Work Text:
He started. Then stopped. Then started again. Then stopped. He wrote three words. He threw his brush across the room. Then he got up to retrieve it.
Eventually, he gave up. Maybe tomorrow.
Jiang Cheng sighed, frustrated very generally with the written word.
He was a politician.
Writing was actually one of the things he actually prided himself in. His father had often asked him to read over his letters to the other sect leaders, or announcements to the sect. He would ask him to draft initial versions of speeches or write really any piece of routine sect business. Jiang Cheng remembered the soft frown, his father peering at the words, nodding, “You’re right,” he might say, “This is much better. Thank you a-Cheng.” And Jiang Cheng would bow, as his father reached to rewrite the letter in Jiang Cheng’s words, the boy knowing he was dismissed, but the words of praise would echo in his ears, bringing warmth, maybe a smile to his face.
While rebuilding Lotus Pier, he’d had to send out hundreds of letters – calling in favours, looking for old friends of his parents’, seeking support, allies. All written with a deft hand, carefully reviewed for just the right words - stroking a minor sect leader’s ego, expressing his humility, his gratitude, while subtly weaving in reminders of the times the Jiang sect had come to their aid.
During the war, he’d often had to write to other sect leaders, to distant Jiang captains, to suppliers or worried parents of the disciples Jiang Cheng’s own age. He had usually been the junior in any correspondence, but still the superior as the Yunmeng Jiang Sect’s leader. He was frequently tasked with more difficult correspondence. Answering questions about his brother. Navigating proposals for his, for his sister’s, hand. Affirming the Jiang Sect’s power – while still ensuring that the recovering sect wasn’t overburdened. Maintaining their allies, while trying to make sure they weren’t absorbed by the other sects.
Then there had been that long period in between. He’d been alone. Alone, or perhaps accompanied by his sister’s young child. Alone but for the correspondence he had to answer. The reports he had to write. Strict, but understanding. Responsive, but measured.
Jiang Cheng knew that he had a reputation, especially in times of stress, of being reactive. Impulsive. Maybe even reckless.
But the Yunmeng Jiang sect could not afford to have a leader who was unreliable, unpredictable. Immature.
So he liked writing letters. To be able to reread, to take back, some of the things he said. Obfuscate feelings he may imply long before the reader ever got their hands on it.
The Yunmeng Jiang sect prospered now – not because of Jiang Cheng’s sometimes aggressive tendencies, as some of the rowdier young disciples seemed to believe, but in spite of it. They prospered because so much of politics, of inter-sect relationships, was done in writing. Was scripted. Or was so based in etiquette and formalities that even if something caught him off guard, he could answer evenly. Carefully.
Leaving his outbursts as something the other sects were aware of but, with the exception of his nephew, never witnessed.
Jiang Cheng was a careful writer. A considerate writer. A writer who could, who would, curb his every emotion to defend his sect’s best interests.
But this letter… This letter he couldn’t even figure out how to begin.
Because when it came to his brother, when it came to complicated pasts, intertwined childhoods, hurt, pain, loss, guilt? When it came to his brother, no formalities, no revisions, could overcome the wall of emotion that stood in his way.
Wei Wuxian.
The Yunmeng Jiang Sect invites you to attend its Mid-Autumn Festival celebration.
Sect Leader Jiang
It read like it was written by an overworked disciple. Like it was one of thousands of invitations just like it.
Wei Wuxian might very well read it that way.
But still, Jiang Cheng gave the letter to a Junior disciple. Asked her to make sure the letter found its way to Gusu – from where, wherever he may be traveling right now, Jiang Cheng was confident the note would find his brother.
And if it didn’t? Well, perhaps that was one more comforting explanation for another holiday spent alone.
Jiang Cheng was a good writer. A decent politician. A reliable sect leader.
But without the veil of formalities, the well-practiced considerations, the distance afforded by his status, he feared that there was very little left to value, to praise, at all.
He was a politician. A powerful leader.
But neither of those things meant anything to his brother.