Chapter Text
It started with pain just below the base of his spine, spreading out underneath his shoulder blade. He was on his way out of a village he’d just liberated from the thrall of a very nasty spirit that had taken house in a dilapidated manor, stealing away the villager’s children in the dead of night, when he first noticed it.
The pain was sharp, a pinch that made his muscles spasm and limited how far he could turn his neck. Initially, sitting atop the donkey, he hadn’t thought much of it. He was practically always injured in some way or another -- shallow cuts across his knuckles, a strain in his foot, or a particularly nasty gash like he’d received while vanquishing a rather petty water ghoul last month. He was used to pain, it had been a constant in both of his lifetimes.
So he’d shrugged it off, literally. Ignoring the twinge the movement sent radiating down his spine, and kept moving, hoping to find level ground where he could set up camp before nightfall.
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When he awoke the next morning, the pain had worsened and spread across the top of his shoulders, restricting his neck movement completely. He rubbed the sides of his throat, hoping to warm up the muscles and it helped, a little, though not completely. Wearily he tried to remember a lecture he’d received in his first life, something about the penalties of sleeping atop rock -- never mind in such close proximity to a literal pool of blood and resentment -- and the toll trauma could have on your muscles.
He grunted in pain, his fingers pressing gingerly against a hard ball of muscle on the back of his neck. This body was young, he reasoned with himself, and though it had experienced abuse, similar to how Wei Ying had, it wasn’t to the same extent. He was too thin and perhaps didn’t take the best of care of himself, certainly not by some people’s standards, but he was upright and functioning and that would have to be enough.
And besides, he had a job to do.
Ever since leaving Lan Zhan - after asking where they were heading and being told he was going on alone and feeling like his heart had been split open - he’d bounced from village to village, helping in whatever way he could.
This did not exclude farm work, crop harvesting, and rebuilding a barn. He wrote when he had access to paper, which wasn’t as often as he liked, but he tried to save what money he could for emergencies.
He tried to anticipate where he would arrive next so a response could be sent, but that wasn’t always the case, and he never stayed anywhere for too long. Never wanted to overstay his welcome. When a letter did arrive for him, Lan Zhan’s concern for his well bearing practically oozed off the page. Are you well? Do you need more money? Are you sleeping? I have introduced the talisman you mentioned to the juniors and the results have been promising…
Always neatly printed characters, careful thought expressed elegantly in each stroke. But never the man himself.
Wei Ying missed him desperately. But he wouldn’t force his presence on Lan Zhan, not when his friend had so many other important responsibilities, not when he’d so earnestly promised him he’d take care of himself. So he kept moving. He’d decided that it was time for him to make amends of sorts. To make good on the promise he’d made when he was seventeen.
And so, he wandered from village to village doing what he could to bring peace to the people he found there.
He’d gotten word of a particularly malignant spirit that had attached itself to the only working well in the area. The villagers were desperate, so said the rumors, either drinking from the muddy lake nearby and taking ill as a result or drinking themselves to death in wine. The price of alcohol was rising alongside the death rate. It was near Jin territory but situated so close to the border that it could also be another sect’s problem. As a result, it was going ignored, and as far as Wei Ying knew, no one was offering any assistance.
So off he went, spinning his dizi lazily between his fingers. Just him and the damn donkey.
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By the time he arrived, the sun was low in the afternoon sky, still sitting just above the treetops of the woods that outlined the village. He left the donkey at the only inn’s stable and went in search of the local tavern, or better yet, the cursed well itself. He’d barely made it two feet before an old woman eyed him up and asked him what the hell he wanted.
“I heard you’ve been having troubles, auntie,” Wei Ying said, laughing.
“Mmmm,” she eyed him wearily, “Another cultivator, then? We went without any of you paying any attention to and now you’re crawling all over us like ants stuck in honey.”
“Eh?” he asked, confused, “You’ve had cultivators here before?”
The old woman grunted, “Just last week. Young ones, too. Still with spots,” she chuckled lowly, “They ran back to their clans with their tails between their legs.”
“Well,” Wei Wuxian hid his smile behind his hand as he tapped the side of his nose, “I don’t scare so easily.”
The old woman eyed him warily, “Trouble started up about four months ago.”
“The people here have gone without fresh water for that long?” Wei Ying felt his face darken, “Does Lanling Jin know about this?”
The old woman scoffed, “The Jin have never had any interest or care for what happens to small villages like ours. And why would they? We're poor and provide no profit from which they can tuck into their heavy pockets.”
She spat on the ground in front of Wei Ying’s feet, “Bureaucratic bullshit. Whether it's Jin Guangshan or that serpent Jin Guangyao, it's always been the same.” She eyed Wei Ying critically, “And what sect do you belong to?”
“None,” he said, grinning at her, “I am but a lowly rogue cultivator.”
“No sect, eh?” The old woman croaked, raising one wizened eyebrow and looking him up and down, “I suppose that's why you’re allowed to look like that?”
Wei Ying looked down at his dust-covered shoes, his robes shabby and mended haphazardly on the go, and thought maybe she had a point.
“Were there any suspicious deaths that occurred before the ghost appeared?” Wei Ying asked in an attempt to get them back on track, “Anything you can think of?”
“Of course,” she responded, apparently done with insulting him, “We know who the ghost is. Knowing her name doesn’t make her go away.”
It certainly helps! Wei Ying thought ruefully before clearing his throat, “Who were they?”
The old woman looked at him, pensive, as if weighing his worth. Finally, she seemed to decide, “Yan Mi. Her name was Yan Mi.”
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The old woman, who finally introduced herself as SiSi and declared herself the unofficial village leader, took Wei Ying to her home and made him sit while she puttered around making tea and told the story of Yan Mi.
Yan Mi had been beautiful, kind, and in love, because, Wei Ying mused, that was how all tragic stories began. Yan Mi was from a family of comfortable means here in the village but fell in love with a man who was not. He was from the next village over, and their clandestine love affair lasted for nearly a year before they decided to run away together. The lovers planned to meet by the well after the man had procured a horse from his village, and they’d ride off together under the light of the full moon, or some nonsense like that, SiSi said, rolling her eyes.
Yan Mi snuck out of her family’s home and waited by the well. But the man never came. A storm soon hit, the first of that spring. Still, Yan Mi waited. She was found the next morning, sitting at the well, burning with fever. She fell into a sickly sleep and never awoke. Her body withered away until finally, she died two months later.
It was a sad story, but Wei Ying had heard many sad stories. “And what does she do,” he asked, “When people approach the well?”
SiSi sighed, “What doesn’t she do! Yan Mi was a level-headed young lady when she was alive, but her ghost is all dramatics.” The old woman rolled her eyes, “Screams that could chill your bones, and anyone who gets too close feels as if they are caught in a downpour. Sometimes she throws people around, like a gale of wind. Wan Huong broke his leg trying to get water last week.” SiSi rubbed her eye with a gnarled knuckle, “People have stopped trying.”
Wei Ying shifted in his chair. Pain had spread down the right side of his back now, down to his tailbone, making it impossible to get comfortable. He was sure a hot bath would solve it. Perhaps after finishing this job he’d dip into the money he’d been saving and inquire about one at the inn in the next village over.
SiSi served the tea and looked at him expectantly, “So. What are you going to do about it?”
“Well,” he began, “I’d like to try and bring Yan Mi’s spirit peace.”
“Nevermind her. What she needs is a good kick up the -”
“Can’t do that to a ghost, unfortunately,” Wei Ying murmured.
“- what we need is peace. Stupid girl, wasting herself like that. And for what? A no good man.” She side eyed Wei Ying who flashed her his best smile, before rising from the chair.
“Well,” Wei Ying clapped his hands together, “Point me in the direction of the well so I can get to work!”
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The well sat in what used to be the town center. The few homes and simple tea houses that surrounded the courtyard had been abandoned. The well itself was stone, rising just above Wei Ying’s knee, and was covered in a deep, black moss. The moss spread out, like inky fingertips, reaching out as if to beckon any onlooker to come closer. The rough grass beneath their feet was dead, save for the strange moss, and everything felt wet despite the heat of the sun. Moisture dripped from the roof of the tea house, and small, shallow puddles gathered on the ground.
SiSi stopped just as the well came into view and shook her head.
“I won’t go any further,” she told him, her voice still strong but tinged with something else, something he hadn’t heard yet from her, “She’s worse come nightfall but I don’t like the feeling of,” her eyes darted to the empty homes around them, “being too close.”
It was the first inkling of fear she’d displayed since meeting him, and Wei Ying could see her wrinkled fist tighten on the knob of her cane. She was right about the feeling. The whole area had an aura of resentment, despair. It felt as if the air was closing in around them, pressing against their skin in a way that felt like being underwater.
Curious, Wei Ying thought, stepping closer to the well and stopping at the start of where the dark moss grew on the ground. He knelt down, observing it. It was moss, he surmised, the kind usually found growing on the walls of a cave.
“What are you smiling at?” SiSi snapped at him, causing Wei Ying to jolt. “This place is creepy as anything,” SiSi continued from where she still stood, “and you’re over there smiling.”
Wei Ying chuckled and went to stand only to stumble when a shock of white-hot pain erupted from his tailbone and up his spine, into his head. His vision swam for a moment and he tried to steady himself, his hand coming up to his forehead.
“Eh? What’s wrong with you?” SiSi’s voice rang out in gruff concern. From behind his closed eyes, Wei Ying could hear a tentative shuffle of footsteps moving slightly toward him.
“Ah, I’m okay,” he tried to reassure the old woman, opening his eyes again, “I just stood up too fast.”
“You’re awfully frail for a cultivator,” she scoffed, her eyes narrowing at her, “One strong wind and you’ll be knocked off your feet.”
Wei Ying laughed at the concerned, yet judgmental, tone, “Ah, I’m fine. Really."
“Mn.” SiSi said again, her eyes narrowing slightly.
He turned around again and reached out with his senses, slowly opening himself up to the resentment that lingered over the area. It was heavy, which was to be expected. Yan Mi had essentially set up shop in the area and had gone unchecked. That would soon change.
Turning back to the old woman, Wei Ying smiled and bowed to her, “Thank you for all your help, SiSi. I will remain here until nightfall and take care of Yan Mi then.”
She snorted, “If you say so,” before turning around, gnarled hand gripping her cane, and called over her shoulder, “Don’t get killed!”
SiSi trotted down the path back toward her home, her small feet kicking up the dust from the road, surrounding her in a haze as she hurried.
“You know, she kind of reminds me of Jiang Cheng,” Wei Ying said aloud to no one.
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In retrospect, he should have known better.
Yan Mi was a powerful spirit, completely succumbing to her lover’s betrayal and untimely, slow early death. As soon as the sun fully set, her spirit came out of the well with a high-pitched roar. Suddenly the courtyard was caught in a hurricane of rain and grief. Her form was a dark churning mass of shadow and thunder, her hair whipping out and around like wispy tendrils.
The fight happened quickly. Yan Min, angered by Wei Ying’s attempt to soothe her spirit with Chenquin, took a dive at him which he rolled away from, shoulder twinging the process.
“I know you’re angry,” he told her through song, “however, your time here is over.”
Ultimately, she was a young ghost. Heartbroken and devastated, but not malicious. Wei Ying was still the Yilling Patriarch, and he’d yet to meet a ghost he’d not been able to handle.
She screamed as he vanquished her, her soul letting out one final gale of resentment that sent Wei Ying body cracking into the low wall of the well.
Shit, he thought as he hit the ground and all went quiet and black around him, that’s going to hurt.
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In the swimming, inky darkness that is unconsciousness, Wei Ying dreams of Yan Mi in life. She is crying, her eyes swimming with tears that cascade down her cheeks, her chin, her chest, to the ground where it puddles and churns at her ankles like an angry, roaring sea.
“Why didn’t he come?” The young woman sobs, for she is young, extraordinarily so. Younger than Wei Ying when he died the first time. Her eyes are wet and her heart is broken, “Why didn’t he come for me?”
Wei Ying shrugs, helpless, and tells her honestly, “I don’t know.”
“He loved me but let me go,” she tells him, her throat working against the sobs that continuously rise like an oncoming storm, and Wei Ying feels himself slipping away from her, feels himself rise back towards the surface of reality.
Just before his consciousness breaches the realm of the awake, he hears “How can they love us, and let us go?”