Work Text:
As Wei Wuxian helped a girl to a seat after another battle so she could get bandaged, her friends gathered around her with a small cake and candle. They were celebrating another win — another step toward beating Voldemort.
He looked uninterested.
But there was envy hidden in his eyes.
The unnamed girl, laughing, looked at him and asked, "How was your fourteenth birthday? You seem well off, and without worries, you know. I would guess it was much better than this."
Wei Wuxian's breath hitched.
He looked away, opening and closing his mouth once. Then, hesitantly, he spoke.
"Your birthday is without a doubt a hundred times better than mine," he said with a small, sad smile.
A screen appeared above his head — visible to everyone but him.
Everyone who had heard the question and the answer was pulled — sucked — into the screen. Time stopped. The world blacked out.
After what felt like floating, drowning, and more floating, their vision returned.
They couldn't move. They couldn't feel anything. But they could see, hear, and smell a certain view they were being shown. They weren't ghosts. They couldn't turn their heads. It was like a movie — it would move if it moved, but you couldn't skip or change anything.
They were in a dark alleyway. Completely empty.
Then voices. Chatter. Closer.
Three teenage boys — clad in blood-stained purple-white robes — appeared from around the corner. They had gone quiet by now. Two of them were carrying what looked like a body. The third held an oil stick torch, leading the way.
The slight, familiar aroma of metallic, smoky, and rotting smells grew stronger — now recognizable as blood, fire, and corpses.
In what felt like just ten minutes, dozens of such rounds were made by other teenagers until the alleyway was nothing but corpses. These teenagers also wore robes of other colors — some in blue-white, some in grey-white, and only a handful — two, by count — in gold-white. Most — if not all — wore a white sash around their waist.
Many sobbed or cried as they worked. Some were clearly trying not to.
There was one large pile of corpses in red-white robes. But their own color-clad people also had a pile — arranged with hands rather than sticks, frequently hugged for minutes before being let go and properly covered with a white cloth.
It was obvious. A battle had ended. The vari-colored side had won. The red-clothed were probably the bad ones. The white sashes on their belts must represent mourning.
And teenagers should not be fighting in battles.
As the piling was done, the teenagers gathered in one place. There must have been around three dozen of them — though it was an alleyway, a big one. They were still mourning their friends. Their family, for some.
After a few minutes, as they quieted down, one of them approached the person who seemed most composed — the oldest, the one in charge.
"Gui-Xiong..." The boy's voice cracked. He sniffled, watery, as the other looked at him with worry and held his arms to anchor him. "When are Da-Shixiong and Jiang-Shao-Zongzhu coming? They've been gone for really long! Are you sure they're alright? We should go and check — what if something happened to them? I know they said they could do it themselves —"
"A-Gan. Breathe."
"— but what if? We have no way of knowing —"
The boy in charge shook him, trying to anchor him. A-Gan looked everywhere but at him, frantically letting his worst fears be vocalized.
"A-Gan! A-Gan!"
"No! NO!"
He finally breathed — after a hard shake, after a shaky breath that burst into tears.
"I know," he whispered.
The boy in charge held him in his arms, letting him cry out, moving a soothing hand across his back. The boys surrounding them seemed to share the fear — despair showed in their eyes as they exchanged glances and attempted to console each other.
After what felt like forever, nearly a dozen figures approached.
None of them made any noise other than their footsteps. But those footsteps were loud in the mourning night. Everyone sat up, alert — then collectively gasped and sighed in utter relief. They stood up and ran to the group, shouting names that varied from "...-xiong," "...-ge," "...-di," to "...-Shao-Zongzhu," "Da-Shixiong," and "...-Gongzi."
This was a group of the same palette of robes as the waiting disciples. The group was led by three people who seemed to be receiving the bows.
The onlookers — the people sucked into the flashback — couldn't arrange their muddled minds enough to pick that up, though. Not until the alleyway only had sounds of sniffling and breathing did they refocus, startled by the change.
One of the three — dressed in black with red underrobes and a white sash around his waist — slowly made his way to the bodies. Paused midway with his head down and eyes closed. Turned around and shook his head, still low.
This resulted in knowing gulps and pained expressions from the recently arrived party — and shocked, pained gasps and choked sobs from the waiters.
After a few minutes, the silence was restructured. Everyone was sitting.
One of the boys who had been waiting — in grey-white robes — spoke in a low, defeated, watery voice.
"Then... then how... how do we keep fighting with stolen and makeshift swords?" He swallowed. "We... we can't..." His voice disappeared as more tears went down his face. He recomposed himself. "These mere metal swords will break anytime now, and we have to put so much energy — our limbs feel like breaking when we fight!" He was pleading now. "How can we hope for... progress... if we don't find our spiritual weapons?"
His voice lowered until it disappeared again by the end. He took another shaky breath and looked away, burying his face in his hands.
"We'll figure it out. I know we can do it."
The seemingly blue-white clad leader — called Er-Gongzi and bowed to by other blue-white clad boys — spoke lightly, though solemnly.
"I have to avenge my father and my fellows alike — all of you. Are you saying you are giving up?"
He asked it quietly. The white sash around his waist was noticed now. An arrow seemed to pierce the hearts of the onlookers, realizing how teenagers were avenging their families. Parents too.
Everyone shook their heads.
The boy spoke lightly with his head down. "Of course not, Er-Gongzi. I apologize." He bit his lower lip to stop himself from crying.
"Do not," Er-Gongzi replied. "It is not your fault."
Then he rose from where he was sitting between the apparent Jiang-Shao-Zongzhu — clad in dark purple — and the Da-Shixiong — guessed by the onlookers. He walked in front of their fallen and sat down in the lotus position.
He summoned a spiritual weapon with strings — looking similar to their own fretless string instruments — and placed it on his lap. Then he looked up at his people. They caught on, rose, and formed a big circle around the fallen, taking out their own instruments. Others quickly made space for them and respectfully took places between them — barely completing the circle. The pile of the dead took up too much space; there were gaps even after everyone had found a place.
Er-Gongzi began to play. His peers followed, falling into synchronization within five notes. Others sat quietly with their heads bowed in respect to the... act.
After nearly ten minutes of playing, everyone looked much more relaxed. Even the onlookers noticed how the uncomfortable chill had dropped several degrees — not the temperature, but something else. It was much calmer now, if they ignored the only-growing smell of fire, blood, and decay.
When it was done, everyone rose one by one. They picked up whatever they had and prepared to leave.
Four boys went and brought back two carriages. They loaded their own fallen properly. The party departed on foot.
Then Jiang-Shao-Zongzhu — unexpectedly and horrifyingly, because the British onlookers were not accustomed to putting people on fire to stop them from becoming fierce corpses — dropped his own oil fire stick onto the red-robed corpse pile. The fire caught quickly, roaring into the night.
The visions of the onlookers darkened again.
They cleared after another round of float-drown-float.
They were at military camps now. A single fire in the middle. All the boys wore single layers of clean clothing, washing their blood-soaked ones from the latest battle they had just shed. The camps were set up — tents, bathing areas, clean clothes. Enough time had clearly passed: at least a few hours for them to have found a safe place, set up, bathe, and change.
The visions darkened-floated-drowned-floated-cleared again.
Now everyone was clothed properly, their washed robes drying on top of their tents — which, notably, were very few for the number of people. Emphasizing the dire situation. They sat around the fire, huddled close, eating meat buns. Thankfully, these looked like enough for an army on a line.
After a few minutes of whispering and grasshopper noises, Jiang-Shao-Zongzhu turned to Da-Shixiong. He patted his back hard, smiling fondly.
"Happy fourteenth birthday, Wei Wuxian. Here's to another year alive."
He offered his bun, clearly intending to replicate a beer-bottle cheer.
Wei Wuxian smiled softly, letting out a puff of air, and shook his head. "Thank you, didi."
He cheered his bun with Jiang Cheng's.
Someone giggled.
Er-Gongzi smiled slightly, inclining his head. "Happy birthday, Wei Ying. You were amazing on the battlefield today."
His voice was so soft that your name said by him would feel like ascending — which Wei Wuxian was.
The onlookers were shook was an understatement. It dawned on them that they had just witnessed Wei Wuxian's fourteenth birthday.
Definitely not better than the girl's.
And then it clicked: the purple-clad person was Jiang Wanyin. The white-clad person was Lan Wangji.
Wei Wuxian giggled softly at the praise, blushing and hiding behind his legs as he hugged them, looking at Lan Wangji from below his lashes. Then he huffed, pouted, and glared at his peers as they cooed at him and laughed.
"Thank you, Lan Zhan!"
He sprang up from his curled state and buried his face in his bun, smiling shyly while avoiding any gazes as he blushed even more furiously.
A purple-clad disciple cheered: "Yesssss! Happy birthday to our one and only beloved Da-Shixiong!" He whistled. Others cheered and clapped a bit too, also wishing him happy birthday.
A disciple in golden-white raised his hand — a little loud amidst the cheers and laughs, surprisingly.
"Don't worry! I will fight to death to avenge your parent too!"
The place soured again as people glared at him. He laughed nervously, putting his hand down.
Wei Wuxian chuckled with an earnest laugh. "Thank you, Jin Gongzi. I hope your Shao-Zongzhu — my sister's fiancé — shares your... motivation."
He didn't need to say more. Everyone knew exactly what he meant. The laughter that followed was sharp and knowing.
As the scene went on with light — though heavy — chatter, it faded. The onlookers felt unsucked.
But we do not know what happened next.
Because here, my imagination quits its job and runs away.