, for it's really only person, and that head is pressed against his brother's back. A hissing sound falls from it and the more Lan Xichen listens, the more it sounds, once again, like words: “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan.”
Suddenly a hand reaches towards his brother and therefore the thing.
The thing splinters, like liquid it runs over his brother's back, and yet it tries to hold on, tries to grasp his brother’s skin. Lan Wangji whimpers pitifully. He tries to move his hands, tries to gather the thing. It reaches back for just a moment and then…
It's gone.
“Clean the wounds—”
“Ready the Jingshi—”
“Hand me—”
Lan Xichen tunes them out. All he can see is his brother's broken expression, and the acceptance in his eyes when he doesn't have anything to hold onto any longer.
二十二
Lan Xichen steps into the Jingshi’s silence and sees the small movement only in his peripheral. He slides the door closed behind him, and walks up to Lan Wangji’s bedside. Carefully kneeling down, he begins to procure the ointment and bandages he had brought.
“Wei Wuxian,” he says, “I know you are there.”
Nothing.
He looks up, and indeed in one of the corners of the Jingshi’s ceiling a small silver form writhes. It has no end and no beginning, no shape and no edges. It looks fluid like water but is not made of liquid, and it’s not strong enough for a ghost fire, but too determined to be nothing at all.
In the same corner Lan Xichen can see a few cobwebs. “Come down, I will not try to disperse you… Or exorcise you.”
For a moment the small ball continues to hover next to a big dead spider, before descending. Its movements are slow, weak even, and the way it moves is unlike any natural presence. It doesn’t quite slither, but it does not quite float. It seems to be crawling through the air, it tries to grabble at nothing, until it’s able to grasp something. That something being Wangji.
Just when the ball is in reach of his brother it blobs on him like it’s pulled in, so quick Lan Xichen can barely follow it. From then the being is simply attached to Wangji’s skin, crawling over his shoulders and hair and along the cheek that is not pressed into the bedding.
It does not seem like an evil presence. Not filled with resentment or anger. No it’s rather small, and not very threatening. It seems powerless and cannot really hold onto anything but still it attaches itself to Wangji like a barnacle.
Lan Xichen stares at it with vigilance and intrigue and tries to reach out. However, his hands are unable to grasp it, gliding right through and the ball has to give way to his fingers, deforming under the pressure. It squirms around agitated, affronted even, and Lan Xichen quickly takes his hand away. Now he feels as if the thing is staring at him.
“Sorry,” he says, weirdly embarrassed.
But the ball seems to forget it all the next instance and glides over his brother until it tumbles over the edge of the bed right into the pot of ointments.
Lan Xichen frantically moves again, trying to grasp it and pull it out, but the thing stays consistent and squirms in the pot. “Out, out! I need this for Wangji! Didn’t you want to save him?”
At this the spirit stills. Quickly it gets out, and shockingly enough there is clumps of healing salve stuck to it’s silver body. Again it crawls up to Wangji and impatiently waits until Lan Xichen has removed the bandages before crawling over his brother’s back. His brother doesn’t seem disturbed, and Lan Xichen wonders if perhaps the spirit knows what it's doing.
He.
Wei Wuxian.
Lan Xichen knows this is Wei Wuxian, but…
He exhales shakily.
It works.
It’s fine.
Lan Xichen picks up another salve, and also begins to carefully trace it along the wounds. They are still fresh, still bleeding, but some are beginning to crust. It’s only been twenty-two strikes, and no more than that.
“Thank you,” he mumbles before he even thinks about. Yet, isn't it so? Isn't it true? “You protected him. With your soul.”
The spirit stills.
“I’m not so ignorant. You may have hurt him in life… But I’m not ignorant,” he says, as if talking to himself as well. “You meant something to him. And if this is your repentance to give him the same courtesy…”
The spirit’s body flickers.
“Yet, I don't understand, why would you treat him so?”
The ball crawls forward.
“Why would you turn him away? He only wanted… He…” Lan Xichen shakes his head. “I despise you, Wei Wuxian. Lan Wangji nearly died, he would have. For protecting you. And yet you told him to get lost.”
A strange noise comes from the ball, like a rushing stream, or a flowing river. Suddenly the ball falls to the floor.
Xichen yelps. The ball tries to crawl over the floor, hurrying — very lethargically — through the room. The being seems restless and agitated, and it leaves behind an odd silver liquid. It seems to get smaller the more liquid it loses. It squirms through the room and seems to want to return into the ceiling's corners, but is to weak to reach so high up.
Instead it's begun climbing onto Wangji’s table, where it slips into an incense pot. The pot is quivering.
Xichen furrows his eyebrows and stands to follow but then the door slides open again.
“Uncle!” he says in surprise quickly turning around. His uncle nods, though his face darkens when he sees the traces of silver on the floor.
“What is going on?”
“I…” he looks at Wangji. “It's…”
The rattle betrays him. Lan Xichen grimaces.
Lan Qiren purses his lips and stomps over the the clay pot.
“Uncle, wait!” he tries to stop him, but his uncle rips to the lid off anyways.
He stares into the clay pot. “Wei Wuxian. Can't you ever leave my nephew be? Will you haunt him into his next life?”
The pot is still quivering. Lan Xichen can see into it now as well. The small silver ball is squirming and trembling in the ceramic, pressing against the clay. The whole table vibrates.
“Please uncle, he won't do anything—”
“Xichen. This thing has corrupted your brother. He will continue to do so for as long as we let him. He won't stop.”
Lan Xichen steals himself. “Uncle. Please. I beg you, at least leave Wangji this. I… I don't know… I—” His breath hitches.
Lan Qiren puts the lid on the again. Lan Xichen looks up in surprise. He sees something that gives him hope, “He won't let go of him, no matter what. I know so. You know so even more.”
“Xichen…”
“Wei Wuxian protected him, didn't he? Please, uncle, he can't do anything like this,” he pleads. “I fear that Wangji… I…”
Lan Qiren grabs the pot.
Lan Xichen exclaims, “Wait—” But instead of taking the pot away Lan Qiren lifts it up and hisses at it, “I dare you, if one hair on him lays wrong, I will shatter your soul into pieces and you will never reincarnate.”
The pot stills for a moment before trembling again.
Lan Xichen ‘ah’s when suddenly the pot is pressed into his hands.
“Make him work for it,” Lan Qiren says gruffly. “I want him on a leash.”
Lan Xichen looks down and opens the lid, glancing inside. “Yes uncle,” he mumbles.
His uncle walks over to Wangji’s bedside staring down at him sorrowfully. He kneels down and pulls his sleeves back beginning to grind another salve.
“You should wait uncle, I only just bandaged him.”
His uncle shakes his head, “The next then.”
Lan Xichen kneels next to him, laying the quivering pot down.
Lan Xichen prepares more ingredients. His uncle glances at him and Lan Xichen whispers, “For the next.”
The silver ball flows out of the pot and tries to pick at the bandages as if to say, the next!
二十二
Lan Xichen spends all of his free time at his brother's side. Wangji is supposed to be isolated, to repent his misdeeds, to show his humility, his shame…
But Lan Xichen cannot bear it.
The small silver blob hovers at Lan Wangji's side, always. Whenever the healers checked on Lan Wangji he tried to flee, but he's too slow, and too clumsy, so instead he would knock against a paper screen or sail to the floor like a flat rice cake.
The healers did not say anything, yet their expressions were doubtfully curious.
At first Lan Xichen, too, had still been reluctant but with time he got used to the ghost and even found himself amused by his clumsiness. It was apparent that as a ghost Wei Wuxian was still very weak, and yet he seemed to have clear goals, and an even clearer consciousness. However, he never seemed to become stronger. He often remained hanging somewhere in a corner of the room, or hidden in tableware, or under Lan Wangji's sleeping mat.
Once, Lan Xichen had to pull him out from Lan Wangji’s robes where he had tried to climb into. Lan Xichen learned that while he could not grasp him, he could still hold him if he cupped him into a hand as if trying to hold water.
Like this time goes by.
Lan Wangji recovery is minimal. It's much too slow.
On the second week, a healer tells Lan Xichen, “Yuan’er is recovered very well. His fever is subsiding, but I suggest no strenuous activities, no stress.”
“I understand.”
The healer nods and leaves and Lan Xichen is about to turn to return to brother when Wei Wuxian crashes against him with such force it knocks him back a little.
Lan Xichen blinks. “What?”
Wei Wuxian crashes against him again and again but now there is none of the force of before.
Lan Xichen raises his brows. But then realisation settles, “Ah… A-Yuan?”
The ghost ball stills as if waiting. “I see,” Lan Xichen says. “You want to see him?”
Another knock against him.
Lan Xichen sighs. “I will take you.”
At this the ghost knocks against him again before bounding back to Lan Wangji. He clutches at his brother’s naked forehead.
Lan Xichen narrows his eyes. “…Can you not leave him?”
Wei Wuxian stays still.
“I will try to bring a-Yuan for a short visit. He missed Wangji.” For a moment he wonders wether this is a good idea, but he makes up his mind. “It will help Wangji, I’m sure.”
The ghost bounces excitedly.
The next day, Lan Xichen carries a-Yuan into the Jingshi. He had prepared tea already and Wei Wuxian is trying to assemble fruits on a plate.
The first thing a-Yuan asks is, “Why is gege sleeping?”
Lan Xichen lowers his eyes. “He is recovering.”
“Why is gege recovering?”
“Because he was very brave.”
“Why was gege brave?”
“Because he did what… what was right,” he mumbles.
A-Yuan’s eyes shine. “Wow, gege is brave!”
“Indeed.”
“Ah! What's that!” He rushes forward before Lan Xichen can stop him. “What is it?”
Lan Xichen sees him try to grab the ghost ball and helps him cup it into his palm. “A ghost.”
“A ghost?!” a-Yuan exclaims. “Wow! What’s a ghost?”
Lan Xichen says, “A person without a body.”
A-Yuan's eyes are big. “Wow. That’s possible?! But it's so small!”
“Yes, it is.” Lan Xichen watches the ball squirm in a-Yuan's hands happily, brushing against his skin. Silver liquid stains the child’s hand. “It's weak, so it’s pretty slow. And it’s not very careful and not very clever. Do you want to hold it and bring it to your gege?”
A-Yuan nods determinedly. “I’ll protect it.”
Lan Xichen smiles. “Do you want to talk to your gege?”
A-Yuan nods again, this time eagerly. “Can I?”
“Come on. He can hear you but he can't respond.”
“Gege!” A-Yuan begins kneeling next to Wangji’s bed, “Gege, I hope you’ll get healthy quickly! I am healthy now, that's what the healers say…”
A-Yuan chatters on an on and Lan Xichen feels himself relax with the childish voice talking of gentle topics. Wei Wuxian is happily traipsing around them as well, often climbing a-Yuan or Wangji.
It's nice.
But it's not enough.
Lan Wangji develops an infection. His fever spikes. The whole third week of his supposed seclusion he suffers heavily to it.
Lan Xichen and the ghost ball are unable to leave his side, trying to cool him and ease his pain. Lan Xichen holds his hand through it and the ghost of Wei Wuxian lays himself flat on his cheek or head.
When the fourth week begins Lan Wangji’s wounds start healing at the speed they were supposed to all along.
All of his wounds are scabbing, finally closing up.
After one month he does not bleed anymore.
After two months, the thinnest wounds turn into raised scars, the heavy wounds still far from it. Lan Yuan has begun classes.
After three months…
It's far in the night, and Lan Xichen is sleeping.
Lan Wangji looks healthier. His complexion has brightened and his face is not pulled tight any longer. His wounds are healing very well. His sleep is peaceful.
Wei Wuxian has become bigger. He is faster now, but because of it he has become even more uncoordinated and still often stumbles against surfaces or falls and then can’t get up because he isn’t used to his size.
At night, he is huddling in Lan Wangji’s hair, curled into the strands. Each breath Lan Wangji lets out hits his form, blowing away a little bit of his substance. It de- and reforms his shape as if he is a leaf in the wind, or a wave lapping at the shore, away and back.
And then, “Wei Ying.”
The ghost ball squirms where he had just been relaxing.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji whispers.
The silver shape bounces up in shock. It crawls over Lan Wangji's face, over his fluttering eyes and scrunched nose.
It flits around Lan Wangji's head unable to do anything else.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji whispers again. He tries to move, tries to reach for the ghost. Quickly the ball crawls into his palm.
At the sight Lan Wangji exhales. “Wei Ying… Wei Ying.”
The silver ball sprawls over his hand and dances around as if singing, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan.
“I’m sorry,” Lan Wangji rasps, hand cramping.
Wei Wuxian flits up to him, again rubbing against his head, sprawling over his cheek. It could’ve meant, Don't be.
But instead what Lan Wangji hears, sung against his ear is, “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan! I’m sorry!”