Chapter Text
“Talk to someone else who'd understand.”
The words haunt him.
“I mean Qin Su specifically.”
To what point and purpose? What difference could it possibly make?
“What’s the worst that can happen if you send her a letter?”
Something nebulously horrifying that he dreads but can't name. Something awful. Something that would make him feel even worse than he does right now.
Lan Xichen mentally takes a step back and forces himself to consider that last bit from multiple angles. His hands happily continue paring the peel off a sweet potato, only requiring a little bit of attention from his mind to do it safely. He has to admit that pondering miserable topics is less miserable when he's doing something productive, so if nothing else, Fan Zhu'er (birth name Fan Dingxiang, also known as Wu Gang Dao, also known as the proudly coreless Jiang disciple who turned the latest discussion conference on its head and befriended Wei Wuxian while impressing Wangji) was right about working meditation being helpful.
(The kitchen staff were absolutely bewildered when he showed up at the beginning of the week and asked to be put to work, but after a significant amount of convincing they installed him in the corner with a paring knife and a pile of root vegetables. His first attempts were horrible, but he's fairly good at it now. By the end of next week he hopes to be able to get the peel off in one spiraling piece, like A'Zhi can.)
What horrible thing could come from writing to Qin Su that would make him feel worse than he does now? Does he expect her to announce to the cultivation world that he was entirely taken in by A'Yao—Jin Guang—Meng Yao's lies? The entire cultivation world already knows that. There was an impromptu conference when all of Meng Yao's crimes (his many, many horrible crimes, crimes Lan Xichen didn't think possible for him to commit) came to light in front of the entire assembled gentry. (Well, the gentry except for him, given that Meng Yao had him held prisoner at the time.)
Does he think she'll berate him for it? He already berates himself for it every day; it would honestly be a bit of a relief to hear someone say his inner thoughts out loud instead of treating him like a fragile piece of porcelain that might shatter if touched. He should be punished for his oblivious trust in A'Yao—Meng Yao, for not seeing through the layers of big-eyed deception. The world decided not to punish him, forcing him to seclude himself in penance. If Qin Su wanted to punish him, he'd accept it gladly.
The worst possible thing, he decides as he drops a peeled sweet potato into a bucket of water to keep it from browning, would be learning that she'd seen through A'Yao—Meng Yao's lies years ago; that he was the only one fooled all this time. That his judgment was bad and had always been bad, that he was at fault for not seeing it. That's the fear that fills his limbs with ice and his spine with dread when he thinks about writing to her—that he might find out more ways in which he failed.
His hand scrabbles absently against an empty basket, and Lan Xichen emerges from his miserable contemplation to realize that's he's peeled everything in it. A quick glance around the kitchen shows that most everyone has moved onto other tasks, knives flashing as they hit cutting boards with a rhythm his music instructors would have disdained but which Lan Xichen finds pleasing. He offers a plaintive look at the head cook, hoping for something more to do, but she shakes her head and tips it at the door.
Well. What can he do but offer her a polite bow, rinse his hands, and make his exit? It's not her problem that working meditation is the only thing keeping him from feeling like a complete waste of space, like the whole world would be better off if he went into the back hills and disappeared. The kitchen only needs so much help. He could try to join the small army of cleaners and gardeners the Cloud Recesses employs, but... The kitchen is private. No one sees him in there but the kitchen staff, and he thinks he can trust them not to carry word of his unorthodox meditation methods down to Caiyi. If a visiting disciple were to visit and see Lan-zongzhu sweeping out a classroom...
Lan Xichen is well past caring for his own reputation, but he won't allow his poor judgment to reflect back on his sect. He's done enough damage already.
Laundry, now that's a task that's both private and backbreaking, but whenever Lan Xichen considers it he remembers a long-ago time full of pain and confusion and care, remembers gentle hands taking his nearly-ruined robe out of his grasp and saying, “Let this one handle that for you,” and he's full of a sharp, vicious mourning that takes steals his breath. No. Lan Xichen can't bring himself to work in the laundry. He'll take the tasks assigned to him in the kitchen and perform them gratefully.
It's instinct at this point to avoid the patrols as Lan Xichen makes his way back home (will anything feel like home again?), taking secret paths known only to the main clan and even then not particularly well. He's not technically out of seclusion, and there will be questions if he's seen walking the sect grounds. Helping in the kitchen bends his seclusion a bit, but even there he's not seeking conversation or to include himself in high-level sect operations. He's seeking peace and healing and some way to reassemble his shattered life, the same thing he seeks in silent meditation alone in the Hanshi. The only difference is the kitchen involves a lot more vegetables.
The Hanshi is as it ever is—clean, elegantly appointed, and miserably empty. Lan Xichen opens the back doors and sits with a view of the scrupulously kept garden, wondering if he could convince the groundskeepers to let him take over management of it. Fan Zhu'er mentioned digging big holes as being excellent working meditation. Perhaps he could install a pond.
Pondering ponds (ha) is a distraction from the thing Lan Xichen was actually trying to think about, and he settles into a meditative pose, eyes on the view without entirely seeing it.
Qin Su almost certainly didn't secretly know A'Yao—Meng Yao was lying. Wei Wuxian eventually (and apologetically) detailed the argument he'd eavesdropped upon as a paper doll, Qin Su's horror and revulsion at the contents of the letter she'd received. She stabbed herself about it not a shichen later—those aren't the actions of someone who knew her husband was secretly her brother, that her brother-husband possibly (probably) killed their son, that he had his own father murdered in a way that took dozens of innocent women with him (and Lan Xichen considers them innocent, no matter the details of their profession or what they were hired and forced to do). No, Qin Su didn't know about Meng Yao's dark doings. She might be the only person in the world Meng Yao lied to as thoroughly as Lan Xichen.
She might be the only person who could understand.
Qin Su was also grievously injured and has been in recovery for some time, Lan Xichen reminds himself with no small amount of shame. She's been nearly as isolated as he has, if not for exactly the same reasons. Surely it's within the bounds of propriety—if not nearly demanded by it—for her to receive a letter inquiring about her health from... If not a true friend, then at least a friendly acquaintance? Lan Xichen respected—respects, she's not dead—her immensely for her integrity, for her willingness to look past the details of A'Ya—a person's birth and judge them based on their character. (Well. The character they showed to the world, anyway.) They've never been truly close, but she was his sworn brother's wife, part of his family. She's kind, refined, thoughtful, and a good influence on the culture of Jinlintai. Lan Xichen likes Qin Su, and was desperately relieved when her attempt to end her own life failed.
(Did Qin Su try to end her own life? She was behaving strangely when they all entered the Jin treasure room, didn't speak or react to anyone else present until she snatched up the dagger. Lan Xichen still doesn't know if she was under the influence of some spell, and it's yet another thing that haunts him.)
Perhaps just as pertinently, Lan Xichen is likely to see her soon. Wangji and Wei Wuxian are marrying in two weeks' time, something that his brother explained with his usual quiet gravity, pouring tea for both of them with his eyes downcast in what most people wouldn't recognize as embarrassment.
“Xiongxhang,” he said, cup held delicately in both hands, “I know the notice is short, but I... It would mean a great deal to pour tea for you.”
“It would mean a great deal to me as well, Wangji,” Lan Xichen said, neither confirming nor denying his attendance. He's happy for his little brother, truly. It's not Wangji's fault that happiness came at the expense of Lan Xichen's own.
(Is it selfish to mourn happiness that was born of ignorance?)
Wei Wuxian came by half a shichen after Wangji left and said without preamble, “There's sort of a secret room off the main hall in Lotus Pier with a screen in between so you'll be able to see the ceremony but no one in the main hall will be able to see you, and then we'll sneak you out to one of the far docks for the tea. Jiang Cheng will make sure you don't have to deal with crowds.”
Lan Xichen managed to find something almost like amusement at that. “Am I to be in seclusion at your wedding, then?”
“You'll be seated with Wen Qing and Wen Ning,” Wei Wuxian replied, either not noticing or simply choosing to ignore the light sarcasm in Lan Xichen's voice, “so you won't be completely alone, but they won't talk to you if you don't want them to.”
Lan Xichen would be hard-pressed to pick better company for secret wedding attendance that might or might not happen in complete silence. “It would be an honor to attend the wedding of Hanguang-jun and the Yiling Laozu, then,” he said, inclining his head in something close to defeat.
“Oh, I don't know about them,” Wei Wuxian said, scrunching his nose and waving off the titles, “but me and Lan Zhan will be happy to have you.”
So. Lan Xichen will be secretly attending the wedding of the Chief Cultivator. Qin Su is certain to be invited, as the acting Jin-zongzhu (or something like it). If he sees her for the first time in months at the wedding without ever bothering to inquire after her health in the interim, he doesn't think he could live with himself.
(It's amazing what you find yourself forced to live with.)
Lan Xichen settles in front of his desk, carefully lays out paper, brushes, an ink stick and a grinding stone. He arranges them all precisely, the paper perfectly smooth, everything set up at perfect right angles to everything else. His desk is a work of art by the time he's done. It could be used as an example illustration for how all young masters should strive to arrange their desks.
He proceeds to sit and stare at the blank paper until a rap on the door announces the delivery of his dinner tray, which means he obviously has to clean everything up and put it away while he eats. It's habit and training to eat slowly and meditate on the subtle flavors and carefully-curated textures of Gusu Lan cuisine—to do otherwise would be an insult to the hard work of the kitchen staff, whose efforts he understands significantly more intimately after his explorations in vegetable peeling. That it delays any attempts to write a letter is irrelevant.
Lan Xichen stacks his emptied dishes with care, placing the tray outside the door for someone to pick up later. His head aches from the weight of his guan and the weight of his guilt, and he can at least assuage one of those things by unpinning his hair and letting it tumble down his back in heavy waves. He doesn't bother with his full Zewu-jun finery these days, spent mostly in seclusion or in the kitchen as they are, but should someone catch sight of him moving through the sect he needs to project at least the impression of being a competent leader. He takes off his stiff outer robe and the embroidered one underneath, trading them for a soft, quilted house robe for protection against the chill mountain air. His golden core can fend off the elements, of course, but the house robe is comfortable. Lan Xichen allows himself these very small comforts, here and there. Not too many. Not too frequently.
(He's still not sure he deserves them.)
The empty table mocks him, lurking in the corner of his vision, and Lan Xichen turns to consider it directly. It's at least a shi before it's time to sleep (such sleep as he gets, these days), and he doesn't have anything else to do. Oh, he could take some of the wood carving tools Wei Wuxian smuggled to him out onto the back porch and try to make another inexpert, mangled duck (woodcarving, it turns out, is harder than peeling vegetables), but that's just more avoidance.
Lan Xichen thinks he might be tired of avoiding things.
Out come the writing tools again, this time alongside a pot of calming herbal tea intended to promote clear thinking. He has a sip, savoring the sharp, fresh scent of it, and grinds himself some ink.
He's an educated master. He's a sect leader. He's one of the foremost cultivators of his generation. He fought a war when he was barely out of his teens.
He can write a letter.
The following half-shi throws that statement into serious doubt. Lan Xichen feels despair of a kind he thought he was beyond, acute and pointed rather than general and all-consuming. It's a letter. To a person he's known for over a decade. Why does he feel like a child holding a brush for the first time? Why has the written word entirely abandoned him? Is this a divine punishment? It certainly feels like one, but he can't figure out how it actually applies to the things he deserves to be punished for.
Lan Xichen isn't his brother, but he hasn't been around Wangji for his whole life without picking up some of his stubbornness. Diligence is the root, after all. Exhaustion dogs his movements when he finally finishes copying out a clean final version from his many, messy attempts and drafts, but it's done. He's written what he thinks is an acceptable letter. He'll let it dry overnight, then seal and address it tomorrow, and then... He may ask Wei Wuxian to send it for him, actually. (Wei Wuxian's respect for Lan Xichen's seclusion is nearly nonexistent, so he'll probably come crashing by to visit in a day or so.) If people know Lan Xichen is engaging in correspondence, they might think he's open to any correspondence, which is certainly not the case.
A yawn interrupts this thought process, and Lan Xichen decides that any further decisions can wait for tomorrow. He extinguishes the lamps and crawls into bed, wrung out and worn as an old cleaning rag.
For the first time in a long time he sleeps without dreaming. It feels like a miracle.
***
There's a letter for Qin Su.
This isn't entirely uncommon, even in her current social situation where no one seems to quite know what to do with her. Half the cultivation world would probably prefer it if she was dead. Then she'd get to be a tragic figure, wronged by her evil, lying brother-husband and dead at her own hand from the shame of it. It's simple. People like stories that are simple. Qin Su remaining alive in spite of her best efforts? Reminding all of them that they, too, were taken in by Jin Guang—Meng Ya—A'Yao—That Man's lies?
Well. The sects hate a reminder.
In spite of all this, she does still have a few correspondents. There were a handful of girls in her natal sect who were born at similar times and thus raised mostly together, taking classes on decorum and sect bloodlines and cultivation as a group. It was impossible not to end up with a few fast childhood friends when you all had the same enemy (namely, the most boring tutor in the world), and they all still write. Jiang Wanyin writes her as well, about sect business and about A'Ling, and sometimes about both at once. (His most recent message was a warning that Lotus Pier would very shortly be hosting the wedding of the Chief Cultivator Hanguang-jun to the revived Yiling Laozu Wei Wuxian, which was not the most unexpected letter she's ever received but has to rank fairly high. Jiang Wanyin also included an apology for the wedding happening on such short notice, which was almost as surprising as the rest of the contents.) Her father—her actual father, the one that raised her—writes sometimes, too, but his letters drip with so much guilt Qin Su feels like it'll rub off the page into her skin. She reads them just closely enough to be able to respond, and then hides them all in the bottom of a trunk where they can't linger in her vision.
This letter is from the Cloud Recesses. That also isn't entirely unexpected—Hanguang-jun did most of his correspondence about the most recent cultivation conference directly with Jin Ling as a teaching technique, but he made sure to keep Qin Su in the loop as well. She thinks initially that it might be from him, since the calligraphy on the address is familiar, but a closer look disproves that theory. It's similar but not the same.
Qin Su recognizes this handwriting, actually, from hundreds of letters that came across her husband's desk. What on earth could Lan Xichen have to say to her? And why now?
Well, she won't learn the answers by staring at the outside. Qin Su picks it up, breaks the seal, and settles in with a cup of tea to read it.
She finishes the letter, cup of tea forgotten, and sets it down so gently it doesn't make so much as a rustle. She takes a deep breath. She stands, smoothing down her robes automatically. She leaves her apartments, immediately trailed by one of her handmaidens and one of the female cultivators that Jin Ling handpicked to guard her in her recovery, and heads to the garden tended specifically for her. She finds the section of the garden that's been turned into a miniature training ground, picks up the weighted bamboo spear waiting for her there, and takes another deep breath, concentrating on the flow of her qi and the pulse of her golden core.
Qin Su proceeds to stab seventeen kinds of hell out of a training dummy until her hands are blistered and her shoulders too exhausted to continue. When she's done her handmaiden dabs sweat from her brow and feeds her sips of water from a flask while the cultivator smooths healing salve over her palms. Aware that she'll get dual disapproving looks if she just heads directly back to her rooms, Qin Su cools down with a series of slow, flowing sword forms, smoothing the flow of her qi from the fire of action down to the coals of recovery. It's good for her muscles, too, leads to less soreness down the line. (She should have warmed up beforehand as well, but...)
(Qin Su did not used to cultivate like this. She was raised to be the wife of a sect leader, so developing a powerful golden core would only be an asset to her future husband's sect, not a benefit to her natal sect. She couldn't not cultivate, of course—it would be shameful for a sect leader to marry a wife with no cultivation—but she wasn't encouraged to put a lot of effort into it. It wouldn't do to outshine her future husband's cultivation level, after all.)
(Qin Su thought she'd found a marriage where that wouldn't matter. She'd thought a lot of things.)
(Anyway. Her golden core was enough to keep her alive when she tried to die. She decided that she might as well express her appreciation by making it so it didn't have to work as hard next time, though she hopes there won't be a next time. Also, she tried being the perfect daughter and perfect wife and perfect Jin-furen and where did it get her? Who's going to be threatened by her golden core now? Who's going to try to stop her? No one, so she might as well do what she wants.)
When she's done with her cool-down, Qin Su proceeds back to her apartments with all the dignity befitting the Jin regent. (Another role she only sort-of occupies.) Her handmaiden prepares a small spread of good post-exercise snacks, which Qin Su nibbles at more out of habit than out of appetite. A'Hua worries when she doesn't eat, which is fair. Low appetite doesn't help one recover from a grievous injury, and A'Hua has been nothing but loyal, even after the revelations of exact what kind of woman her mistress is. The least Qin Su can do is eat her offerings.
Also, once she has a few tea cakes, some sliced fruit, and a handful of nuts in her belly, she can admit that she feels much more emotionally centered. Trying to face something like Lan Xichen's letter on an empty stomach was a bad idea. Good job, A'Hua.
Qin Su thanks her, dismisses her, and takes a long sip of tea.
All right.
The letter.
She picks it up again.
Qin-furen,
This one hopes you can forgive him both his failing to write to you before now, and his presumption in writing to you. I did not know if you would want to speak to me, but I allowed that fear to override common decency. I did not have a chance to tell you in person how very glad I am that you survived that terrible night. How does your recovery progress? I would be deeply grateful for any news you wished to share.
I do not wish to obfuscate what motivated me to finally write to you, but I also hesitate to bring up unpleasant memories. I will try to thread the needle, and apologize in advance for my failings.
I expect you are in correspondence with Sandu Shengshou. Have you had the opportunity to meet the new Jiang disciple, Wu Gang Dao? (Though I gather from Wei Wuxian's report that she's been with the sect for some time, and was only recently promoted to her current role.) I only recently met her myself. She is an... Unusual woman. We met in a very casual environment, but even then she exhibited a level of candor and straightforward thinking that I found refreshing.
We spoke somewhat about the events of the last few months, and she gave me various pieces of advice that I found strange at the time. Since then I have implemented other of her suggestions and found them extremely helpful. I hope that this will be as well.
Put plainly, Qin-furen: Wu Gang Dao advised me to reach out to you to discuss our mutual experiences with Meng Yao. She said that if we did so, we might find similarities in his behavior that would help us recognize the ways in which we were both misled as to his intentions and actions. As I have meditated on this very question in seclusion with no progress and no answers, and as some of Wu Gang Dao's other advice proved fruitful, I decided to risk it.
If you do not wish to discuss it, or to hear from me again, you have only to say so and my correspondence will not darken your doorstep, nor will I force my company upon you should we by happenstance and political necessity find ourselves at the same events. Regardless, you have my best wishes for your continued recovery, and always will.
Lan Xichen
Physically exhausted, fed, and post-meditation, Qin Su no longer finds herself thrown immediately into the flames of her own mostly-irrational rage. The rage is still there (the rage is always there these days), but she can think beyond it, pick it apart to the other emotions lurking underneath.
She is actually a little offended that he hasn't inquired after her health before now. He was her husband's sworn brother! Practically part of her family! How many meals had they shared in the last decade? He held her infant son, back when things were beautiful and happy and A'Song was her pride and joy. How dare he come in well after she's physically healed and ask about the recovery he wasn't there for?!
Some of the rage is that he dared to mention A'Ya—That Man, forcing her to remember him as though every day she stays in the gilded halls of this peony-scented prison isn't a constant reminder. Qin Su had her rooms repainted, had every decorative ink painting and vase traded out for those in storage, swapped out her bedding for a different color, had her jewelry melted down and remade. She's rebuilt her entire life to erase That Man from it as much as possible, and Lan Xichen wants to talk about him? What good could possibly come of that?
“We might find similarities in his behavior that would help us recognize the ways in which we were both misled as to his intentions and actions,” says a quiet, sensible part of her mind. Qin Su mentally glares at it. Yes, Lan Xichen might have said directly in his letter what good might come of this discussion, but that doesn't mean she agrees with him. Lan Xichen was closer to That Man than she was, was his sworn brother and confidant long before Qin Su entered the picture. She never begrudged them their closeness because she never had any doubt of A'Ya—That Man's fidelity, not with how they both saw the consequences of his father's philandering.
(Not all the consequences. Not both of them. Not at first.)
Why is Lan Xichen coming to her for sympathy? He should have known! He should have seen something! Maybe if he'd noticed, if he'd said something earlier, A'Song would still be alive! Her life wouldn't have been destroyed! She might not have been humiliated in front of the entire cultivation world, the dirty laundry she had no hand in soiling aired for all and sundry to see. How dare he? How dare he?
Qin Su grinds ink and writes a bare handful of characters, then addresses it and rings for her maid. Lan Xichen wants to talk? Fine, but he won't like what she has to say.
***
Lan Xichen is truly not expecting a response from Qin Su, for all that his heart leaps into his throat whenever he hears a step on the gravel outside the Hanshi, a secret hope burning in his core that he refuses to acknowledge or name. It's only been a few days. There's no reason to think that she'll have written back this fast, or at all. Whoever's walking up the path just now is delivering his evening meal, nothing more.
(Either that or it's Wei Wuxian, who seems to have decided it's his sacred duty as Lan Xichen's brother-in-law to keep him from “going too stir-crazy cooped up in that house all alone.” Lan Xichen has endured many chaotic games of weiqi, sampled the strangest teas available at the Caiyi markets, and has Wei Wuxian to either thank or blame for a set of woodcarving tools and the subsequent creation of a collection of inexpertly carved wooden animal figurines. Lan Xichen thinks he should refuse Wei Wuxian's company more effectively, and hasn't brought himself to do it because Wei Wuxian manages to distract him from his own misery. He breathes through the sting of anger/hate/envy every time he sets his eyes on his younger brother's miraculously living spouse and lets it pass over him like water. None of this is Wei Wuxian's fault, not even his miraculous second life.)
The footsteps on the path are far too even to be Wei Wuxian's, which means it's Lan Xichen's dinner. He waits for the gentle clunk of the tray against the wood of the porch, waits for the measured footsteps to recede down the path, and only when he's alone does he slide the door open to accept his meal.
A sealed letter with Jinlintai iconography waits on the tray next to his bowl of rice. There was a time when he received letters like this once a week, if not more, and he's shocked at the burn in his eyes and the jolt of horrible, sick hope in his stomach. It's not from him, he knows that, but...
Lan Xichen breathes slowly and carefully until his hands stop trembling, and only then does he lift the tray. He carries it inside and sets it on his desk with great ceremony. He lifts the letter and lets his fingers linger on the familiar embossing, then lays it delicately on the corner of the desk, precisely aligned with the right angles. He eats his dinner, chewing each bite meditatively with his eyes forward and down on his dishes. He does not allow his gaze to stray to the letter. He does not allow himself to imagine its contents. He eats, and he breathes, and he lets the world wash over him.
Only once Lan Xichen has finished every dish and delivered the stacked dishes on their tray to his porch does he draw the letter to the center of his desk and give it his full attention. He presses his hands to the smooth wood on either side of it, fingertips blanching with pressure, and takes a deep breath. She cannot possibly say anything that would leave him worse off.
He opens the letter. There is no salutation. No signoff. Only a single, scathing sentence, made with strokes as vicious as though carved with a sword, clearly written with a barely contained fury:
Did you know?