Chapter Text
***
"instead of a man of peace and love, I have become a
man of violence and revenge."
-hiawatha
Breathe, no crying, he thinks as a strip of leather is shoved between his teeth, head yanked back. The muscles in his neck flex. Wei Wuxian breathes, focusing on the red sky—the licking flames—the stench of mud and iron and rain—of his shidi and shimei burning—of the feeling of his golden core—drained and utterly shaky. He flexes his fingers, shaky and stiff, and presses his hands firmly along the small of his back, pressing on the gaping wound that's exposed out to the air. His throat clicks when he swallows. Breathe, do not cry. Breathe and do not cry. He breathes and he does not cry. There's no use to crying; he'd learned it all when he was ten, bright-eyed and new. Crying stopped absolutely nothing, crying was an instigation. Crying did not stop those with intention, crying stopped the weak and the unwilling. Crying did nothing but show vulnerability. He swallows again, listening to the laughter and the taunting, to the arrogance and illusion of superiority. Listens and waits and waits and waits and Wei Wuxian refuses to cry.
He should have slit Wen Chao's throat in that cave; should have yanked that sword hard and fast against where the bulk of his throat bulged. He'd tear it out with his fingers now if he could. Toss it down in the mud and watch it dirty and break down into compost. The worms would complain of the foul taste—he can't imagine Wen Chao of all people would have any sort of pleasant taste—but they'd receive a meal and Wei Wuxian would receive the full courtesy of watching Wen Chao bleed out and beg a little with a satisfied feeling within his belly, like being full on a good dinner.
There's no use in wishing for anything else.
They'll slit his throat first, here and without noise, and he will be another body strewn and massacred. They'll dump him here with a rage built up in his throat and his blood seeping into the mud and he'll come back as some vengeful spirit and he will be the one to spit Wen Chao's throat out and perhaps he'll allow Lan Zhan to liberate him like a good little Lan should be able to. Perhaps if he goads them in some way—insults or looks at Wen Chao a certain way—they'll first decide to cut his fingers off or carve his tongue out, decide his guts are intriguing enough to observe. The more spite, the more anger; it all benefits only him. If they decide to take his right hand after all, it only serves him. When he comes back as a ghost, as one who wishes to rip Wen Chao to shreds and watch the worms eat what makes his throat anything identifiable.
He breathes and he does not cry.
Jiang Cheng is safe; that's all that really matters. The talisman will force him off to Meishan with Shijie; it shouldn't burn or smudge off before he's trekked his body the two day trip, sleeping when his body needs rest. Compulsion was easy; specific compulsion was so much harder. Perhaps he's thankful his own rooms were burning.
The notes and theories he'd had within sheets and rolls of paper and scrolls would be enough for Wen Chao and his disgusting mind to experiment with. Compulsion and sleep; the ones that he'd been working on slow the body's natural cycle of hunger. (Experimental and only for his own personal use to push out consistent work. He knows enough but he was still an advanced talisman student and had things he wished to work on.)
But Jiang Cheng is safe.
Wei Wuxian blinks against the hazy blur along his vision, smearing what remains of the main building within Lotus Pier. Jiang Cheng is safe and that's all that needs to be done. He's never quite thought of his use running out; of Madame Yu's only reason to keep him around to come to any form of end here. He flexes his fingers, eyes trailing off to the woman who'd engraved such large knowledge into the smallest parts of his body. She looks peaceful, if it's possible to look peaceful as her people died and the head disciple of her sect denied her last order. She'd watched him stumble his way back in, eyes wide and positively scathing, and the slap he'd received on the field had been nothing compared to what she'd done before.
The sword she'd thrust at his chest was heavier than he was used to, but cut well. He thinks Uncle Jiang had stopped the first sword that had cut at him. She'd stopped the second, and neither had stopped the third.
The hand in his hair tightens, yanking his head back harshly and pulling at the wound that starts at his neck and ends at his hip. The sky is red, flames and blood alike coloring it in some haze. There's no sword pressed to his throat, no arrow being aimed at him. There's no immediate thought of death, and perhaps that is the most frightening part. When in war like this, it is normal to kill without hesitation. You kill and you do nothing else because anything else besides death is cruel and if there is no death, the intentions are only ever cruel and Wei Wuxian breathes through his nose, quieting the shaking of his bones and the harsh thump of his heart.
Death is a mercy here. Death is mercy so Wen Chao will neglect to give him the sort of reprieve he's believing. If he closes his eyes—if he pretends he isn't awake and allows his back to stretch open more and allow himself to bleed out—if he pretends he is anywhere else, perhaps it will be better. He'll allow himself to think the acrid smell of burning flesh isn't real, that he is with his Shijie and Jiang Cheng on one of the docks shoving fresh watermelon in his mouth, letting his hands grow sticky with the juices. He'll lick his fingers clean and then allow Shijie to dry his hands because there is gentleness to her care and he will allow himself to feel that gentleness. But then he will grab another slice of watermelon to simply feel her do it again. The water will be warm when he goes to swim with Jiang Cheng, when they are divested of burdens and titles and they are simple names without the worries of life. They are children, swimming in their home and allowing their sister to attend to her embroidery and hum with her toes skimming the water, and perhaps they'll splash her but only when her project is out of her hands and safely nestled behind her. The sour scent of blood is nothing but the iron of Suibian, utterly familiar weight and utterly familiar thrum of longing and power. In these little fantasies, in the easiest stretch of pond where the lotuses are the fattest—are the sweetest and most beautiful—he'll let himself believe he is leading familiar hands around his home, bright and laughing. He will allow himself to believe those clean, white shoes follow him and him only because there's so much to see. The water chestnuts and lotus seeds, the ripe peaches and juicier watermelon. Their fingers brush and—
And death does not come because, from Wen Chao, that is mercy.
"To even think only you'd be the one left standing. The brilliant Lotus Pier and its powerful First Lady and mistress, all reduced to ash. And only a branded dog left to allow it any merit." It's a taunt. A gross, characteristic taunt. He can hear the squelching of mud, the squeak and the smear as Wen Chao walks, boots sinking with his weight. "Tell me, Wei-dog, how is it you of all people has managed anything out here? How many of my men did you cut down before your precious Sect Leader was downed?"
Enough, he thinks. Not enough. I'd stick your head on the pike next.
There's a hiss, and his neck wrenches back again. He doesn't mean to let it slip, but a groan escapes from behind the leather, low and angry. Wen Chao pauses, tilting his head. The sneer on his face becomes some mangled smile, teeth bared like a dog staring at its prey.
Breathe and do not cry. You are Yunmeng Jiang and you will not cry—
"Do you understand any of what your stunts have done? My father has talked of nothing but the Jiang disciple that nearly slit my throat. Really, the initial plan was to come and cut your head off in front of that pathetic little heir of yours; but my JiaoJiao wanted your hand and I couldn't rightly take what was hers before myself." I'll shove your fingers down your gullet. "So the plan changed again." Wei Wuxian blinks, eyebrows furrowing. Changed again. For a moment he makes no noise besides the shaky breathing, the labored breaths of keeping himself conscious and awake as blood seeps down his back and soaks the back of his robes against his skin. He digs his fingernails down into the torn edges of flesh.
The plan changed again. The initial had been to behead him, changed to taking his hand. Again implies another change.
A splash of rain hits his eye and Wen Chao pats his cheek roughly—hand over the red print where Madame Yu's had landed. It smarts, a rippling sting. The plan changed again.
"Now," Wen Chao laughs. Snorts. It's undignified. Wei Wuxian has had the luxury of hearing the undignified snorts of those in power, of people who look away or think they are worth anything more. Wen Chao's arrogance is palpable. "Now my father thinks you're worth something; you're already branded cattle. Tell me, Wei-dog, how does it feel to be on your knees?" A hand wraps into his bangs, yanking his head up.
Wei Wuxian breathes through his nose, blood and spit collecting at the corners of his mouth.
"A dignified little place for a bitch like you; all yelping and barking. Are your knees still soft and smooth or have they hardened from all your time walking on them to please everyone here?" A sharp yank to his hair. "How good are you, Wei-dog, at staying where you should? Apparently, not very! Grabbing me and threatening to kill me. And, somehow, you survived and came back for little reason other than to watch your precious pier fall!"
Wei Wuxian shudders, blinking away the dizziness creeping at the edges of his vision. Spit builds up at the corners of his mouth, thick and frothing and sour. He uses his tongue, shoving the strap between his teeth away and leans back, viciously spitting out at Wen Chao, spittle and blood and scraps of torn cheek hitting the sharp line of his jaw.
Wen Chao reers back, releasing his bangs and swiping away the liquid furiously. He finds himself laughing, delirious little shudders and a lightness in his head. No one's quite spit at the young master yet; hasn't quite shoved him down where he should be. The little mark of spit and blood—dirty spit and dirty blood—on an otherwise decently clean face; it's funny. It's deliciously funny and he can't quite stop the laugh that builds up, the sharp giggle. The man behind him—a little Wen nobody with no face—yanks his hair back, meaty fingers yanking along the ribbon in his hair, knotted and dirty. He groans, only interrupting the small peal of laughter for a moment before the leather is shoved deeper into his mouth, something that makes him choke and gag.
He hears the snarl before he feels the hands on his face, tugging him up. His knees slide, mud-soaked and sticking. "No," Wen Chao says, "no, let him giggle all he wants. I want to hear him scream a little without anything interfering with this next step."
The strap catches on one of his teeth when it's yanked out. For a moment, Wei Wuxian merely gasps, deep and wet, and hunches his shoulders, feeling the yank, the pull, of the deep stretch of his spine. He'll bleed out at some point. At some point, his mind offers. It'll be over in a bit. They'll have had to take hours to even start catching up with Jiang Cheng, and his shidi has Zidian, has a strong core and the ambitious rage of his mother and the agility of his father; Jiang Cheng will be fine.
Maybe if Jiang Cheng forgives him, he'll let Wen Chao die slowly and painfully. Slow and bleeding out and with every inch of fear Wei Wuxian should be feeling.
There's still blood in his spit—he only notices when it hits the ground and swirls with the mud and rainwater. Like paint, in a way. For a moment, he allows himself to laugh, voice hoarse and raspy, before he snorts himself—an undignified sound.
"Do whatever you'd like," he offers. He feels giddy with it. Elated. "I'll just come back; I'll do whatever you've done to me tenfold and repay your arrogance a thousand times over. I'll tear your miserable throat out and shove it back down so you can taste it. S'not really revenge unless I can enjoy myself; worse than whatever—"
"Come back?"
He says it like it's funny; as if Wei Wuxian isn't privy to some part of the joke. He blinks, mouth tasting iron-like and wet. Wet and dry all at the same time, like his body can't quite decide what it wants to feel like.
Wen Chao laughs again, something grating within the quiet pelt of rain. "Come back? No, no; we long know how angry you are, Wei Wuxian. Killing you would do little in our own favor." A sharp finger jabs at his forehead, probing. Taunting. "As if. I admit; I was quite ready to watch you gargle on your blood and beg a little, and I'd have put your hand up as a trophy because of my JiaoJiao and her humble wants." There's a tittering laugh behind him, of something sour and sweet. "However, branded cattle are to be handled directly by my father, Wei-dog."
Breathe and do not cry. Breathe and do not cry.
Wet, slick hands grab his chin, forcing his head up again. Wen Chao's hands are sweaty and bony, disgusting and revolting, as he yanks aside Wei Wuxian's collar, angling them open to view the healed burn that sits along his heart. He breathes and he breathes and he breathes and Wei Wuxian does not cry because he has no reason to.
Wang Lingjiao titters again, some delighted little smirk on her face. I'll cut your hand and legs off and watch you crawl and wail to kill you. I'll run you both through and when I come back I'll tear your skin off—
Breathe and do not cry, Wei Wuxian. It is useless. They won't stop; you are simply cattle at this moment.
"Branded cattle," he rasps out, mind foggy. He's so tempted to spit in Wen Chao's face again, that spot where blood is still smudged. A tingling sense of delight gnaws at his chest. Just for the smallest moment before it melts down and away as the words register. He repeats it dully, dumbly, "Branded cattle."
The sharpest whisper.
Breathe and do not cry, A-Xian. Shijie was always good at calming him down. When the world buzzed or the barking of dogs echoed in his head; the moments after Zidian flayed his back and she'd hold him close and he'd inhale her soothing smell, the sweet oils she massaged down into the ends of her hair. My XianXian is only so little, his poor lungs. Breathe first, do not cry before you are calm. In, one and two, out, one and two.
The leather strap stretches, slick with rainwater and from being wrung through sweaty hands. His chin is still forced up, a hand held to his face. He feels for his core, for anything, for a spark within the swirling mass. It twinges, a stretch, a pull, a yank—
"Wen Zhuliu," Wen Chao sing-songs, waving a hand his way. Wei Wuxian breathes and breathes and breathes and shuffles and tugs himself away from the approaching man. He receives a knee to his back, in the center of his spine where the sword hit deepest and he swallows down his yell and hardens his eyes because he will not allow himself to be afraid. Not of Wen Zhuliu, not of Wen Chao.
I'll kill you, he thinks when the older man—stoic and utterly calm—merely looks at his face. Looks at him as if he is nothing, only for a moment, until there is the slightest inclination of his head.
I'll kill you, Wei Wuxian promises when the Wen's little dog opens his mouth and tells him, "For what it is worth, Young Master Wei, it was quite a pleasure seeing one so skilled. I apologize for what is to come."
"Don't apologize to him!" Wang Lingjiao huffs, nose pointed high. "He still deserves every bit of punishment the Wen Sect has to offer; attempting to harm me or my ChaoChao! Wen Zhuliu, Wen Zhuliu; make him scream. That bitch Yu Ziyuan—"
"She is still a respectable cultivator; do not disgrace her name."
"How dare you—!" she screeches back.
Wen Zhuliu merely turns his head away and faces Wei Wuxian, stretching his hand out in the easiest gesture.
It burns.
The world bleeds away for a moment, something utterly sharp and unfocused and terrifying. The wind muffles in his ears, the sound of rain and the feeling of the hand pressed to his chest that ignites a fierce, hot burning beneath his skin, pushing through his veins. His vision whites out for a moment, sharp and iron and utterly sinking. Breathe and do not cry, he repeats. A furious little mantra that stabs through his mind. He feels for his core, feels it fleeting and cracking and burning away as if nothing will be left behind. He reaches for it, gasping high and sharp. The hands on him drop away, and he lands on his side in the mud, shaking and convulsing, feeling with every inch of him as the thing he'd worked so hard for dissipates. Wen Zhuliu's hand is so present, even if not touching him. So present and ghost-like and he wants it gone, even if for only the moment. But it's there and touching him and his core is burning—white-hot and leaving.
It's leaving and he can't grasp it, unable to pull it back into him. He tries, clawing and scratching and begging in his head. The desperation is iron. Strong and hard and unyielding and aching. He feels his jaw snap shut, teeth grinding, and his fingers squeeze tightly together, muscles spasming and locking. Bright spots of light, colorful and dark all the same, burst behind his eyelids when his eyes roll back.
At the moment he is warm, and then there is nothing but the unsettling chill and the air that puffs from his lips. A mist. Wei Wuxian breathes, blinking dumbly at the mud and mixture of blood, listening to the quieting sound of a dying fire, of scorched flesh and the sound of mud clinging to boots. He's cold. He hasn't felt this cold in so long.
An aching, yawning void sits at his core, an unfeeling little thing. A nothingness.
I'll kill you, he repeats, focusing quietly on the hems of robes and the tips of swords. His eyes are fuzzy. Pain and cold are mixing and there is nothing but the indescribable emptiness aching in his stomach. It all burns for the moment; disorienting and hot fire. Pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain pain I'll kill you I'll kill you I'll kill you I'll kill you—
He does not scream. He does not scream but the sound that leaks from him is childish and small and the way they laugh is simply something that filters in and out, in and out.
He does not scream but the feeling in his throat is a close one. When they shove the leather strap back between his teeth, he tries to bite, tries to tear the man who's touching him. He feels blood burst on his tongue and then he laughs and is smacked with the palm of a hand back down into the mud. Wei Wuxian blinks, blinks, blinks.
And then he laughs because he is quite ready to die.
Branded cattle.
Wen Chao's smile grows, stepping over to him when the strap is secured in his teeth, tied tight and tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. There's a furious twist of fingers, yanking and pulling into the hair he'd tied with his ribbon. It's yanked—hard—and he finds himself staring right at Wen Chao's knee. White. White pants, clean and cleaner and without a trace of his shidis' blood because Heavens forbid Wen Chao try anything before it is clear he'd fail. Branded cattle he'd called Wei Wuxian. An animal, property. Something entirely not his. The fingers tangle, yanking and catching on split nail edges. Wei Wuxian hisses, leather tasting of sweat and skin and flesh and burning.
"I'd love to see your head roll and send it off to somewhere; Lanling was a fun choice but sending it off to Qinghe or Gusu was also a fun idea. You hung off Lan Wangji like a leech. How would he react to seeing your desecrated head at his doorstep?"
Breathebreathebreathebreathebreathe—nocryingnocryingnocrying. Do not cry do not cry. Don't cry.
Don't.
Metal gleams along his eyesight, bright within the dullness of rain and the dying light of the burning corpses of his shidi. He swallows, focusing his eyes directly on Wen Chao's knee. Focus. Some animals pretend to be dead to loosen jaws and then spring in for the kill. Pretend to be dead, pretend to be dead and then—
The blade is positioned along the back of his head, pressing against the hair that lies just beneath his ribbon, loose and untightened. He's able to draw in a breath, quick and sharp, just before he feels the yank, the hard tug. Hair falls in front of his eyes, uneven to his chin and shorter along the back, nape exposed and cold rain hitting his neck. He sees from the corner of his eye a flash of red, billowing fabric that clings to one stick that stands tilted in the mud. He watches the ribbon tangle itself, dragging the ends within the mud, watching it get dirty and smudged. His chest heaves, emotion building up in some rampant little wave. The hair Wen Chao cut is clutched in his hand, long and curling and damp. Freshly cut strands cling to his chin, brushing the curve of his neck at the longest bits and the bottoms of his ears at the shortest. He blinks.
His tongue tastes of iron, sticky. His body aches, shivering and shuddering.
I'll kill you. I'll leave your body to rot and then I'll douse it in flames and alcohol. I'll kill you I'll kill you I'll kill you I'll kill you. I'll run you through and—
Wen Chao laughs, cackling, and Wei Wuxian watches as he unwraps his hand, hair falling limply into the mud. "Whores within Qishan need a little shame to thrive there," he says
Whores.
Wei Wuxian blinks and allows himself to move away from it all—imagining that when they haul him to his feet and shove a bolt of cloth around the leather, securing it in a secondary knot, when they re-tie his wrists together and twist them, when the outer robes he wears are torn apart and his back exposed to the cold air, it is Shijie's pond water and the stickiness of his fingers is only watermelon juice. It's a thicker red—a thicker stench—but it is sticky and if he focuses none of this is going wrong. He's forced to stand, to stretch his back as someone forces bandages pressed to the wound, no skill and all force. They're unclean and pushing the flesh apart instead of together, no spiritual energy to filter through. His knees go weak for a moment before the collar of his robes is yanked and he is forced up to his feet.
For a moment he is dizzy, then he blinks and the world focuses before someone else's hands are on him. He's tired. He's so ridiculously tired of it and his body aches and he wants to skewer Wen Chao down into the mud.
"–ei-gongzi? Wei-gongzi?"
Oh. Oh. Wen Qionglin. Wen Ning. He's much gentler with his hands than whoever shoved the bandages into his back, holding the back of his torn robes but carefully grasping his elbow. It's not a strong hold, not very harsh at all. Wei Wuxian could snap his wrist and steal the sword hanging loosely at his side. For a moment it is quiet, and just as Wei Wuxian is trying to figure out how quickly he'd be able to bring his bound hands in front of him, Wen Ning speaks again.
"I'm so-so sorry, Wei-gongzi." The words echo for a moment. "Wen-er-gongzi wants me to watch you. I just--just need you to walk as–as long as you are able. Your–your back is in a precarious st-state and it may be untouched until my sis-sister is able to stitch it up." Wen Ning looks apologetic enough, biting his lip with watery eyes and a firmer hold on his elbow, placing his hands in a way to force his hands in a position that he feels alleviates some pull on his spine.
He blinks, breathing harshly against the wad of leather. Oh.
"Wen Ning! Drag him over here and tie him again! He can walk the rest of the way to Qishan; a new dog parading around! Saves your own screw-up from that wretched archery performance, doesn't it?"
There's a flinch from Wen Ning and a harsh glare earned from Wei Wuxian—pathetic as he is right now. Wen Chao spits at his feet before proudly turning his face away, wrapping one arm around Wang Lingjiao, Wen Zhuliu following carefully after them. Wei Wuxian stares at his hand, feels the yawning burn of nothing that sits at his core, feels and feels and feels and feels and he hates. The leather doesn't move when he probes it with his tongue, and Wen Ning is the only thing keeping him up.
The fire is gone, bodies have been burnt. His rooms don't exist anymore; a smudge of ash amongst burning lotus flowers and ponds curling with smoke. When Wen Ning gently tugs on his arm, he stumbles along, thinking and planning any way he could decapitate Wen Chao before Wen Zhuliu or one of the guards surrounding him kills Wei Wuxian. He thinks and thinks and it is utterly useless for the moment.
I'll kill you.
His chest burns. Wen Ning is something sturdy right now.
(Is Wen Ning trustworthy? Is Wen Ning anything? He's related to Wen Chao and the dogs who'd burned his shidi, killed them and burnt them and killed Uncle Jiang and Madame Yu, the reason he is bleeding out and tired and coreless—)
Jiang Cheng is safe; that's all that needs to matter. He and Shijie are safe and protected in Meishan, and he will continue for Meishan until Wei Wuxian drops dead. He'll be with his sister and they'll be safe, because for all the asshole Jin Zixuan is there is still an allyship between YunmengJiang and the Jins and he should protect his Shijie. Jiang Cheng will be safe and maybe he'll be a little mad but perhaps that's for the best; who is he if he isn't making his shidi angry? He'll die within Nightless City before he lets any of them touch him; he'll pray a little and hope he meets Jiang Cheng and Shijie in the next life, as martial siblings again or siblings for real. Prays a little differently.
He thinks, as his feet weaken and his knees shake and when they attach a long line of rope to his wrists, perhaps he'll know in the next life what the song was called. It plays in his head now, the only thing in an otherwise empty husk.
Wen Chao's back is facing him. His fingers twitch. Wen Ning has a sword and he is so close—
"Pl–please, Wei-gongzi. Please, just walk." Wei Wuxian blinks, breathes, and turns his head as Wen Ning settles beside him. Careful. Gentle. "I-I want to help but I cannot if you cannot walk. Please. Wa-walk."
It's like begging and maybe it is because Wei Wuxian sighs shakily against the gross strap of leather. Wen Ning glances at Wen Chao at the head of the line—a line of people who've burned his. For a moment, there is some rippling emotion. And then a stillness.
I'll kill him, he thinks. I'll kill him and his dog and I will revel in it before I die.
Holding his chin high, Wei Wuxian walks.
He breathes and he does not cry because he is not weak.
***
Five days pass and the scent of burnt flesh doesn't leave. It lingers on what remains of his hair, his clothes. Lingers on his hands and in his mouth as a rotten aftertaste. Wang Lingjiao and Wen Chao never stray too close; never close enough for Wei Wuxian to try anything. Wen Zhuliu stays too close and he relies too heavily on Wen Ning—with warm hands and warm face and warmth he does not have— to keep him upright, one foot pushing in front of the other. It lingers at the corners of his lips that have been rubbed raw, the blood that he tastes that sits stale on the back of his tongue, under his nails and deep beneath his skin. There's the memory of slick blood and a shocking pain within his back, the horrific glance at Uncle Jiang as they both fell; Wei Wuxian to the ground and Uncle Jiang from a blade. He thinks about it too much, replaying the motions on repeat over and over again. It doesn't quite stop. He hears Madame Yu lose her core, hears her defiant rage, that cool calmness. He smells when her blood falls, feels when she shoves him away to stop the sword aimed for his throat, hears when she decapitates one to be stabbed by another. It is a repeating picture; never stopping and always in a loop. It's always there and replaying in his head.
It takes too long for him to switch to thinking of anything else; of Shijie's voice or the song Lan Zhan played within Xuanwu Cave—he's still quite bitter to not know its name.
But when it is quiet and when no one is watching him, he hums it and he is back with his siblings and eating the sweetest seeds and guiding the nicest hands about his home. It's always prettiest in the spring.
***
"These bells of yours are certainly tacky," Wang Lingjiao sighs, leaning back against Wen Chao as they lounge within a sedan. "But decently made, so merchants would certainly get a kick out of reselling them. Wei Ying, Wei Ying, your clan isn't so useless after all." She stretches her arm out, a taunting gesture, with his Clarity Bell wrapped through her fingers. When she shakes it, nothing rings out but the dull thump of the bell hitting her palm. His lips twitch beneath the dirty fabric over his face, shoving one foot in front of the other in tandem with the sedan—with the batch of Wens surrounding him and utterly no protection or rest because Heavens forbid Wei Wuxian sleep while he is vulnerable like this in any sort of capacity. It is only because of Wen Ning having taken over for a few shifts of his watch that he's been able to close his eyes to some safe degree.
The wounds on his back have scabbed over, sticking close to the bandages they'd allowed Wen Ning to press into his back. Only once, one cleaning, one round of bandages. Wen Ning tried, even if the action sent pinpricks of memories down his neck and had him vibrating with that anxiety until Wen Ning apologized and stepped away with the final press of the cleaner bandages. One night had been dedicated—with Wen Ning carefully sneaking newer bandages out of the Wen medical supplies—to try and switch them before Wen Ning had to stop because of how stuck the wrappings had been.
The guards that watch him aren't quite subtle by any means. The older ones avoid him all too widely, a berth of a few arms lengths, but rarely avert their eyes to focus on anything but walking or focusing on making sure their prisoner—Wen Ruohan's prize of all things—doesn't try anything, even if his hands are tied behind his back and his exhaustion reached its peak the day Lotus Pier fell. He's coreless, useless to a large degree, and flanked by dozens of rested, warm and fed cultivators and Core-Melting Hand. He's keenly aware and out of focus of what any of this means; when pig-skinned hands yank on what remains of his hair and spit on his face, when they tear at his sleeves and yank and pull on his fingers or ears. When little vulgarities are said so softly in his ears, the threat of it all. The touch and the stench are overwhelming; cultivators run warm and Wei Wuxian is freezing without the familiar heat of a core swimming within his gut. There's one soldier, only a year or two older than him, who does nothing much but stare and flush when Wei Wuxian isn't too dizzy or far away from himself to make eye contact. He's done nothing yet but Wen Ning pays too much attention to him during the nights; either through wariness of allyship or concern for the behavior if he were to leave Wei Wuxian alone, he doesn't quite know. But to have any of them touch him just because makes him sick and the ache and anger and desire to wrench his fingers down into their skin. When they grip his jaw and Wen Chao merely snorts and turns a blind eye or how Wang Lingjiao titters and presses closer. She is a constant source of anger, something Wei Wuxian finds himself despising in a little, small sense of despising. There is little to stop any of them from doing anything but Wen Ning's own dedication to staying close and Wei Wuxian's own stubbornness in staying awake and undeniably angry.
"Ah, Wei Ying, Wei Ying; it's tacky but much too nice for you to have, isn't it? It doesn't even ring. What a useless bell." She shakes it again, a rough gesture. Wei Wuxian narrows his eyes, lowering his chin lightly when Wang Lingjiao pouts and tilts her chin up in that coquettish way. "Ah, ChaoChao, what a useless little bell. Why won't it work; were Yunmeng disciples carrying such useless trinkets around like this?"
It's a spiritual bell, dunce. And that part hits him more than he'd like, feet dragging lightly. The toe of his boot catches lightly. He corrects himself quickly, lifting his foot again and inhaling through his nose shakily. Wen Ning is somewhere in the back of the section, away and away and far and Wei Wuxian falling now would only give someone the excuse to come closer than needed to him and he didn't need anymore touching or putting their hands on him. One person leading the rope was enough.
But his Clarity Bell. His.
Wen Chao, in all his own idiocy, takes it none too gently from his mistress' fingers, squinting and examining it. When he gives it a light shake, Wei Wuxian stares, watching and forcing himself to keep his sight on what is his—
And Wen Chao tosses it. Tosses it away and doesn't even blink.
Wei Wuxian stops, staring at the small divot in the dirt path where his Clarity Bell has landed, a dull little piece covered in mud and blood and ash. The little procession halts when Wen Chao squeals at him, high-pitched and babyish.
He remembers—a distant little memory—of being presented with that bell, of its symbolism in pulling him into the Jiang Sect, of it being the little note that he was there. That was his, truly his. He had a room and a name and a place but this belonged only to him. A token of his own. He stumbles a step, swallowing and ignoring the hazy buzzing in his ears as he stares at it. Wen Chao yells again and Wei Wuxian steps forward aching in his wrists and shoulders because he is unable to even grab it. It merely lays there, no longer shining and clean. When Uncle Jiang had given him that bell—a small trinket alongside his courtesy name—he'd felt new. He was Wei Wuxian, without envies, he was new and making himself into this new thing. Melting into a pot of awareness and reverence for a man who'd picked him up from nothing but scraps and teeth scraping on old watermelon rinds. It'd been such a warm piece of decorated metal, shining and freshly carved to match Jiang Cheng’s as his shixiong, his close shixiong. Now, it looks merely like a dull chunk of silver, the tussle burnt and stained and fraying and the cord snapping. It hurts, he realizes, to see it like this. When he steps forward, breathing in sharply, one soldier steps closer, grabbing him harshly by the throat and aiding in pulling him away, fast and sharp. He watches as another soldier steps on the bell, digging it down deeper into the dirt.
He barely catches Wen Ning slowly sifting himself forward. He's not loud enough to truly draw attention to himself in any meaningful way; that's good. That's great.
He can grab it, he thinks. Grab it, grab it, Wen Ning.
The hand on his throat tightens, shoving him backwards and gagging him. Wei Wuxian's fingers flex, a small twitch.
"Get him moving!" Wen Chao yells. Wang Lingjiao squawks within the sedan, too, loud and irritating. "Get him moving or I'll chop your tongue off along with his!"
Wei Wuxian falls, stumbling as he's yanked backwards with a strong, disgusting hand wrapped around his neck. He watches as bloodied boots step down along his Clarity Bell, digging it deeper down into the dirt. When he's turned around to keep walking, he yanks his neck around to watch it. Wen Ning passes it, trying to crouch at the same time a stumble causes him to slip to his knee. His hand slides down to Wei Wuxian's bell, fingers brushing it—
And he is yanked right back up by his arm and quickly delivered a sharp slap across his cheek before he is shoved further up. Wei Wuxian swallows, blinks, and does not cry. He walks forward, jerking away from the hold on his throat as his body throbs in protest.
There is blood smeared on the Wen's fingers and Wei Wuxian can't help the rush of disgust that runs through him. Dirty blood, in a way. Dirty blood on even dirtier hands.
***
The younger guard is named Wen Qiqiang.
It is, within few moments of being left alone with the young man, evident in what Wei Wuxian's presumed role is to be within the confines of Nightless City, being dragged along the corridors of the Sun Palace and trailing mud behind him as if he were any old corpse to be dragged along inside. Wen Qiqiang, all things considered, is disturbingly careful when he takes the ropes that have secured Wei Wuxian's wrists together and—blessedly—transfered them to be tied in front of him, relieving his shoulders from the strain of twelve days of travel and being paraded around like a dog. Wen Qiqiang avoids touching his skin as much as possible, positively jumping and then flushing in suppressed embarrassment when their fingers brush, if only accidentally. Wen Chao slaps him on the back of his head and Wei Wuxian blinks in surprise, watching the hissing, cat-like exchange as he finds himself tugged, only lightly, by Wen Qiqiang and forced to ascend the stairs of the Sun Palace's ostentatious staircase. One foot in front of the other, a step and a step and another, staring at Wen Qiqiang's back with a bursting pressure. He feels eyes on his own; a scarred mess and sticky with blood, stiff and throbbing. He's been aching for twelve days, even if Wen Ning has tried any sort of task to alleviate any pain. And—
(He hates to admit it. He hates it he hates it he hates it but Wen Ning is good. A good, good person and Wei Wuxian may have keeled over dead before they'd made it here if Wen Ning wasn't a good person and when he tears this place apart he will owe Wen Ning so much to even begin to thank him for any of what this has been.)
Wen Qiqiang, however, is an uncontrollable, uncomfortable feeling.
He's not ugly, per se. Wen Qiqiang is handsome, with a sharp jawline and eyes that soften his face. There's a mole that sits above his left eyebrow and his hair is blacker than ink, straight and thick and tied back into a sleek ponytail. He's taller than Wei Wuxian, larger. A sort of bulk to him that most cultivators tend to have, some edge of sharp, lean muscle. But the little ways his eyes move, it's simple to see the eyes of one who thinks they're right. And the look is never always malicious, but the sizzling feeling is there, sitting heavy in his empty stomach. He knows the look—he wears it often and he's seen the look from the Peacock and within Jiang Cheng’s eyes, bright and deliciously confident. They gain a brightness that persists and they widen to a small margin and there is a view of the world in this bright shade of soft pink or the sweetest yellow and there is nothing to dampen it. When it is malicious it is the same, that pinprick of rightness and confidence that exists within someone's eyes. Wen Qiqiang wears it blindly, bluntly. There is nothing to distinguish what Wei Wuxian is to him. The small grip he seems to keep on Wei Wuxian is enough. There's the tingling edge here; the stories Madame Yu had drilled into their skills of wars in the past. Those strings of horrific ends for good soldiers and the wives and children the enemies found and took with them. The stories that set Wei Wuxian's stomach in knots and left Jiang Cheng pressing his lips so tightly they turned white. 'Kindness is the cruelest thing to those taken,' she'd said, 'when one is stolen from their home and given a kindness; as if they are to be thankful to those who have stolen them. There is no kindness within being a prisoner, only a hope they do not necessarily turn to cruelness.' They'd been made to read rewritten letters from a son—taken prisoner almost a century ago—to his mother detailing the cruelest methods his captors had used. The torture and spitting and utter humiliation present.
And then they'd read a young woman's note to her sister within the same bounds of the son. She was getting married to the man who'd stolen her. And there had been a letter to compare; one two years before her kidnapping. And the difference had been startling. How easily she spoke of this man who'd stolen her. How lovingly.
Wen Qiqiang gazes at him sometimes, little glances with golden eyes that are grossly familiar and Wei Wuxian ignores that yawning ache in his gut and chooses instead to focus on his feet. His own boots are torn and smudged and the sleeves of his inner robes dull down past his fingertips and expose his shoulder blades. He focuses on where the exposed like Wen Qiqiang's main artery lies, a clear shot if he'd had Suibian. His fingers clench on nothing but his sleeve, dirty fabric and even dirtier hands and he misses his sword and there is a desperation to cradle it within his hands and push it close to his chest and weep because how useless could a Head Disciple even become in this position? Almost an adult and utterly incompetent and stupid and worthless without the one thing that made him worth anything at all? When there was nothing but aching loneliness and a fierce stupidity lurching within his veins.
Wen Qiqiang, admittedly, is easy enough to ignore besides the looks. He leads with an efficiency and Wei Wuxian is led off to the second floor of the Sun Palace, a bustling well of sound and red and the sun motif of the Wens, bright spots of color and dark and light. He feels immensely out of place, disjointed and disturbingly…away.
The windows are wide, expansive things with long edges of roof and tile that stretch, perhaps, several feet away from the edge of the silk and slope down as a hill would. Altogether, four floors exist and the bottom hosts the main area, the dining pavilion and the kitchens and what he believes to be a conference hall. The second, from what he can smell, hosts a bathing area and the sharp twinge of metal and iron, fresh paper and ink, and the spice of medicine. As he passes a window, slowing with the fluttering of his exhausted eyes and the pain in his bones, he turns his head to the side, out to the sky where the sun has peeked out over the sharp edge of the mountain behind the Sun Palace.
A sharp, jagged edge of rock exists beyond the sight, dark, curling patterns and smudges of dead trees lining the sharper edges. And nestled closely against the wall of the Sun Palace, growing tall and green and fine, lies monkshood. He blinks, feeling the leather press against the raw, bleeding corners of his mouth in light exhalation. The sound travels from his nose instead, small and sharp.
The Wens are growing poison so casually. It sends a small, little thrill down his spine. They may not let you outside, he thinks, dampening the confidence cleanly. You're here as a toy, a prop. They won't grant you the courtesy of letting you anywhere near that garden. You'd choke on it yourself before you'd be able to do anything with it.
"Wei-gongzi?" Wen Qiqiang questions, pausing himself and turning. Wei Wuxian slowly turns his gaze away from the garden, from the distant stretch of jagged edges, and turns his eyes off to the man holding the edge of rope. Gongzi. The irony is there; referring to him so politely even if he's aware Wei Wuxian was brought here as nothing more than a prize—a whore, he'd been called. "Ah, Wei-gongzi, are you going to pass out?" Wen Qiqiang reaches a hand out for him and Wei Wuxian jerks away, stumbling a step and catching the edge of his boot along the sleeker flooring. He exhales slowly through his nose, turning his body away and wincing as his back twinges.
It hurts for a moment and he's sweating. The action is wholly, seemingly, unnecessary but he doesn't want to be touched.
"Ah," the other hums, eyes widening. "I apologize." It's wholly quiet within this particular hallway, even if there's the echoes of voices and yelling and splashing hovering in one ear and out the other. "But if you are going to faint, I'd rather know. Wen-zongzhu would be sad to see you'd hurt yourself further, you know."
Wei Wuxian snorts and rolls his eyes.
"Wei-gongzi, please." He raises an eyebrow and Wen Qiqiang sharply turns his face away, ears reddening. "If you can't behave, I've been given orders to simply knock you out and drag you off." And that twinges. Wei Wuxian exhales. "Now, are you going to pass out so I have to carry you?"
A moment. Wei Wuxain shakes his head once, sharply. He steps, walking and following.
"Good," Wen Qiqiang says from in front of him. Wei Wuxian stares at his neck, that stupid vulnerable point and thinks how easy it would be to jab a hairpin through the skin. If he had a hairpin and his hair wasn't absolutely desecrated in such a shameful image. "I know we aren't quite on the best of grounds, Wei-gongzi, but I do apologize for what was done to you. Your back, and–and your people."
My capture. Say it. Say it you miserable pup. You massacred my friends.
"But truthfully, really truthfully, aren't you even a little grateful? For Yu Ziyuan, at the very least? Everyone knew she was rather hot-headed and petty. In a way." They turn a corner, sharp and sudden, and the smell of medicinal spice hits stronger. "Qishan is much quieter than Lotus Pier was. I–I do hope you find some joy in being here, even within the small things. If you ever desire something, I don't mind fetching things. Or, or giving things to you. But only small things, so this is a secret, Wei-gongzi. Yes?"
Oh. Oh. He gets it immensely. Wei Wuxian gets every inch of what this is. Wen Qiqiang's blatant disregard for understanding this situation. Kindness is the largest cruelty they could give to you. This is a cruelty; but a tactical little cruelty. He thinks back on when he walked along Yiling, when his feet were cold and the pretty jiejies within the brothels snuck him in and tucked him away in the rooms not being used, when one jiejie—the prettiest, in his little opinion because she was and her hands were exceedingly soft—tucked him away along her bed and rubbed the warmth back into his feet and hands, taking her time to ensure his fingers bent and he was sated with warm food. When men would enter the brothel, she'd tilt her head in some pretty way, smelling sweet and looking clean and put together and pretty. Tilt her head and smile and soften her face and eyes into something doe-like and soft. Vulnerable.
Wei Wuxian has never done vulnerable well. Softening himself in the face was hard. Harder than he understood how to do. But the men would gravitate towards the softness. That learned submissiveness. If he tilts his head nicely enough, would Wen Qiqiang eat from his hand? Is he stupid enough to not understand what things may be? If he does become doe-like, in that soft way people seemingly liked, was there some little merit to this?
He tries to imagine softness—softness and doe-like behavior as Wen Qiqiang slips through a set of sliding doors. A step, taking another. Blinking, Wei Wuxian sighs, exhaling through his nose, and falls down to his knees. It's not quite an act; he's exhausted and in pain and aching and his eyes are fluttering too much to focus on the blurring stone edges beneath his feet. He breathes, blinking away the fuzzy edges when his torso follows. He's not fully prepared for it, not by a large margin, but when the arm wraps around his shoulders and sits him up, he suppresses the flinch and allows the wave of anger and roiling revulsion to pass through him without the shiver wracking his spine. Soft and doe-like. Confidence.
He is Wei Wuxian. He is Head Disciple and he is intelligent and he is not weak.
Madame Yu would spit on him if she knew he let himself lose too easily like this. If he couldn't even do this. He doesn't even quite know what the conditions of his capture are yet, but having one little Wen—a soldier nonetheless—was good to have. Good to keep. He pushes his head up, slow and careful, and squints at Wen Qiqiang, whose own eyes are wide and glancing at his face in some worrying manner. One hand rests along Wei Wuxian's chest, propping him up. The other rests over the bandages that line his back, hovering and careful. Wei Wuxian's stomach rolls for a moment and he shoves the feeling away. If he shoves it in too much, Wen Qiqiang will know and he'll pull away any of what he's offered if he's smart enough to catch on.
"Ah, Wei-gongzi, are you alright?" When he nods, it's a softer thing, a gentle bob of the head and a tilting of the head. He leans heavier, resting the tips of his fingers on the floor. Wen Qiqiang tightens his hold and frowns. The room is brighter, well-lit and medicinal and two beds line the larger section of wall while two others are taken up an array of herbs and texts, stacked high, almost to the ceiling. "You didn't hurt yourself when you fell, right?"
He shakes his head in response, focusing his eyes on Wen Qiqiang's. The contact is unbroken for a few moments, and Wei Wuxian tips his head to the side and flicks his eyes down to Wen Qiqiang's mouth. Wen Qiqiang blinks, his own eyes falling down to where the cloth sits, wedged between Wei Wuxian's teeth over the leather. He tilts his head invitingly, just in that way he'd seen the pretty jiejie do. The longer ends of his hair skim his cheek, making him shiver. Wen Qiqiang stares, eyes trained down on his mouth and flickering down before coming back up.
"Wei-gongzi—" he mumbles.
Inviting; be inviting. They both know what he's here for. So to do it at any point is simple. He just can't have anything done. He just needs to slide the sword away from Qiqiang and then shove it into his neck when it's right. It's a longer sword than perhaps he's used to, but it should cut clean and quick. He draws his fingers closer to Wen Qiqiang's knee, hears the sharp intake of breath. He knows what this is, he knows what Wen Qiqiang thinks about him. He'd been called a whore within Qishan; he'd been degraded and shamed and torn and Wen Qiqiang isn't stopping him so he knows clearly what he'd been brought here to do. Anger courses in his stomach and Wei Wuxian wants to tear his nails down onto his neck. Innocent look does not mean innocent mind. He is too aware of what Wei Wuxian is here for in this rancid city.
He focuses himself back in, blinking and shifting an inch closer to a flushed face and eyebrows drawn together. Wen Qiqiang raises a hand, a cupped motion up to his face. Wei Wuxian flinches minutely, the hand will be warm, warm, warm and he is cold and he didn't forget how it felt when that warmth in his belly disappeared into a nothingness. He leans closer—soft, soft, soft—leans, leans leans.
And he is abruptly shoved back.
"What are you doing!" Someone screams it. Wei Wuxian turns, feeling stupid and utterly exposed like this, but Wen Qiqiang is sliding away from him and a woman steps closer, all fiery steps and hot, righteous anger built in her face that clings deep into him. Hooks. Tugging and firm and set. "Well?" she pushes. Ah. She's asking Wen Qiqiang. The man looks abashed, flushing and red. Wei Wuxian's fingers lay where his knee had, just brushing the cap of it. He blinks, scrunching his nose and exhaling loosely before turning his face back towards the woman. She's tall, pretty. Strong arms and a serious face with pearls dangled in her ears and her hair half-up and separated within a red ribbon, tied tight and without a single hair out of place.
"Ah, Wen-daifu—"
"I hear I have a severely malnourished, injured, exhausted patient within my healing hall and I come back to one of the soldiers under Wen-er-gongzi's command within my area shamelessly nuzzling at him and then…what? What is it you'd thought would occur here? He's Wen-zongzhu's; wait your turn and leave. If I have to explain anything more than Wen-er-gongzi will need about your behavior I will personally ensure any punishment of yours is necessarily cruel."
Shit.
Wen Qiqiang scrambles up and Wei Wuxian shudders, flexing his fingers along the floor. His nails dig down into it, angry and annoyed and he was doing this. Affixing Wen Qiqiang into something. He'd watched. He'd watched them all be slaughtered and perhaps it was better that he only knew but then he'd thought about it and what if watching was something. Because Wen Qiqiang watched. Watching his shidi burn, watched Wei Wuxian lose his core, watched, watched, watched until he'd gone to drag Wei Wuxian off by himself and he'd thought: watching was dangerous and danger is easier than niceness. But cruelty is a mercy.
Niceness was a dead end.
The woman hisses, "Leave," and steps forward.
Wen Qiqiang blinks, stands, and alerts his face again with red cheeks and ears. "I apologize, Wen-daifu," he murmurs. "For my behavior. I'd thought–"
"Thought nothing! Take this up with Wen-zongzhu if you like him so much. Only after I have treated him, Qiqiang. Go away."
It's one final glance at Wei Wuxian before Qiqiang scurries out, sliding the doors to the medical hall shut behind him that the woman snorts derisively. "Dunce," she spits, placing her hands on her hips and huffing. Wei Wuxian blinks, mildly confused, altogether angry and tired. She turns to him next, gaze not quite softening but taking on a different sort of annoyance. Wei Wuxian shifts away from her, sliding over a small step along his knees. She pauses, then crouches down with him and forces a…it's not exactly gentle but it's a neutral face and he doesn't necessarily have the capacity or want to sort through his brain to identify any sort of thoughts this woman may have. She's a doctor, but a Wen doctor and— "I'm a doctor," she says simply. "I have no interest in hurting you, so I need to see that wound on your back and clean it out."
She pauses for a moment and Wei Wuxian narrows his eyes.
Her lips purse and her eyebrows pinching together. "This isn't a pleasant experience for any of us; I know you're angry, I know you're desperate. Understand now: Wen-zongzhu does nothing in halves, you are here and you will stay only because he wants it. People aren't allowed in here without my permission so no one but myself and my brother can touch you right now. That doesn't mean people don't watch. If you had slit his throat there would be soldiers on you quicker than you know; Qiqiang is new but well-liked and our only orders are to keep you alive. We don't need you to be able to walk to be whatever Wen-zongzhu wants." She lets it stay quiet for a moment, then she crouches down on her knees and hardens her face. "I am a doctor, my brother is a doctor. We do not hurt people. Let me do my job and I will be quick and efficient but if I do not clean out your back you will catch an infection and if it seeps into your blood you will die, is that understood?"
She waits, patient if only a little annoyed, for him to nod. Wei Wuxian turns his face off to the door, anger bubbling within his throat. He doesn't have a plan. He really doesn't. What had his plan been if he'd managed to grab Wen Qiqiang's sword? What would the plan have been? When the other was a cultivator and still had his core and Wei Wuxian was dazed and weak? If he'd been able to even hold it.
He nods, once and sharp.
It seems to satisfy her enough. The woman—doctor—hums and her eyebrows twitch. "Good. Now then: I need to untie your wrists and remove your gag. You will sit and you will stay because I don't need you exacerbating your back. Got it? I won't do anything without telling or asking you; if you fight me I've been given permission to sedate you but I'd prefer not to. Got that?"
He nods again, pressing his fingers together to curb their shaking.
"Good." She raises her hands carefully. "May I?"
He closes his eyes and inhales through his nose as she leans closer. He feels her hands on the back of his neck, the tugging of the knot. He coughs when the leather is slid from between his teeth, tasting iron and blood and stale spit. His jaw aches, sore and clicking when he leans over to cough and hack up the spittle and blood that'd been trapped in his mouth. She moves quickly to his wrists, raw and scabbed and bleeding, and worms the rope away, tossing it aside in a messy sprawl. His wrists are bruised and smeared with dirt.
"Good," the doctor says. "Okay, can you make it to the bed?"
He nods, again, and moves to stand, drowning in the feeling of a stiff body freed. It aches, of course, so he breathes steadily through his nose and out of his mouth, holding a hand to his stomach. His knee falters once, and she easily grabs his arm to steady him before he drops. And, vaguely, he's the smallest bit grateful for the support until he can collapse along the bed, panting and utterly annoyed. The doctor shoves a chair from against the wall over, and Wei Wuxian glances up at her from his position curled up along the bed, face pressed into a cushion. It aches, in every sense of it. She lifts her hands again, face easy to read at this moment.
"I need to cleanse my hands and then I'll need to remove the bandages. A-Ning said he could only clean them sparingly; if I find any dead or infected flesh, I'll have to cut or scrape out. I can give you something—"
"No." He surprises himself. His voice is gravely and cracking from disuse over twelve days. Slurring. "I'm not…no sedatives. I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"None. I don't want any. Don't touch me."
"I won't," she says. It's almost too easy. He sits up and curls away, eyes trailing off around him for something. Sharp, sharp, sharp. He'd rather kill himself than allow any of them to touch him. He'll swallow shards of a sword it need be. "I'll have to at some point; I need to check your back. If you don't let me, you will be ordered to be sedated and I'll have to fix it anyway. Orders are to keep you alive, not happy, Wei Wuxian. Let me clean your back." He sniffs at her, turning away. "Honestly! So childish! A-Ning was four and dealing with injuries better than you; at least he 's a crybaby who gets it done! Turn around then, I'll have to numb you."
His voice breaks before he can finish fully. "I don't want—!"
"They're just pain relievers. It'll kill the feeling in your back while I scrape and stitch. You'll be awake. I don't have any use staying this close to you, Wei Wuxian. You are just a charge, here." She sniffs this time, annoyed. "Turn around please, no tensing. It'll only make it more difficult to place the needle. No sleeping."
He stares at her, fingers tearing down into the fabric of his pants. His eyes travel up to the earrings nestled within her ears, the stubborn set of her eyes. Then he turns. "My people are dead because of yours," he whispers.
"Not because of mine; only in name. My family are doctors." There's the shift of fabric and Wei Wuxian slides his eyes shut. "There's no news at all of Jiang-guniang or Jiang-gongzi being spotted," she says quietly. There's a sharp prick within his back before a startling sense of numbness that throws him off for a moment. "A word of advice: play soft, docile, and meek. The Wens here are a disgusting lot and they only find you enjoyable because you have been brought here to warm laps and make people smile. Bare your throat and do as you are told but be smart about it. The Wens are not wholly dumb; even Wen Chao has some smarts to him. Keep your head down and away and play it smarter than you do with Qiqiang."
He opens his eyes, minutely startled. When he turns his head, the doctor has a hardened look along her face, needles held between her teeth and a stretch of thread through an ivory threading needle. "I can't imagine Wen-er-gongzi being anything but dumb," he mumbles through his teeth.
The doctor snorts. "He's far from dumb; just…cowardly. Arrogant. The older one is worse. Do nothing to draw his attention to you, Wei Wuxian. I will not be pulled into your torture because Wen Xu could not resist the urge to correct you. I will not risk my brother within your pathetic attempts for vengeance or to see them fall."
A candle flickers. It is so light outside.
Wei Wuxian brushes fingers against the brand pressed into his skin. Branded cattle.
"I don't quite do pathetic plans, Wen-daifu," he tells her quietly.
He feels when the first needle is shoved into his back, a sharp pressure. "Good," he hears. "Pathetic is boring and gets nothing done. Meek, soft, doe-like. A deer among wolves, Wei Wuxian. That's all you are to them and that is all you will stay if you understand what you are meant to be in here. The second you show any weakness they will gut you and I am unable to stop them, do you get that? Plan yourself accordingly and if you let one of them get even closer to you than even I've been, you'll be nothing but scraps and a corpse for your new sect leader to retrieve. Wen Ruohan will run you down and watch you smear so be smart, be small, be careful. "
There's the flash of thread from the corner of his eye and the snip of shears.