Chapter Text
There are thirteen cultivators standing in an uneasy crowd beyond the boundary of Wei Ying's wards. The unnatural wind of the Burial Mounds tosses the hems of their robes like weeds in a current, their hair unruly about their throats and faces. At the sight of Wei Ying and Lan Wangji they stand straighter. Some of them begin to whisper to each other.
"Hello," Wei Ying calls to them. His posture is immediately more confident than it was mere steps before, a menacingly easy arrogance radiating from his planted feet and crossed arms. "Can I help you?"
"Help yourself," one of them spits back.
Despite the stifling grayness of the resentment-filtered light, Lan Wangji can see he is wearing gold, and vaguely familiar. A Jin, then. He places two others, and a few Ouyang and one Nie. The rest wear no sect allegiance. The unusually eclectic makeup of their group makes him uneasy. Wei Ying is under the watch of so many.
"That's not very polite, given that you're standing on my doorstep," Wei Ying replies.
He sounds disinterested, yet manages to make his disinterest seem ominous. There is no black smoke swirling around him, but the threat is there all the same.
"You!" the Jin shouts, pointing at Wei Ying. "Yiling Laozu! You kidnap the Second Jade of Lan, and then dare to threaten us to our faces? You ask for destruction!"
Lan Wangji blinks. Wei Ying goes silent. He grimaces and does not meet Lan Wangji's glance.
"I am not kidnapped," Lan Wangji says, surprise quickly turning to irritation. "I am paying a visit of my own volition."
Some of the unaligned cultivators glance at each other, shifting. But the loud Jin speaks again.
"Yiling Laozu shows off his power once more. See how he turns even Hanguang-jun into a puppet, to speak his lies for him!"
This accusation startles Lan Wangji. "I am no puppet," he says.
The Jin and an Ouyang scoff at each other.
"Of course, of course," says the Jin.
"That's just what a puppet would say!" shouts one of the men in the back.
Lan Wangji's jaw goes tight, and his fist tightens around Bichen. He takes a breath to argue further.
"Lan Zhan," Wei Ying says quietly beside him. "I think it's time you went home."
Something in Lan Wangji's chest fractures, a spiderweb of old fault lines splitting.
He looks, and though the frail light could not hope to fully capture Wei Ying's beauty, it stuns him all the same: his eyes are tired, his smile wry and sad.
"They won't listen. And it doesn't matter. Go home, be Hanguang-jun. Everyone will forget they saw you here.”
It does not sit right. His apologetic tone, his false reassurance. As if he thinks this is what Lan Wangji wishes to hear. Or perhaps, as if it is what he hopes Lan Wangji wishes to hear.
It is a dismissal, nonetheless. He has been a guest here, and it is time for him to leave. Before he causes Wei Ying needless trouble.
He manages to turn away from him by not allowing himself to think of the long, bleak span of time that awaits him, barren of his laughing eyes and his easy voice.
“I will go,” he says into the air between them. There is nothing else to say.
“Safe travels,” Wei Ying murmurs.
And that is it.
Lan Wangji’s jaw tightens, and his feet carry him forward. The wards let him through with a soft ripple of energy that kisses his skin like a warm breeze. He ignores the gathered cultivators, and they part for him, watch him pass. He steels himself against their gazes and their whispers—he has borne rumors many times before. It is the natural lot of an heir to a great sect. But he will not forget their faces.
The soft glide of metal against wood catches Lan Wangji’s attention. He pivots and draws Bichen just in time to block the blade that comes down for his head. He shoves the Ouyang fool away, and turns to parry the saber swinging toward his waist. He hears Wei Ying call his name. The loudmouth Jin comes next, Lan Wangji plants a foot on his chest—
The sudden silence is complete. The darkness is, too. For half a breath there is neither light nor sound, and the smell of ash fills Lan Wangji’s nose.
The world returns. Lan Wangji nearly stumbles, as if he has boarded an unsteady boat.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying is saying, beside him now, his eyes traveling the length of Lan Wangji’s robes, one firm hand on his upper arm bringing him back to balance. “Are you hurt?”
Disoriented, Lan Wangji looks up, looks forward. He is back inside the wards. Where once he stood, the Jin is now staring in confusion at the unallied cultivator he has just impaled on his sword.
“Lan Zhan—”
Wei Ying cuts off when Lan Wangji turns and meets his gaze. His expression goes from worried to guarded in a heartbeat. He releases Lan Wangji’s arm.
“Thirteen against one isn’t fair,” he says. “And if I’d just killed them, there’d be more trouble for us all.”
Lan Wangji’s stomach lurches as if it has only now caught up with the rest of him. His pulse is loud in his ears. The reality begins to dawn of what has just happened, of Wei Ying’s anger and what would wake it, of his fears, and—
“Yiling Laozu!” the Jin roars. “You’ll pay for this! You’ll pay for all your crimes! You think you’re above us all, but you’re just a man—let us see how well you and your army live without supplies! You dog! You dirty fucking—”
Great, massive tendrils of black energy, thicker than the gnarled trees from which they spring, rise above the little enclave. They writhe and dart forward in staggered turn, only to draw back once more.
“Watch your words,” Wei Ying says, cold and hard as steel. “I spared you once. Try your luck, see how far my patience lasts you.”
He turns to Lan Wangji, and his anger dampens, though his expression stays distant.
“Come back in,” he says. He backs away a step, and turns toward the settlement. “Just until they’ve gone.”
The men do not leave. More of them come.
There is little sun by which to gauge the days in this place, but Lan Wangji’s habits are well enough ingrained that he does not need it. Which is fortunate: the working of the earth undertaken by the people here is begun early, and Lan Wangji is not one to sit idle when there are tasks to be done. On the second morning, he unfolds from his meditative position on the borrowed cot, and stretches out his muscles. His core warms him in the night, keeps the creeping chill at bay, but today he is beginning to feel the ache born of so many days without lying down to sleep. He has not wanted to give himself over to such careless oblivion while in such a precarious position. Each day more people arrive to test Wei Ying’s wards, and while he trusts they will hold, he does not know what else the rabble might try. The glory and honor of taking Yiling Laozu’s head is evidently a motivating prize. Xiongzhang’s meeting with Jiang Wanyin cannot come soon enough.
In the meantime, he welcomes the comfort of a budding routine. His strong, callused hands are good for the work of farming, it turns out, and his temperament is well-suited to the quiet, to the toil, to the simplicity of the life the Wens have made in this hostile place.
He allows one glance at Wei Ying, sleeping fitfully as ever on his stone bed, before going out into the eerily silent morning. He wonders what time Wei Ying went to sleep. He wonders if such sleep even merits being called rest. He wonders, as he has so many times in recent years, if he were more skilled at softness, at kindness, if Wei Ying would let him try to help.
He offered to play Rest the first night. Wei Ying’s face twisted into a grimace as he said he worked better at night undisturbed, and proceeded to ignore him. Lan Wangji has not offered again. It is tearing him apart not to offer again.
Outside, Si-shu is building the fire for the morning’s congee. He nods at Lan Wangji, and Lan Wangji nods back on his way to the rickety storage shed. He measures out the paltry grain Wen-popo insists will be enough for all of them at each meal, taking comfort in the fact that she includes him in her accounting of it, unaware that he is capable of practicing inedia—it will leave more for the others, even when rationed so tightly.
He sets the straw bowl of rice on a stone beside the fire, and goes to chop more wood. It is an arduous task composed not just of the chopping itself, but of warding off vengeful spirits during the act, and then of cleansing the wood once it has been chopped. Among all the members of the little settlement, only Wei Ying has been capable of it for long months.
Lan Wangji is glad that he is here, now, at such a time, when Wei Ying is so exhausted by first reviving Wen Qionglin, and now by the constant strengthening of their defenses.
He chops the wood, and purges it. He stacks it neatly against the shed, each day piling it higher to lessen Wei Ying’s burden once he has gone. Which will be soon. Perhaps even tomorrow. Which will be a good thing, for all of them. To be free of the angry crowd trapping them all within the wards, to be able to sell and buy food, to be free to live their lives, such as they are.
A good thing.
While he has worked, the others have risen to crowd around the warmth of the fire. He has seen them trickle in before—they wake each other and come in pairs, or trios, units formed by choice among necessity. Friendships, family—trust. Wen-popo leans against Si-shu and eyes the dirt on Lan Wangji’s pale hems as he passes, but does not fuss over him as she does the others.
He marks this nonetheless as improvement: the first day, she hardly looked at him at all. None of them did. Now they nod, and point to things that need doing, and pass him bowls of rice and root vegetables which he waits to pour unnoticed into whichever bowl is nearest. They show him how to till, and how to plant—they cast their eyes to the earth, and call him Hanguang-jun in hushed tones, but they trust him to do the work that needs to be done.
After the meal, Lan Wangji takes up the water pails to fill them down at the only clean stream.
“Hanguang-jun,” Wen-guniang says, “A-Ning will get the water today.”
Lan Wangji sets the pails down, and looks at her.
“The cultivators have set up more watch posts,” she says. “A-Ning will be…” she glances down at Lan Wangji’s pale robes, bright in this desolate place. “More difficult to spot.”
He nods. As much as he dislikes it, he would prefer to avoid another altercation of the kind which precipitated his extended stay.
He pauses a moment, considering what he might accomplish next instead. Wei Ying has not woken, will not for some time, and Lan Wangji has decided to perform as many of his tasks as possible before he does. It is simpler to do them this way, avoiding Wei Ying’s customary argument over whose turn they might fall under today.
“Hanguang-jun,” Si-shu calls, “Popo’s joints are aching this morning, and the rest of us have things to do. Will you watch A-Yuan until the air warms up?”
The boy is dozing against his cousin’s knee, stomach full after his clandestinely doubled portion. Lan Wangji nods, sits down, and allows A-Yuan to climb into his lap. He holds him there as he gets comfortable, proud of how much his awkwardness with the child has diminished in just a few days. He is less a foreign concept now, and more a curious bundle of rags that is both not warm enough and too little for his age. Sleeping during the day is a bad habit—but Lan Wangji knows that here, even in the haven Wei Ying has labored to create, sleep during the night can be difficult. The screams of the restless dead are distant, but no less capable of waking a small child.
“Youqian-gege,” A-Yuan mumbles.
Lan Wangji looks down at him, small and ragged and sweet with sleep. “Mn.”
“Is this…clouds…” he asks, freshly-scrubbed fingers pinching the embroidery on Lan Wangji’s robes.
“These are clouds,” Lan Wangji confirms and corrects.
“Like this?” He pokes the center of his own forehead, indicating Lan Wangji’s ribbon.
“Mn,” Lan Wangji says. “The same.”
“Why?”
This is one of A-Yuan’s favorite questions. It is a very good one, Lan Wangji thinks. Clever.
“They represent my sect, and my clan.”
“Why?”
“We live on a mountain, among clouds just like these.”
“That high?” A-Yuan asks, eyes sleepily blinking wider.
“Mn.”
He is silent for a moment, eyelids heavy. Then, “Are they soft?”
“You cannot feel them,” Lan Wangji says, regretful. “They are a fine mist, like fog.”
A-Yuan’s disappointment is reminiscent of his own when he was of a similar age, making the discovery himself. But it is bleak on his round little face. Too natural.
“However, inside one,” Lan Wangji goes on, “the world turns cool and quiet, and light shines through in every color at once.”
“Every color? Even purple?” A-Yuan asks.
“Mn.”
“And green?”
“And green.”
A-Yuan smiles. “Red?” It is a game, now, it seems.
“And red.”
He squirms, giggling. “Yellow-orange-pink?”
“Yellow-orange-pink,” Lan Wangji confirms, grave.
Another giggle. “Blue?”
“Blue.”
“Blue is your favorite color,” A-Yuan says sagely, as if he has won the game.
Lan Wangji blinks. “Is it?”
A-Yuan’s nods are exaggerated, as is the yawn that follows. “I like green, because of baby plants are green. You like blue, because of all your clothes are blue.”
“Sound logic,” allows Lan Wangji. “They are both good colors.”
He does not add that for a long time now, the color that has most brought him joy is red.
“Pretty colors,” A-Yuan says. He pets at the silken clouds on Lan Wangji’s robes. “Soft.”
“Mn,” Lan Wangji agrees.
The pang comes immediately, familiar now. A-Yuan’s own clothes are rough—far rougher than any Lan Wangji has ever worn. They chafe such that the boy is known to throw them off at the first hint of warmer weather. Lan Wangji resolves to send bolts of sturdy, comfortable cloth to the Wens in thanks for their hospitality, once he is home.
Once he is home. That will be the only way he might help any of them, then. So far away.
When he looks down at A-Yuan, his eyes are closed. Lan Wangji feeds him small bursts of spiritual energy to strengthen his meridians and thinks, not for the first time, that this would be the ideal age for him to begin formation of a golden core.
He has no idea if Wei Ying and Wen-guniang have any such plans for him. He has no right to ask. And there is a sickening, creeping sense in the back of his mind that none of them have so much as considered such an optimistic future.
When he glances up, he finds Wei Ying in his cave’s entrance, up uncharacteristically early, watching them. He looks away when their eyes meet. Lan Wangji’s stomach tightens.
That afternoon, when A-Yuan’s energy begins to flag once more, Lan Wangji is carrying him up to the ramshackle little house for a nap when he begins to cry.
“Tuzi, Tuzi!” he wails.
He cannot sleep without his toy.
“Where is she?” Lan Wangji asks.
“A-Qing-jiejie’s house,” sobs A-Yuan.
Lan Wangji pats the boy’s back. “We will go and get her. No need to cry.”
Rubbing his eyes, A-Yuan sniffles and nods. Wen-guniang’s workshop is deep in the labyrinth of caves, between Wei Ying’s rooms and the old temple. As Lan Wangji makes his way there, A-Yuan falls asleep in his arms. He slows his stride, so as not to wake him, but still he does not hear the voices until he is too close. He freezes when he catches words on the air.
“...can’t just keep doing more and more,” Wen-guniang is saying. “Nobody can withstand it this long without a break.”
“Are you telling me Wen Ruohan took breaks for his health? He didn’t seem the type,” Wei Ying answers.
Lan Wangji’s chest lurches. He should not be here. He should not hear the private conversation between a healer and her patient. He should not hear this. He turns to go.
“Wen Ruohan had a core,” Wen-guniang says. “And he had me.”
Lan Wangji takes a step away.
“Well, I have you,” Wei Ying retorts.
Lan Wangji pauses.
“It’s not enough,” says Wen-guniang. “You need sleep. You need meditation. You need at least a day without bathing in resentment, or you’ll fall apart. There’s no core to hold you together, just a human body. It’s not built for the strain.”
A distant roaring grows suddenly louder in Lan Wangji’s ears.
“I’ll take a break when we’re not under attack,” Wei Ying sighs. “Maybe.”
“Wei Wuxian! There’s no point in these treatments if you won’t listen to me!”
Silence. Lan Wangji cannot move. He cannot see. If he breathes, he will turn around and rush into the room, grab Wei Ying, and shake him. He does not know what else he will do. He is terrified of what he will do. He is not thinking of what he has just heard. He is not thinking of anything at all.
“Just help me, for now, Wen Qing,” Wei Ying says, more quietly. “I’ll listen when it’s safe, alright? Safer. How about that?”
A long sigh. “Fine,” Wen-guniang says. “As soon as those people have gone, I’m knocking you out myself.”
“Alright,” Wei Ying huffs. “Fine, fine. I look forward to it.”
Lan Wangji does not realize he is moving until the sunlight stings his eyes. He is outside, he is across the courtyard, he is mounting the steps to the house. He is opening the door. Inside, it is chill and dim, and thankfully empty. He goes to A-Yuan’s little pallet in the corner, and bends to lay him down.
The boy stirs, making sleepy noises of complaint. Lan Wangji realizes that he did not have a chance to collect the toy. He gathers him close again, and rocks him gently. A-Yuan settles, face pressed to Lan Wangji’s shoulder. Lan Wangji holds him, and keeps his breaths even, and his tears silent. He keeps the boy warm, and lets him sleep, as the storm rages in his mind.