Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He asks, on the day of his imprisonment, to be allowed silencing talismans for the house.

He asks for it because when he has no resentful energy to draw from, and as such not even his most brilliant creations would bear fruit inside the confines of the house.

“A few each month would be enough.” He asks to the Lan delegates that come, after the other Sects have either left or settled by the night, Lan Qiren amidst them, returned upon hearing Lan Xichen had been either kind or stupid enough to leave such a wretched man both ink, brushes and papers to create worse things. “I don’t wish to be a burden.”

He’s on his knees, wrapped in his dirty and bloodied robes still, his eyes sunken in his face and glowing with the near madness of an exhausted person trying to refuse sleep.

They tell him they're not foolish enough to give him such a thing, to let him plot to himself while they're deaf to it. Lan Qiren doesn’t even glance back at him as he orders the disciples to take the offending items away.

He takes most of what had been in the house — instruments, scrolls, writing utensils, painting utensils… All he’s left with are the bare essentials and two books: one on the morality of man and the book of rules of Gusu he had written himself years ago, when he was a guest rather than a prisoner.

When the door closes, shutting Wei Wuxian from the world, the last sight of him for many in the long years that follow is him kneeling in the middle of a barren house, his eyes conflicted as they stare at the floor.

That evening, there’s no sound.

Many sneer about his vile ways and deceitful requests. Lan Xichen is left to try and stop such vicious words as Wangji spends his days and nights by Wei Yuan’s side, as the boy grows sicker and sicker, as if the violent separation had dealt him a harder blow than the starvation and fever ever did.

For two more days, the Yilling Patriarch’s request is mocked. For two more days, the evenings are silent in Gusu.

On the third, the screaming that cuts the night is nothing short of blood curling,

“What is this?!” Disciples ask, panicked, flocking about Cloud Recesses, trying to pinpoint the origin. “What is going on?!”

“I don’t know!” Another answer. “It’s coming from the back hill!”

Both are pushed aside as a man with barely tied together robes runs up the path the screaming flows down from. His hair is loose, not pinned back in the usual way, his sword is absent and so is his qin. He’s barely recognisable, with panic so clear, so near the surface of his features. 

Still, Lan Wangji runs and shoves whoever he needs to until he’s not only in the grounds of the house, but at the Moshi"s very doorstep, slamming his hands against the door that won’t budge or open.

“Wei Ying?!” He roars, shaking the doors on their very frames, to no avail. “Wei Ying! Wei Ying, what’s wrong?!”

“Get lost!” Wei Ying’s voice answers from within the house, a half-blood-curling wail, half-snarl that stills Lan Wangji’s hands on their frantic pounding. “Get lost! Get away from them!” He screams it over and over again, his voice growing more and more shrill. “Leave us alone! Get lost!”

Lan Wangji’s mind tries to understand who ‘them’ is, whether or not does he know there are people crowded outside his prison, whether or not he’s still sleeping caught in the midst of his nightmares. He has no real answer as a small, boney-thin hand pulls him back from where he stands, her eyes hard as they look into his.

“Leave.” Lan-daifu says, her voice embedded with authority, her outer robes covering what seems to be sleeping robes, her hair likewise unpinned. “You’re in no state to help.”

His head is shaking before he can even think the word ‘no’.

“But Wei Ying–”

“He’s not listening.” Her hand grows heavier on his shoulder, trying to ground him. “He didn’t hear you. He doesn’t even know that you are here.” The words aren’t vicious but they aren’t kind either. They’re truthful, hard. Like a slap, bringing him back to reality. “There’s a boy here with no one else to speak out for him. If these people think they can't trust you, you won’t be able to either. If not you, who will?” She says, pushing further, her eyes willing him to see reason. “His father is screaming so loud the whole of Cloud Recesses heard him, do you think he’s not hearing it too? If I’m here and you’re here, who’s with him?”

No one , he thinks. A-Yuan has no one with him.

Wangji takes a deep breath, trying to center himself.

His feet are bare. He’s wearing only his sleeping robes. His hair is undone.

There are elders here, there are disciples, all of whom watched him cry out for the Yilling Patriarch, to try either to break in or break him free. His integrity will be called into question as soon as they have time to think of sentences to do so, come morning there will be another perceived stain to his reputation.

Wei Ying is alternating between screaming, wailing and whimpering behind doors he can’t cross and he doesn’t even know Wangji is here. Wei Yuan lies in an infirmary room, still not recovered, and Lan Wangji left him alone.

One of his feet stings, bleeds over the wood he stands.

The air is cold.

He’s utterly useless to people who need his help once again.

“Get a hold of yourself.” Lan Meihui orders.

The mask falls over his features as if it never left.

His hands let go of the door as if they weigh more than they do. He takes one step back, then another. He nods respectfully to Lan-daifu and turns around in a sedate pace, walking past a hundred eyes that follow him - cling to his frames as hands would to his robes, trying to rip him apart, and he has to withstand it, because he should have known better - towards the way he came. Towards a frightened boy who doesn’t understand what happened.

When he slides open a door that gives so easily under his hands, revealing a candlelit room with a bed in the center, where a small, thin child is sat up, slightly sloping to the side, looking up at him with fuzzy recognition.. 

“Ji-gege?” A-Yuan calls, his voice a little, frail wisp of a thing, eyes drowsy from the medication that he bravely fights off to keep himself awake. “Is A-Niang still screaming?”

The foolish hope he had had that he wouldn’t have heard a thing dies a swift death, leaving only the pained tissue of his already wounded heart. He approached the bed with swift and silent steps and did not quite know how to feel when the boy, so instinctively trusting of him, extended his arms in his direction, expecting to be picked up.

He can only imagine how easily he must have been indulged by those around him, lifted in everyones’ arms so frequently he had simply become used to it.

Wangji obliges.

“It will be okay.” He says, even though he cannot be sure, before he can manage another word: “He will stop soon.”

 as A-Yuan settles in his arms, laying his head on his shoulder and sleepily hiding his face in the crook of his neck. He imagines Wei Ying bending to scoop into his arms, a smile on his lips and a soft tone to his voice as the boy started to drift off to sleep.

He has to close his eyes for a moment.

“Is he okay?” He asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

He can't answer. He doesn't know how to. And it's against the rules to lie.

The same rules that are ruining lives, have been for a long time.

Wangji lays a hand in A-Yuan’s back, like he had seen someone else do, once, in the market of a small town.

"Do you want to go outside for a bit?"

He feels him nod once, twice, though it might be him falling asleep.

The trail he takes is more familiar than he would wish it was, and had gone untraveled for longer than he would like to admit.

The vegetation has grown, but not gone entirely uncared for. The plants outside are still alive, still well taken care of, and not much by their own doing

He stops for a moment, in front of another house, cradling the sleeping boy to his chest.

“Wangji?”

The genitians are in bloom.

The screaming has stopped.

“You should give Wei Ying the talismans.”

He leaves his brother behind.

After a week of disturbed sleeping, where Wei Ying's cries are so horrible and blood curling that no Lan cultivator or otherwise can sleep after being woken by the Yiling Laozu's nightmares and A-Yuan doesn’t even want to go to sleep when the sky darkens, talismans are delivered to the house that’s named Móshí when whispered by gossiping tongues.

They are kept in a steady flow, along with food and other essentials.

No sound ever comes from the house after that, even at day-time when the talismans are specifically designed to be useless, only activated at night to allow others the chance of a peaceful sleep, should they be able to forget his screams.

Even when Lan Meihui visits him twice a month, not when she’s there and not when she leaves, never willing to divulge what has taken place during her visits. Even when the younger disciples that trade horror stories about the Yiling Patriarch and the older ones that are sent as spies for the Clan Elders sneak around the house and stay for hours, trying to eavesdrop. Even when a man holds a shivering boy that calls for his A-Niang through the burning fever, until no one can tell whose are the tears dampening his robes.

There are no sounds at all. No movements that can be pinpointed.

Sometimes it's as if he's already died, they say.

A droplet of water catches the light, condensing against the dark wood of a tea table, undisturbed for but a moment, the minuscule center of attention of such a small portion of the world that it could fit in between four walls, around a table meant for one.

Then a fingertip descends upon it, breaks it and drags it, using it to trace lines over the wooden surface, stretching the water thin in fluid and precise movements, full of a grace that’s rusty from disuse but never quite forgotten.

“You want it to be thin but sure.” Wei Wuxian explains in a calm movement. “Make sure your hands are steady.” He says, carefully moving along the strokes to form the character for ‘cloud’, trying to be as slow as possible as A-Yuan watched him, brows furrowed and face scrunched in concentration. “Like this.”

A-Yuan’s watchful eyes, pay attention to his instructions, watch closely to his movements as if he can not afford to lose a single one of them. Doesn’t want to disappoint. Wei Wuxian knows the feeling. A fond but sad thing settles in his chest at seeing a piece of himself, a younger self, in his son’s features - he had hoped to keep it from him, yet that one more thing, yet this one more failure.

He softens all he can in order to at least not inflict upon him what was inflicted upon him when he was more innocent and his eyes saw wonder in everything, when the person he admired and the person he wanted to impress turned out to have sharp words, hard hands, neglectful eyes, a passive temperament. He tries to accept their limitations, nearly decades later, and tries to be better, however he can.

“You got it?” Wei Wuxian asks, playfully.

A-Yuan nods, once, determinate.

“I got it.”

Wei Wuxian’s lips curve into a gentle smile, wiping the water from the table with his black sleeve, before offering out a cup of water for his son.

“Your turn then.”

Still looking very determined, the boy dipped one of his fingers in water and then waited for a droplet to fall on the table, as he did, and started to try and mimic the way his niang had written.

“Hold your wrist firmly.” He corrected him, touching the child’s arm as a reminder, which A-Yuan followed immediately, his tongue stuck out of in between his lips in concentration. 

Wei Wuxian watched the character form, maybe not as gracefully as it had been under his hand, but certainly a greater improvement than his first attempt.

“Good.” He said, smiling. Then, again, a warm hand patting his back proudly. “Good. That’s great.” He leaned back, taking his hand away, trying not to hover. His smile grew. “It will be a bit different with a brush, but not by much.”

A-Yuan looks up at him, wide-eyed, curious, innocent.

“Why don't we use brushes then?”

Ah. Well… The simplest of questions, the most of awkward of answers.

There's no way of telling the truth to such a young child, and even if there was, Wei Wuxian wouldn't have the heart to do it.

He's bound to learn it, sooner or later, with all signs pointing to sooner. Still Wei Wuxian struggles against it, with all he can. Is he so wrong to want to cover the sun with the palm of his hand, to uphold a peaceful lie for a few more months? Let him struggle, wrestle modicums of a gentle illusion from this cruel reality, make believe with the debris of their lives, as long as he can ensure A-Yuan remains innocent and unaware of it all a little while longer?

He smiles, and the very act of it seems to hurt him, as if he's stretching at something that is already too thin. Still, Wei Wuxian smiles benevolently, laying his hand over the boy’s head and ruffling his hair slightly.

“A-Niang broke all his brushes, can you believe that?” He asked, playfully.

Such a small lie had such great reward as the continuous joy of his son, the slight prolonging of his innocence, one more afternoon where this house could be a safe haven for him and not a hallmark of all that had been lost, all neither of them could regain. A-Yuan giggled instead, trying to keep him from further messing up his hair by pulling back from his reach.

“A-Niang, stoop!” He says, batting his larger hands away with his little one, to which he chuckles and concedes the fight, gracefully. A-Yuan pulls a face, pretending to be cross at him, but they both know he doesn't mean it, so there is no bite behind it. “You’re so clumsy! You’re always breaking and losing things!”

Wei Wuxian’s heart ached in his chest, more painful than usual.

“I am, aren't I?” He asks, either way, putting twice as much twice as much effort in his smile. 

“It’s okay.” A-Yuan says, patting his arm comfortingly, still giggling. "Yes, A-Niang! I lose things all the time.But Ji-Gege says it's okay because I'm young and learning, and it'll get better as I grow older!"

The mirth he feels is genuine, and old, very old and very well cared for through the years. Wei Wuxian's eyes soften, the smile is a bit easier to keep up, as he listens to his son, feeling a mixture of warmth and bittersweetness. He can hear Lan Zhan through the paraphrased words, and it’s amazing to receive another of those scraps, not only of A-Yuan’s life, but of his old friend.

"Oh, does he now?” A small chuckle escaped his lips, and he leans back, indulging in what tales his son wants to share. “What else does Ji-Gege say?"

“He says I must be diligent.” A-Yuan recites readily. “That discipline is learned on a daily basis.” His son brings up his fingers, as if counting statements, cardinal truths. “I should be clean and tidy. I have to organize my things everyday, and care for what I’m given.”

"Does he?” He asked, flicking A-Yuan's nose playful and fondly as he needled him to continue: "What else?”

A-Yuan's face lights up with excitement, and he straightens as if his Ji-gege's teachings deserve all his respect and better efforts. His admiration is bright and obvious in his face, in a way that makes him think of better days in these mountains, when he lived and slept in student dormitories with people he hadn't seen in years, wandered freely through the pathways of Cloud Recesses, free to come and go, with a home to return to with people to return to, and life still was vibrant with joy and worth being lived.

There was a different worth to it now. He had a different worth now.

And he was such a cheap thing, such a small price for the smile he was being graced with, he put upon determination adorning his features.

"He says that I should always be honest, be kind to others, and listen to A-Niang.” A-Yuan recites, listing each topic on his fingers, beaming a bit more as he adds one more thing: “And he also says that he likes it when I play the guqin with him."

“Ah, I see.” Wei Wuxian says, setting back in a way his bones won't ache, and takes in his son easy joy. “Ji-gege is very wise.”

A-Yuan nods in earnest agreement with the statement.

“He is! He tells me stories of when you studied together, and gives me things that remind us of you. He was the one that gave me this red ribbon, after I asked for it!” At that, A-Yuan turns around, showcasing his tied hair once again, the offending ribbon in his hair leaving a bittersweet taste in Wei Wuxian’s mouth. “See? Now I match you!”

Wei Wuxian reaches for the red ribbon and can only think that yes, indeed, he looks like the son of the Yilling Patriarch like this. He bites down at his lip, glad that A-Yuan has his back turned and can’t see his expression, rubbing the fabric of the ribbon in between his index finger and thumb before tugging at it until the knot come undone, slipping from A-Yuan's hair as his black locks fall freely down his back.

A-Yuan's tiny hand came up to his head quickly, after a little gasp escaped his lips, feeling the lack of his ponytail and of the ribbon he had meant to showcase. At last, his son turns to him, his eyes wide and betrayed, his little face something in between confused and sad, but by then he is ready.

When his son turns to him, Wei Wuxian is smiling, an attempt at another kind of smile from a lifetime ago, light where this is practiced, genuine where this one is hollow.

"Ah, I'm sorry, baobei. I couldn't help it.” He lets out a chuckle, squeezing both his chicks and watching as his son's frown fades a little, his childish laughter escaping him as he squirms In Wei Wuxian's hold. "You were just so cute ! And your ribbon was so pretty !” He leans back, twisting the ribbon in his finger before bringing it closer to his face. "Could you give this one to me?” He asks, pouting and making his eyes wide and pleading in a way that makes A-Yuan giggle. "Niang only had one, and it's old and tearing.” 

A-Yuan, ever the filial child, mods in earnest.

" Of course, A-Niang.” He said, beaming in his seat. “I'll just ask Ji-gege for a new one!”

"No need.” Wei Wuxian denies swiftly, standing up cautiously of his aching bones before extending a hard to A-Yuan. "I'll give you one of my own, what do you think?”

His son's eyes were very wide for a moment, and only her for one moment, because in the next he had jumped to his feet, a grin splitting his face and eager hands clinging to his sleeve as he looked up at him.

"Yes!” A-Yuan cheered. "I'll wear it all the time, and I'll take care of it very well! I promise!”

With relief assuring his heart into a steadier pace, he shot his head fondly and pocketed the offending red ribbon in his robes.

"You better!” Wei Wuxian said, wagging a finger playfully at him. “This one I embroidered myself, ok?”

A-Yuan burns in fever for weeks following their separation.

Lan Meihui spends more time than she normally would or that she should by his bedside, checking his vitals several times a day, and pressing her lips into a thin line as she prescribes medicines and fidgets with the bed and accommodations, as if she’ll find anything else she may do for the child, but she knows.

Silently, she sits by one side of his bed until her duties drive her to stand, though her brows are still pinched in concern, and to pass on the wet towel drenched with medicinal herbs onto his hand.

Lan Wangji takes it with grace and bids her goodbye, in the most formal and respectful manner possible, continuing on his post by the other side of A-Yuan’s bed and waiting until she returns, outright ignoring all his duties in his pain and worry.

There’s nothing to do but wait. They both know that.

If that’s all there is to do, he won’t fight against it. He will press the towel against A-Yuan’s forehead, give him medicine at the right time, feed him the light broths his starved little body can take, ensures his room is filled with sunlight and fresh air, changes his clothes and the bed’s linen once a day, sits by his side, holding his hand, and hums, waiting for him to wake up.

Lan Wangji is very good at waiting.

He has a lifetime of experience.

The news that comes from the Moshi is not good, but he cannot act upon it. The doors won’t open to him, and there are Lan clansmen watching over Wei Ying’s prison in case he tries to break out, and Wei Ying had trusted his son to him. He had turned to his frightened son and told him he would be okay, because Wangi would look out for him. And as the boy lays sick in his bed, with vultures in white and gold circling the infirmary, Wangji finds himself his only defense, feels the weight of his small body in his hands and of Wei Ying’s trust in his shoulders and refuses to budge.

As the fever persists, A-Yuan’s frail body begins to tremble in his sleep, small murmurs escaping his lips, gradually growing louder. His face, flushed and clammy, twitches with distress, and soon his quiet whimpers become heart-wrenching cries.

"A-Niang…” He cries out for the first time, his voice no louder than a whisper. “A-Niang..." He sobs, his small hands grasping at the air, reaching out for someone who isn't there.

Lan Wangji's heart clenches painfully. His eyes sting.

He tightens his hold on A-Yuan's hand, attempting to soothe him, but the boy’s fevered mind is far from the room. He is lost in a world of nightmares, he’s stuck back in mountains that burn,  his voice cracking with the weight of fear and confusion.

"A-Niang... where are you?" A-Yuan's sobs intensify, his small body shaking violently as tears stream down his face. He thrashes weakly, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused, as though caught in the space between sleep and consciousness.

Lan Wangji looks on, lost and helpless, holding the boy's hand in both of his. He swallows hard, carefully tucking the blanket around A-Yuan’s trembling form, dipping the cloth in fresh water before resting it on his forehead before humming a song he only ever hummed once before, to a boy in a cave.

When Lan Meihui comes, he takes the time where he can be assured of A-Yuan’s safety to go to his brother. He finds xiongzhan, seated in quiet contemplation, and his shufu, standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back.

"Let him see Wei Ying," Wangji pleads, his voice steady but laden with urgency. "He’s delirious and crying and he calls for him. Let him see him."

His xiongzhan’s brows furrow in sympathy but his shufu's lips twist in reproach.

"That is impossible. You know the consequences of allowing Wei Ying out of confinement, Wangji. He is dangerous, and we cannot risk—"

"He is not dangerous to A-Yuan," Lan Wangji interrupts, his tone sharper than usual. "Wei Ying has been the only parent he had for these past months, and now that his whole family is slain, his absence torments him. You would see him suffer like this?"

Lan Xichen watches the exchange with a calm expression, but the tension in his shoulders betrays his unease.

"Wangji," he says gently, "I understand your concern, but we must follow the rules. Wei Ying’s confinement is not something we can so easily alter. The elders have made their decision."

Lan Wangji’s jaw tightens.

“So have you.” He reminds his brother. “He’s allowed to see him, at least once a week.”

“The wards around the house aren’t even set yet.” Shufu argues. “We cannot risk it.”

"A-Yuan is just a child, and one in distress.” Wangji presses. “Wei Ying wouldn’t do anything to endanger him, not when he’s also all he has."

"Be as it may be, the boy is strong. " Lan Qiren snaps, his gaze hardening. "He will recover with time and care. And away from bad influences."

Lan Wangji lowers his gaze, frustration simmering beneath his calm facade.

"He will not recover if he continues to suffer like this. Let Wei Ying see him, even for a short while."

But Lan Qiren is unmoved, shaking his head with finality.

"The answer is no."

Lan Wangji turns to his brother, silently pleading with him for support. Lan Xichen’s eyes flicker with hesitation, but he remains silent, unwilling or unable to challenge their shufu’s decision.

The weight of his helplessness presses down on Lan Wangji’s chest as he bows stiffly and leaves the room, his frustration and sorrow growing heavier with each step. Returning to A-Yuan’s bedside, he listens to the boy’s continued cries, his small voice hoarse from weeping.

"A-Niang... please..."

Lan Meihui lifts her knowing eyes towards his face.

“They’ve denied it, I take it.”

Wangji kneels by her side, his hand resting on the boy’s forehead, cool against his feverish skin, taking the cloth from her hand in his.

“They won’t change, Hanguang-jun.” She tells him, as she stands up. “As soon as you stop hoping that they would, you will suffer less.”

As A-Yuan tosses and turns, his sobs echoing through the room, Wangji hums again the soft melody, a familiar tune that once brought peace to another, praying silently for A-Yuan to find solace in his voice.

But deep down, he knows: the boy needs more than a song.

He needs the one person who has always made him feel safe.

“I’ll leave you to it.” Lan Meihui says, before retiring from the room.

Days pass, and the fever slowly begins to break. A-Yuan’s temperature, once alarmingly high, gradually wanes, leaving his small body weak and exhausted but no longer consumed by the heat of sickness. His thrashing subsides, and his cries for Wei Ying fade into quiet, restless murmurs.

Wangji sits vigil by the boy's bedside, not leaving for even a moment. He continues the familiar routine—changing the wet towels, giving the prescribed medicine, humming the soft melody he knows by heart—until finally, in the soft light of dawn, A-Yuan’s eyes flutter open.

His gaze is unfocused at first, his small face still pale and drawn, but there’s a flicker of recognition as he turns his head ever so slightly towards Lan Wangji. His lips part, and a soft, almost fragile voice slips out.

“Ji-gege?”

Lan Wangji’s heart tightens at the sound, and he leans in closer, his expression as gentle as the breeze that stirs the curtains.

“I am here, A-Yuan.” He confirms, his voice low and soothing.

A-Yuan blinks a few times, as if trying to clear the haze from his vision, his small brow furrowing with the effort. His eyes are wide, though still clouded with exhaustion, and his voice comes out in a whisper.

“Will I… Ever see A-Niang again?”

Wangji freezes, his breath catching in his throat. He is silent for a long moment, his mind scrambling for an answer, for a reassurance that he knows, deep down, he cannot give.

“I don’t know.” Wangji finally says, his voice barely audible, laced with a sorrow he cannot hide.

The words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, A-Yuan just stares at him, as if trying to process the uncertainty. Then, slowly, the boy’s lower lip begins to tremble.

He doesn’t wail, doesn’t sob like he did during the fever, but a quiet, pitiful whimper escapes him, and his small shoulders shake as the tears fall, one after another, down his cheeks.

Wangji watches helplessly, his chest tightening with each tear A-Yuan sheds. He reaches out, gently wiping the boy’s tears away with the edge of his sleeve, though it does little to stop the silent flow. His hand lingers on A-Yuan’s head, stroking his hair in an attempt to offer comfort.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his usual composure cracking under the weight of the boy’s quiet despair.

A-Yuan turns his face into the pillow, his small hands clutching at the blanket as his soft cries continue. Lan Wangji can do nothing but sit by his side, offering the only solace he can—his presence, cheap of a replacement as it is.

But in the silence of the room, as A-Yuan cries quietly into the linen, Lan Wangji feels the ache of helplessness deepen. He had promised to protect the child, to look after him, and yet, he cannot give him the one thing he needs most.

He cannot bring Wei Ying back to him.

But he can bring him to Wei Ying.

The thought strikes Lan Wangji like a blade, cutting through his stoic resolve with a sharp, bitter force. His chest tightens, a mix of anger and defiance surging through him—anger at the injustice, at the rules that bind him, at the suffering forced upon the innocent. Revolt rises in his heart, breaking the barriers of tradition and duty that have held him back for so long. 

A voice from long ago comes to him, a vow whispered by a boy, his eyes closed, his hands clasped together. I wish I can always stand with justice, live with no regrets.

Wangji has too many regrets, for one so young. He doesn’t want to regret anymore.

He makes his decision.

Without a word, Lan Wangji lifts A-Yuan into a seated position, cradling the boy gently. His voice is calm but firm as he speaks.

“You must be very quiet, A-Yuan. Do you understand?”

A-Yuan, still dazed and weak from the fever, looks at him with confused eyes but nods, trusting him without hesitation. As if he has done this before.

Wangji knows he has.

He moves with purpose, his movements deliberate and precise. He changes A-Yuan into a fresh set of clothes, smoothing out the wrinkles with care. He washes the boy’s tear-streaked face with a cool cloth, his hands steady despite the storm brewing inside him. He fixes A-Yuan’s hair, tying it neatly with a small ribbon, as if preparing him for something sacred.

Then, without another word, Wangji lifts the boy into his arms. A-Yuan clings to him instinctively, his small hands grasping at his robes. He slides the door of the Jingshi open, the soft creak of the wood breaking the silence of the night. The cold air hits them, but he merely covers A-Yuan to better protect him from the weather. He steps out into the darkness, his expression unreadable, his heart pounding with resolve.

The night is quiet, the back pathways of the Cloud Recesses deserted. The curfew has long fallen, but Lan Wangji walks with a hurried determination, uncaring of the rules he is breaking. His footsteps are steady and silent as he makes his way through the familiar pathways, avoiding the more heavily guarded areas.

It isn’t long before they reach their destination.

The Moshi, the place where Wei Ying is imprisoned, looms before him, its doors closed and silent, guarded by two Lan clansmen. They both tense at his approach.

“Hanguang-jun-” One of them calls, eyes wide at the sight o f the boy in his arms.

“Let me through.” He says, uncaring of the interruption.

“But-”

“Let me through or I will go through you.”

They hesitate, but part ways to let him through. Lan Wangji stands at the doorstep, his heart pounding in his chest as he gazes at the door, his breath steady but his mind racing.

Wei Ying is behind those doors. The one person A-Yuan needs most. The only two people Lan Wangji cannot fail. 

His breath falters as he stands before the door, not from the effort of the walk, but from the sudden rush of emotion that grips him at the sight. The memory of Wei Ying’s imprisonment is still too raw, the wound in his heart too fresh.

The pain threatens to overwhelm him, but he steadies himself, reminding himself there are things more important than his own suffering. 

He feels A-Yuan’s small fists tighten around his robes, the boy sensing the tension in the air. Wangji forces himself to breathe, to focus.Without a second thought, he tightens his grip on A-Yuan and steps forward, his hand reaching for the door. The weight of the world presses down on him, but he pushes it aside.  He raises his hand, and knocks twice, the sound barely audible in the stillness of the night. 

“Wei Ying?” he calls softly, his voice almost a whisper, laced with the quiet plea of a man desperate for an answer.

The doors, however, remain shut, as if mocking his effort. The silence behind them stretches unbearably.

His throat tightens, and he glances down at A-Yuan, who looks up at him with wide, confused eyes, searching his face for reassurance. Then, as if sensing that something is amiss, A-Yuan turns his gaze to the door. His small body trembles slightly, and after a moment of hesitation, he calls out in a soft, quivering voice.

“A-Niang?”

The word hangs in the air, fragile and filled with longing. A-Yuan’s voice, though weak, carries the weight of all his fear, his need, his unspoken hope that his call will be answered. His eyes remain fixed on the door, waiting for any sign, for any response.

But the doors do not budge.

A-Yuan’s lip trembles, and his small hands clutch at Lan Wangji’s robes even tighter. He glances up at Lan Wangji, his eyes silently asking the question neither of them dares to voice. Where is A-Niang? Why hasn’t he come?

Lan Wangji’s heart breaks all over again. He tightens his hold on A-Yuan, cradling him protectively, his voice caught in his throat. The silence is deafening, pressing in on both of them as the weight of the situation sinks deeper.

There is a subtle shift from within the house, a faint stirring that makes Lan Wangji tense, hope and fear battling within him. The seconds stretch impossibly long, until finally, the door slides open just a fraction. In the dim light, the pale, gaunt face of Wei Wuxian emerges through the narrow gap, his gray eyes filled with apprehension.

At first, Wei Wuxian's gaze falls on Lan Wangji. Then, as his eyes drift downward, they widen in sudden recognition.

“ Baobei ” Wei Wuxian breathes, the word slipping from his lips like a breath he’s been holding for too long. His voice is hoarse, rough from disuse, but there is no mistaking the raw emotion that colors it.

The sound of that single word, filled with so much tenderness and pain, hangs in the air. A-Yuan’s eyes brighten, his tiny fists loosening their grip on Lan Wangji’s robes as he looks up at the figure before him. Then, slowly, a smile begins to form on his lips. 

“A-Niang,” he whispers, his voice small and filled with the kind of relief that makes Lan Wangji’s throat tighten.

Wei Wuxian opens the door wider, his expression shifting from apprehension to concern as he takes in A-Yuan’s feverish, frail appearance. His hands instinctively reach out, trembling, desperate to hold his son, but they suddenly jerk back, and he hisses in pain.

The acrid smell of burned flesh fills the air, and Wangji’s sharp eyes immediately fall to Wei Ying’s hands—his fingertips are blackened, blistered, burnt.

Wangji feels a surge of rage, white-hot and overwhelming, rising in his chest. The realization that this is what will befall Wei Ying everytime he tries to cross the wards of his confinement tears at him.

Wangji wants to cry. He wants to scream. 

But he doesn’t. 

Instead, with quiet resolve, he moves forward, gently extending A-Yuan toward Wei Wuxian, crossing the threshold of the door as if the invisible boundaries set by the wards meant nothing.

For him, they don’t. 

Wei Wuxian’s breath catches as Lan Wangji carefully transfers the child into his arms. His injured hands shake as they close around A-Yuan’s small form, but he pulls the boy close, clutching him to his chest with all the strength he can muster. Relief floods his face, mingling with the pain, as he cradles his son like a precious, fragile thing, and as A-Yuan, equally relieved and equally in despair climbs into his hold, clinging to him as his small shoulders begin to shake, crying like a dam has been broken.

But even as he holds A-Yuan, Wei Ying’s eyes are locked on Wangji’s, dark and intense, emotions swirling behind them that are too many and too complicated to name. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the weight of everything unsaid stretching between them like a fragile thread as A-Yuan grips Wei Ying as if he could make it so they never part again.

Lan Wangji swallows hard, his heart aching with everything he wants to say, but the words refuse to form. So, he says the only thing he can:

“I’m still here.”

The words are simple, soft, but they carry the full weight of his heart. He’s not sure if Wei Ying can hear him, though.

His zhiji’s lips don’t move, but his eyes speak volumes.

I know.

Then the door slides shut.

Wangji’s forehead rests against the door, as something in his chest tears itself apart.

When father and son are reunited, A-Yuan cries so desperately and so loudly that half of Gusu can hear the boy, and he keeps at it for two hours.

The doors open, but never for Lan Zhan.

In the quiet and solemn Mingshi, Lan Xichen carefully pours tea into two porcelain cups, the soft clinking of the teapot filling the silence. His movements are graceful, yet there is an undeniable weight to them, as though every action costs him an immense effort.

Having tea with his little brother was never such a tense struggle before, but now it demands great care and precision and more than a great portion of diplomacy. Even this one occasion, it seems, demands a formal excuse to take place.

It's a depressing prospect for the rest of his life and a bastardization of what their brotherhood had been.

He finishes pouring and slides one cup gently toward his younger brother with a tentative smile.

Wangji accepts the cup with a quiet: “Thank you, xiongzhang” and nothing more.

His hand grips the delicate handle, but he doesn’t raise it to his lips to drink. Instead, he holds the cup still, for a short amount of time, and then lowers it back to the table.

Lan Xichen's gaze lingers on his brother for a moment too long, his heart heavy. The faint smile in his lips is fragile, barely holding together.

“You’re welcome, Wangji.” He replies, his voice soft but strained, upholding his usual reserved cheer with most effort.

The quiet of the room wraps around them like a shroud, broken only by their breathing, the rustling of paper as they handle it, the clinking of the porcelain teased, of which neither of them drink. Lan XIchen takes a slow breath, as if summoning the strength to speak, straightening the perfectly straight sleeves while at it, a habit born of unease that he never used to show when they were alone.

Nowadays, it’s when it comes up the most.

“Sect Leader Jiang will be visiting soon.” He begins, his voice even, soothing, but not enough to hide the undercurrent of tension ingrained in it. “We must ensure everything is in order. As we know, the relationship between the Lan and Jiang sects has been…” He hesitates, shooting a brief unsure look to Wangji, before powering through his words: “Strained, as of late.”

“With good reason.” Wangji says, his words hard and cold.

Lan Xichen can feel the resentment in his words.

His tongue is suddenly and unexpectedly coated with an awful, bitter taste. He tries to drown it with tea but it doesn't work. He lowers the teacup, unsure of what to do with his hands, his words, himself, his brother.

He tries again. It seems to be a family trait.

"It's clear that recent events have left a chasm between many." He says, carefully. "But we must think of the bigger picture, of the Cultivation World at large. Perhaps one good first impression can be the start of mending that chasm, and working for a better future."

All the while he spoke, Wangji’s gaze had remained downcast, his hand still resting on the untouched teacup, up until his last sentence, which elicited the faintest tightening of his jaw, his hand flexing around the teacup.

“Coating rotten work in gold does not change its nature,” he says, the words deliberate, measured. His eyes lift, meeting Xichen's for the first time. “Making a good impression won’t change what has caused this distance. Nor will it change the truth of what happened.”

The words hang between them, as sharp as the tension that has lingered in the air since Wei Wuxian’s confinement in the Cloud Recesses. It's as close to an accusation as Wangji will voice nowadays, the unresolved pain of the postulant wound that is Wei Wuxian that still festers, spreads, gangrenes whole limbs.

Lan Xichen's smile fades completely. His hands, usually so steady, tremble slightly as they rest in his lap. He has heard these thoughts before, though perhaps not spoken aloud.

He knows Wangji's feelings all too well.

“I understand,” Xichen says softly, after a long pause. His voice is calm, but it holds a trace of weariness, as though he is carrying the burden of the sect’s diplomacy, the fractures in their family, the slow corrosion of the world as he knows it. “But sometimes, Wangji, we must present harmony even when it does not exist.”

His eyes, dark with sorrow, search his younger brother’s face, hoping for understanding but finding nothing, nothing at all. Once, he was able to read Wangji's thoughts even when his face was marble. Now? He could barely make out any hints. Lan Xichen’s breath shudders as he inhales, his chest tightening under the weight of what he’s about to say. 

"Master Wei agreed to it," Xichen finally says, his voice soft but laden with a defensive edge "By the laws of the cultivation world, he would have been killed. Are we truly that horrible for keeping him alive, even if in this state?"

The silence that follows is thick and stifling. Lan Wangji does not look at his brother. His grip tightens on the teacup, though he still does not drink from it, jaw clenched.

"You have learned well from shufu how to justify atrocities," Wangji finally replies, his tone low, laced with the faintest undertone of quiet contempt.Gently, he pushes the further away on the table, as though its presence has become unbearable in his hand. "Was mother alive, you gather, when she existed much the same way?"

The room feels colder. Lan Xichen’s composure cracks visibly. His eyes widen in shock, and his breath catches in his throat, a soft gasp escaping his lips.

“Wangji…” His voice trembles, the usual calm broken, as though his brother's words have cut through years of restraint, touched a wound that never truly healed but had been expertly hidden. His gaze falters, searching his brother’s face for any signs, but Wangji does not look at him. "Is that truly what you think of me?" Xichen’s voice is quieter now, almost a whisper, horrified.

Wangji’s voice cuts through the tension with a note of stark practicality, entertaining none of his worries, that underlying contempt clear in how he dismisses Xichen’s own turmoil, judging it too little, too late.

"We're losing focus." He says, the words carrying a tone of finality. "The Jiang delegation. When are they expected to come?"

Lan Xichen blinks, as though pulled back into the present by his brother’s words. He takes a moment to compose himself, the hurt in his eyes momentarily being masked once more under the facade of the perfect Lan Sect Leader.

"They are scheduled to arrive in three days," Xichen replies, his voice pleasant but hollow, automatic. "We have time to finalize the preparations and ensure everything is in order."

Wangji nods. The cold remains.

Xichen wonders if this is what it feels like, to kneel by a door you know won’t open.

Jiang Wanying visits, a year after.

It's more than he had expected of the man.

Xiongzhan welcomes him as if there's nothing particularly unusual in the sudden and unannounced arrival of a Sect Leader in the doorstep of Cloud Recesses, with only two jittery disciples accompanying him, both of which keep glancing nervously at their stern-faced Sect Leader, who looked as if he was still planning funerals, the bags under his eyes as dark as bruises.

He has rooms prepared for them, he takes time from his schedule and has tea prepared and sits and talks endlessly, pointlessly, in circles, until Jiang Wanyin has nothing more he can use as an excuse and merely its there, awkwardly staring out at the window, the cold tea in his hands. 

At last, Xiongzhan presses his lips into a thin line of sympathy and suggests they rest for the night and leave the rest of their conversation for tomorrow.

All of them, Lan Wangji included, are polite enough to not point out that there was barely any conversation being had today, so there will hardly be any tomorrow.

He gets up when xiongzhan asks him to guide Jiang Wanyin to his rooms. The Jiang Sect Leader follows him, wordlessly, with no protest, and so Lan Wangji guides him to where he really wants to go.

His back is turned to him, so of course he doesn't see the exact moment the realization hits him, but he does hear it. The sharp intake of breath. The step he nearly misses. The curse word that escapes his lips.

Wangji doesn't let any of that affect him. Not until they are where they need to be, not until his feet halt a few steps away from the small pathway of stone that leads up to the secluded, pale and warded house.

"Is that…?” Jiang Wanyin begins, then falters, then quietens.

Wangj gives him no answers. Doesn't even turn to look at him.

He does, however, follow him with his eyes when he enters his field of vision of his own volition, taking quiet steps in the path towards the Moshi's doorstep. It might be a failure of character, that Wangji does not find in himself to feel any sympathy for the man as he waits, unsure, in front of the door, looking lost as a child or crestfallen as an infant.

As if he expected the doors to open for him, as if he thought he was owed that much, as if he could not make sense of the fact that whatever isolation Wei Yinh had established for himself when it came to the outside world would ever include him.

It might be a failure of character, it might be Wangji's crumbling core values in the face of injustice.

It might be.

Heavens knows the rules sound hollow to him now. He can't recite them, even in his mind. They bring about the taste of bile to his tongue. 

"Wei Wuxian?” Jiang Wanying calls, at last, and the tone of his voice surprises him like a cold stab, more soft or quiet than he has ever heard him be. Wangji blinks twice, deliberates, and tries to make sense of what he's heard. “It's… It's Jjang Cheng.” He hesitates for a moment, before his knuckles knock against the door once more. "Can we talk?”

There is no answer.

“You left me alone.” He says, when the silence is too long for him to bear, and the words might be accusation, but Jiang Cheng sounds like he’s crying. “Jiejie is dead, and you’re in here.” His shoulders are hunched, he seems to lean against the door as if this was the only way to get closer to the last sibling he has left. “All the Sect has is me. All Jin Ling has is me.” He chuckles, the sound a wet thing. “Can you think of a sadder fate for a kid?”

They can, is the thing. They had seen it with their own two eyes.

“He should know you.” Jiang Wanyin whispers. “You’re his uncle too.”

Then he’s quiet for a while, as his shoulders spasm. Wangji looks away to give him some privacy.

In the silence that follows, broken only by the soft hitches of Sect Leader Jiang’s breath, a sliding sound makes Wangji’s heart skip a beat. He turns around to see Jiang Wanyin step back from the house, shocked, as if burned.

The door opens minutely, barely anything. A pale hand places a clarity bell by the door, then pushes gently, rolling it past the doorstep until it hits Jiang Wanyin’s foot and stops. Then the door closes again.

It's the most he's seen of Wei Wuxian since he walked in.

Wangji feels like he can’t breathe.

Jiang Wanyin recovers his senses more quickly, falling to the ground with no grace to take the clarity bell from the ground, brushing any dirt off it like it's a precious relic, the last scrap he will ever have. He looks at it for a long while, before looking at the doors again, as if he can see his brother past it.

“Wei Wuxian.” He calls again, his voice breaking, sounding hopeful, sounding desperate, shuffling on his knees towards the door, clutching the clarity bell in one of his hands with nothing short than desperation and knocking at the door once more. "Can you let me in?”

They wait with baited breath.

They wait for a long time.

Nothing happens.

He tries not to feel vindicated when the door does not open for him.

He fails.

The door never opens for Jiang Cheng, never fully, though he does come every year and looks more furious, more wounded, by every rejection.

His knees hit the ground with a sickening sound, and he knows the pain would come later, sharp and aching, lasting for days. But, for now, all he could feel was not the pain of his knees or the cold floor beneath them, but the violence of the sickness that drove his fingers to clutch a small pot and his body to hunch over it,  trembling violently, his breaths ragged and labored.

With a gut-wrenching heave, Wei Wuxian expelled the meager contents of his stomach, the effort leaving him retching dryly. The vomit that splattered into the pot was a sickly white foam. He knew now, after so long of these bouts of sicknesses, that such consistency was evidence of his prolonged starvation.

He was not eating, and that made him sick. The great irony. If he had eaten, he would have thrown up either way. As if to punish him, his body convulses once more, expelling what he doesn't even have in his stomach.

Each convulsion was a new stab, a new test of his strength, sent waves of pain coursing through his weakened body. Still, he persisted, this body of his strung together by spite and the little hopes to see his son one more day, one more week.

As the retching dies down, and only exhaustion is left in his wake, he tries to find solace at the idea of rest. Above his heart, the wound pulses, burns and the burns spreads, through his body, through his veins, and he grinds his teeth together to keep from screaming until he feels almost like a tooth has cracked.

He struggled to catch his breath, a final cough wracking his body, and a mournful spatter of crimson that slowly stains the whitish vomit.

The sight exhausts him more than the sickness does.

Wei Wuxian is very tired of the sight of blood.

Pushing the now-rejected pot away, he lets his body fall against the ground, like a shot bird, his forehead pressing against the cool surface as his chest still fights to breathe, weak lungs rattling.

At least, he thinks, he managed to wait. Wait until Lan Zhan rapped his knuckles against the door, until he softly called for A-Yuan’s name. Until he had massaged the frown from in between his brows, poked his cheeks until he let up the pout on his lips, promised a longer day next visit, promised more sweets, promised more small things that he could keep.

He had managed to wait for him to leave. Managed to wait until he was far away.

And then the almost nothing of food he had eaten while with him had gotten the best of him.

He coughs one more time, the horrible taste in the back of his tongue is horrible. He closes his eyes.

“Did I come in a bad moment?” Lan-daifu asks, though when he turns around there’s nothing of that thoughtful and accommodating intent in her expression.

He hadn't heard her walk in. Though, he supposed, he was not in much of a state to do anything.

Her eyes are hard and the features on her face are grave, heavy. He knows the sight he makes nowadays is no pretty thing. His white robes, once given to him in a near perfect fit, now hung loosely on his frame until he seemed he was drowning in it, accentuating the sharp angles of his shoulders and the hollows beneath his eyes.

Lan Meihui continues staring down at him. At his lips. In youth, he would have joked about it, teased her, that she wished for a kiss, she needed only to ask. He knows better now. There's no lust lost between the both of them. He brings his hand up and wipes his mouth with the back of it. It comes bloodstained.

He knows, is the thing. He knows.

Lan Meihui's face hardens swiftly, her posture as a whole makes explicit that whatever she has come to speak of, she will leave no room for nonsense. In fact, she’s sliding the door shut with a sharp snap as soon as they make eye contact and before he can even reply.

Wei Wuxian can not help but huff, silently trying to sit up once more.

“Of course not, Lan-daifu.” He answers either way, if only out of principle. “You’re always welcome here, my favorite visitor.” Wei Wuxian uses a bit more energy in his words, trying to make his voice artificially cheery but only managing to sound more sickly when dry coughing rattles his lungs. Pulling himself upwards with his shaky arms, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Make yourself at home.”

"Your favorite visitor, is it?” Lan Meihui replies, dryly, setting the bag with healing salves and bandages down on his table with a loud bang. Rudeness in a Lan, he thinks, morbidly amused, must be his influence. “Shizui has been gone barely a day and you are replacing him already?”

His lips curled up, unconsciously, at the sound of his son's name. The love is just instinctive, comes pouring out of him, unbidden, unasked for, unending.

Lan Meihui says nothing, merely watches. His love for Sizhui, he's aware, is the only thing she cannot fault him in this whole mess.

“It’s already too long.” He says, but they both know he means no word of it, trying to sound mad, but only sounding fond. “He has abandoned his fuqin, his A-Niang. How am I to cope with this loss?”

“By not dying before he returns.” Lan Meihui says, pointedly, kneeling by the table, near her bag, and gesturing sharply with her chin for him to make his way to the table. “Come.” She says, and then waits for him to drag himself to the table, abandoning behind the pot, the white foam, the red stain, until he's half hunched in a sitting position, labored breath, in front of her. Lan-daifu remains, watching him with hard unreadable eyes, before finally sticking her hand out, demandingly. “Give me your wrist.”

“So demanding." He says, clicking his tongue. "Not even a please.” He whines, weakly, but complies.

Lan Meihui looks entirely unamused, her boney hand clasping around his forearm and tugging it closer.

The grip gentles when he winces out of pain, but it doesn’t stop her from digging two fingers into his wrist, first to poke at the very core of himself, driving Wei Wuxian to bare his teeth and curl into himself, and then to take his pulse.

She keeps at it for a long time, his eyes staring blindly through the floor, her brows knitting deeper and deeper until she finally lets him go, his arm flopping down like a dead fish over his outstretched leg.

His other hand comes to cradle the abused arm back to himself, trying not to think too much when he feels more bone than flesh under his hold, turning his gaze back to her stormy face.

“So?” He asks, self-conscious, his anxiety buried under deep layers at the bottom of his stomach. “How is it?”

Her eyes snap to him like thunder.

Bad timing, then.

Alcohol was not allowed in the Cloud Recesses. Spices were not common either. Wei Ying could not leave the house to chase those that had been small pleasures in his life, even through the worst of times.

In small, pitiful attempts to make it up to him for the foolishness that had driven him to believe he would ever be enough to shield him from the world, Wangji begins to bring small tokens of the outside world to Wei Ying, and hopes against all hope the doors will part for him one day.

It starts small, thoughtful little things he knows he enjoyed in his youth, offerings he can lay on his doorstep like an altar, as if trying to bribe a god to acknowledge him, bringing in these gifts in Cloud Recesses knowing well that they are forbidden and caring little for it.

Lan Wangji tries to sneak a couple of jars that go untouched by the window and the spices in front of his doorstep are just as soundly ignored. All remain as tokens of a past life, a distant one, untouched and unwanted, spurned.

But Wangji has experience in futile efforts. His knees barely ache when he kneels in front of the small house, waiting for its inhabitant’s judgment. And he has this foolish, never ending hope, that one day, some day, any day, his efforts will bear fruit. The doors will open, the smile will be back, and the warmth will come to soothe the cold that their absence left behind.

He is a fool. And he is good at it.

He remembers afternoons spend at the library, supervising a punishment that felt neverending but also too short, listening to the neverending drone of a vice he would move mountains to hear again, waxing fond poetry about the rivers in Yummeng,

He makes a pond in the back garden and plants lotuses there and hopes it will be something, anything, that might do him good. Envisions this as a place of peace and beauty, something that might, perhaps, offer a glimmer of joy to Wei Ying despite his confinement. Even if he doesn’t want to walk to the back of his home, he can open the panels of the house and look at them, and be soothed by the sight.

By the time he brings Sizhui to his weekly visits, the flowers look less healthy then when he planted them. By the following month, the lotuses had all withered and died.

He finds faults in his efforts rather than seeing this as a rejection. He keeps trying to give him other things he might enjoy, things he recalls from a boy years ago and that he can no longer be sure stand for the man he had failed to save that day, when he had stumbled upon him, half-dead, clinging to a child.

It's a whole year of trying and failing and trying again. 

Each rejection of his gifts and each failed attempt at bringing joy to Wei Ying deepens Lan Wangji’s sense of helplessness and sorrow. The lack of interaction between them becomes a growing wound that has Wangji forever bleeding on the inside, without a corner in the world he can show his pain. Before, he had thought they had drifted the further away they could. Now, he can hardly fathom how further away they’ve grown.

As time passes, Lan Wangji’s frustration is tempered by a profound sadness. The more he tries to reach out, the more he feels the weight of their separation. The truth is undeniable now.

Wei Ying is rejecting him. Wangji cannot be at peace with such information.

Nie Huasang visits, a few months after the rumors have quietened.

Wangji knows he does it for his own sake, so the whispers won't follow him, but it would be a lie to say it can't be seen as done for Wei Ying's sake as well, so no more vicious words would be fabricated and enlarged in the frenzi to justify others' crimes.

For that and that alone, the consideration Nie Huaisang had never lost for the friend he had found in Wei Ying in the Lectures’ few months, he cannot fully hold it against him.

Besides, the Nie sect has been having a hard time, with Nie Mingjue’s qi deviation and the hard work put into healing him, much of the Sect’s matters have fallen to Nie Huaisang, who had never shown any interest in it. Still, he has managed with much more dignity than anyone could have hoped for, and in the low seasons of gossip, when most eys have strained from his Sect, he has remained true to his earlier years’ loyalties and has come to try and visit his friend.

Wangji cannot turn him away. So he leads him, much as he had led Jiang Wanyin before.

"He hasn't let anyone in." Lan Zhan finds himself telling him, a kindness, perhaps, and a rare one. But this might be the last friend Wei Ying has in this world, and he won't turn him away without at least one kind word, when Wei Ying could have offered him so many more. "Don't be disappointed."

He glances over his shoulder, back at Nie Huaisang, the man is looking at him with widened eyes and slightly parted lips, quietly shocked, as if he could not comprehend what he had heard or seen. He coughs, once Wangji's attention is upon him, 

But when he stands there, the door to Wei Ying's house opens, signaling Nie Huaisang is welcome to enter.

Lan Zhan tries not to hate him for it as the man looks unsurely over his shoulder at him before following where he cannot and desperately wishes he could.

He tries not to hate him when he walks out, a smile so fake in his lips that no one would ever believe the joy behind it, eyes haunted. Tries not to hate him for not telling what he’s seen.

He waits at the doorstep for an hour after Nie Huasang leaves.

He’s not allowed in.

“You still have enough face to ask me that?!” She asks, sounding colder than usual.

He's never seen her this furious. Not due to his doing, at last, though he had seen her plenty of times angry on his behalf, or A-Yuan's. It's new, and unnerving, to anger the last support he feels he has. He’s not sure whether he’s meant to answer or not, so he doesn’t say anything at all. Lan Meihui seems as unimpressed by that as she is by the rest of the situation.

“It’s bad.” Scoffs at his lack of response, before sending her sleeves flaring with an abrupt movement, pulling her pouch closer to herself “Never been worse. Like it is every other time I check on you.”

Wei Wuxian sits with the information for a while, testing it, tasting it, stomaching it. He imagines the white foam. It's a hollow information. No substance to it.

He knows, is the thing.

“Well, it wasn't going to get any better.” He says, trying to be lighthearted, but his eyes are creased with concern. “But it is worryingly worse, or the standard worse?”

“Stop talking.” Lan Meihui says, bitingly, trying to keep calm. “How is the wound?”

Wei Wuxian hesitates, remembering the burn, the pain that spread and spread.

“... Bad.” He admits, softly.

“Worryingly bad or standard bad?” Lan Meihui seethes, mocking him before she snaps, her sleeves flaring as she throws her hands up, in exasperation and helplessness. “Of course I know it’s bad.” She stands up once more, motioning for him to go on. “Open your robes. I should know I can’t trust a single word of yours when it's about anything regarding your health.”

Wei Wuxian sits up gingerly, wincing as he peels back his white robes, exposing his chest.

The gory wound there is red and bleeding, a gruesome gash above his chest, with jagged edges, the flesh torn, angry and raw. Blood seeps slowly from the deepest part of the cut, mingling with the already dried, crusted blood that stains his skin and robes. The surrounding area is bruised and swollen, with black veins prominent under his pale skin.

Lan Meihui looks at him gravely, her eyes dark with concern and frustration. With a determined set to her jaw, she pulls her sleeves back and leans in to examine the wound. Her fingers are deft and precise, her touch both gentle and probing as she assesses the extent of the damage.

The examination is tense and silent. Wei Wuxian bites his lip hard to keep from letting out any hisses of pain, the effort drawing blood. Her eyes are hard as she bandages him once more, her face a mask of cold fury and stone.

She leans back, sitting over her heels once more, her eyes staring at the wound in his chest until Wei Wuxian feels uncomfortable enough to cover himself once more with his robes. He slides into his clothes once more, the silence lingering between them like an unspoken accusation. Even then, she continues looking at it, as if the wound is still visible to her eyes, haunting even.

At last, she closes her eyes, takes one deep breath, and then opens her eyes once more, her intense gaze trailed on his face.

“Wei Wuxian-” She begins.

Wei Wuxian, in fact, does not give her any room to let her words out. 

“I know.”

“Do you?” She inquires, her voice hard, her nostrils flaring in her anger. “You lose blood every day. That wound never heals. You don’t eat, you don’t drink, what you manage to swallow, you throw up. I won’t even bother saying you’re unable to stomach the medicine I prescribe, because you’re nearly starved and dehydrated. You don’t sleep, and the times you do can’t be considered rest.”

“I would say, yes.” Wei Wuxin replies, just as hard, defensive even, lifting his chin against her as if to stand his ground. “I do know that. Quite acutely, I might add.”

“I tell you to sunbathe, you won’t go outside.” Lan Meihui insists, lifting a finger, as if to count the ways he's refusing to get better. “Even though there are doors that allow you to, where the wards will be slightly less suffocating.” She shakes her head, enraged, and continues listing all her kind suggestions to things that might, just might barely improve his health. “Sunlight, fresh air… Anything could help. I know for a fact there is a garden here, and if you’re homesick, I know Hang–”

"I’m not homesick .” Wei Wuxian cuts her off, his voice vicious, his words nearly poisonous. “I don’t have a home left standing to be sick for.” The reminder is pointed, barbed, meant to harm her as much as it hurts him. “The one still standing would hardly take me back.” He says, derisively, a dark chuckle leaving his lips, as if the idea of being welcomed back in that one home from childhood is too absurd to imagine. Shaking his head, he hisses: “And, with all due respect, I would rather treat a prison as such. I will not go out, to have small fractions of freedom. Tell me which food to eat or tea to drink, but do not think you will drive me out.”

“You’re withering inside.” She insists, her voice breaking a little. “The talismans are too strong.”

He looks at her for a while, before turning his face, ever slightly, to face away from Lan Meihui.

 “As I said, it is a prison. For all your kindness, I am a prisoner." He says. “Prisoners don’t often get to complain about their cells.”

That does not dissuade her, instead only further spurring her on.

“Hostages get to–”

“I am not the hostage here.” Wei Wuxian snaps, his voice dark, turning to glare at her, faint wisps of resentful energy flickering at the edges of him, his eyes almost red, almost lethal.

Almost the same as they were that night.

The memory of her taking his son from his arms is a living thing, or a dead one, laid on the ground in between them. The smiling face of a child lives in this home, haunts him, stains her hands. The things he is willing to do, that he will do for the boy's sake are unnamable, unimaginable.

But they're both her patients.

She weighs, in both her hands, the haleness of one at the expense of the other, health and sickness, and knows they're intertwined. 

But there's a choice to be made, and a price.

They stare at each other, for a tense moment that lasts a lifetime.

“There’s nothing I can say that will change your mind.” Lan Meihui says, against the silence. She sounds unhappy, but resigned. “You won’t try at all to ask for leniency.” She takes a few calming breaths, almost meditative in nature, and straightens her sleeve once more. “Very well. I’ll take it in my own hands.”

The words string wrongly in his ears, like an instrument out of tune, an omen that shouldn't be ignored.

“What do you mean?” He asks, confused, voice growing slightly higher pitched. “Daifu?”

Her back is to him. She refuses to look at him, meet his eyes.

“Rest, Wei-gognzi.” She says, packing her belongings swiftly, fierce in her determination. “Take the medicine as prescribed and try to eat once a day.”

“Lan-daifu, what are you going to do?” He asks, and he sounds scared now. “You can’t interfere, you know that. You know it will affect Sizhui!” He struggles to stand up, his heart racing in his chest at the implications, unsure, when he sees her begin to walk out of the room. “Lan-daifu, you can’t! Promise me you won’t! I don’t care about me, but it will affect A-Yuan, you know it will! You know the terms for his safety! I’m begging you–” His knees buckle, meeting the ground with a concerning noise, but he still follows her, even if on his hands and knees. Lan-daifu halts, long enough for Wei Wuxian to reach her and grab at her sleeves. “Lan Meihui, I’m begging you. I’ll take all the pills and tonics and teas you want, but you can’t argue my case. I’m begging you to let things lie, please. For Sizhui, for A-Yuan .” He whispers, pleadingly, sounding as if he is trying to hold back tears. “Please.” He begs, sounding absolutely panicked. “Don’t do it. Promise me you won’t do it.” 

They stay that way, still for a moment, locked in a battle of wills; Lan Meihui refusing to look at him, and Wei Wuxian refusing to let go, even as his hands shake rather violently.

“I’ll return next week.” Lan Meihui says, at last, pulling her sleeve from his grip and opening the door, unshakable in her intent.

“Lan Meihui!” Wei Wuxian cries out in panic, tries to follow her but his weak body collapses halfway towards her, his hand trying to grip her once more but she's out of his reach. Still he continues to cry out to her, as desperate as the parent she had robbed a child from. “Lan Meihui, stay out of th–!”

The door closes behind her back and seals his screams inside the house.

Jiang Wanyin returns to Cloud Recesses.

This time, it is during a time where he’s expected, where there are rooms set aside for the Jiang Delegation and for a few more Sects too, all attending the Conference the Lan Sect had been hosting this year.

When he and Xiongzhan arrive at the foot of Cloud Recesses to welcome him and his disciples in, they approach right about the time where he’s speaking to his young, gold-clad nephew, his back turned to them. They do not hear all of it, but they do catch the tail of what he had been saying:

“And don’t…” He says, wagging his finger before hesitating on what exactly to forbid about his general behavior, before deciding in a rather lame: “Do any of the things you usually do. “Most things are forbidden here anyways.”

Lan Wangji huffs, and Jiang Wanyin turns around, levying both of them with an unimpressed look, but managing to withhold quite a bit of his disdain.

“Sect Leader Jiang.” Xiongzhan greets, polite and nice as ever.

Once, this would warm most people to him. Before, that made him the most liked of the both of them, but nowadays, Jiangs look at him as if there’s a ploy behind his politeness, never quite letting down their defense, and even the Nies do not fall completely at ease near him.

He has more than once seen Nie Mingjue not quite know whether he should or not speak his mind near him, their conversation becoming more and more formal, their friendship deteriorating as he stands by Jin Guangyao. Xiongzhan's eyes had taken on a miserable quality to then as the distance carved itself in their relationship, watching as the more distant he became to Sect Leader Nie, the more healthy the man would become.

Wangji is aware that once, he would have felt sorry for his brother. Might have taken this situation as an offense to him, carried a silent grudge on his behalf.

But that was a lifetime ago. The man he is now would not recognise the man he was then.

“Sect Leader Lan. Hanguang-jun.” Jiang Wanyin greets, bringing his hand up in a show of respect that seems to be calculated in the exact measure of politeness necessary, and no more. Xiongzhan's smile looks slightly strained at the edges, but he doesn’t say anything, and Jiang Wanyin takes the opportunity to turn Wangji, arching a brow. “Is that brat of his nowhere around?” He asks, not even trying to go around the matter. “Jin Ling could use some company.”

There’s no need to ask whose child he’s asking after. Still, it is Xiongzhan that answers.

“Wei Yuan is currently in class.” He offers, looking down kindly upon the sour-faced Jin Ling. “But arrangements can be made for the entertainment of Young Master Jin.”

Jiang Wanyin nods, once, twice, as if that is a satisfactory answer, then says nothing else.

Jin Ling looks around, frowning still, at the abundance of white and the disturbing quiet for one more used to the loud and lively Lotus Pier and the extravagant halls of Koi Tower. As he does, the gentle sound of a bell accompanies his movements, as well as the powerful and refreshing waves of spiritual energy. Wangji glances down to see a Jiang clarity bell tied to his robes, covered in protection spells stronger even then Jiang Wanyin’s. He has the terrible feeling that he knows exactly which bell that is.

At last, the boy brings his tiny hand up to tug at his uncle’s robes. 

“Jiujiu.” He calls, to which Jiang Wanyin turns his undivided attention to him with the same ease and devotion Wangji knows he himself dedicates to A-Yuan. The boy looks up at him, with Jiang Yanli’s wide eyes. “Is this where Da-jiu lives?”

He knows not the words to describe what crosses Jiang Wanying’s face, nor has he the stomach to watch. Wangji averts his eyes, feeling another stab in the open wound that is his heart, bleeding with the knowledge that this is yet another child that has been robbed of Wei Ying and from whom Wei Ying has been robbed, as Jiang Wanyin softly answer:

“Yes.” In barely a whisper of his voice, softer than he has ever heard it be. “Your Da-jiu lives here.”

“Can you show me where?” The boy asks again.

“Young Master Jin, Master Wei doesn’t usually take visitors.” Xiongzhan says, gently, smiling, smiling . Lan Wangji has to grind his teeth to keep his own words in. “Maybe we can-”

“I didn’t ask you.” Jin Ling cuts him off immediately. Wangji looks at the boy, glaring up at his Xiongzhan, little eyes hard, his face determinate, before lifting his chin and clinging to his Jiang Wanyin’s robes. “I asked jiujiu .”

Xiongzhan is lost, unsure of what to say, or do. This boy is Jin Guanyao’s nephew too, and he should have a closeness to him, if only Jiang Wanyin would relax his tight grip on his sister’s only child, after what had been done to his only brother. He had argued, when the Chief Cultivator had had a son, that Jin Ling was no longer the Jin Sect’s only heir, but he remained the sole child with Jiang blood left in the world to spirit him away to Lotus Pier. When the boy had died, still in his cradle, he had made no move to return him. Jin Guangyao, however, had not pressed the matter.

Lan Wangji had thought that had happened on account of diplomacy and grief. 

He stands corrected. It’s clear the boy would bite if he needed to keep by his maternal uncle’s side.

“I see…” He says, and nothing more.

“A-Ling, don’t be a brat.” Jiang Wanyin scolds, but with no true bite to his words, nowhere as bad as before. “I apologize, Sect Leader Lan.”

Xiongzhan smiles again, but this time the smile is smaller, sadder. He lifts a hand, waving off Jiang Wanyin’s wods.

“It's alright.” He says. “To a little boy, their uncle often is their whole world.”

The words hurt to hear. They used to be true to Lan Wangji too.

Jiang Wanyin hesitates for a moment, looking from Xiongzhan to Lan Wangji, to his nephew by his side, before asking:

“Could we delay our meeting by a few sichen?”

By his side, Jin Ling looks up at his uncle, eyes shining with hope.

“Of course.” Xiongzhan agrees. “I will inform my uncle.”

“Thank you and apologize for Lan-xiansheng on my behalf.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” Xiongzhan says, turning his head slightly to the side. “Wangji, could you-?”

Lan Wangji had moved to lead them towards Wei Wuxian’s sheltered home without even having been told.

It’s strange to think of his prison as a home. 

His feet stop first, several steps away from the Moshi. To his surprise, Jiang Wanyin’s stops too, a few steps short of Lan Wangji’s.

“That’s your jiujiu’s house.” He says to Jin Ling, gesturing to the house. “He doesn’t usually open his doors, but you can try to speak to him through the doors.” Jian Wanyin hesitates then, unsure of whether or not to warn him he most likely won’t get an answer. He opts not to say it, instead giving his nephew’s a small push to his back, encouraging. “Go on. Introduce yourself to him.”

The boy doesn’t need to be told twice. He sprints towards the home, the bell his shishu gifted him years ago ringing behind him, as his movements jostle him. Every time they ring, a small but powerful boost of purification energy can be felt.

“It’s a very powerful gift.” Wangji comments, quietly.

“A showoff even in his gifts.” Jiang Wanyin says, with a tsk, but as the anger blooms inside Wangji’s chest at his sheer ungratefulness he steps forward, until he’s side by side Lan Wangji. “Not one ghoul can get within six feet of him. He’s never even been scratched.” He says, scoffing, but he sounds… Fond. “It’s definitely Wei Wuxian’s gift, that’s for sure.”

The doors don’t open to either of them, of that they’re painfully aware, so they merely hang back as Jin Ling greets his Da-Jiu happily through the doors, introducing himself as his nephew.

“I know it was you who gave me my courtesy name!” He says, to the door, pouting. “But Jiujiu won’t tell me what it is. He said I have to wait until I’m old enough.” He has an idea. His face lights up, he gets up from the steps and walks closer to the door. “Would you tell me? Tell me through the door!”

He stands up then, and walks directly towards the sliding door of Wei Ying’s home, most likely to lean his head against it, in hopes his shishu will tell him the courtesy name that his jiujiu refuses to. Jiang Wanyin shifts beside Lan Wangji, lips parting to call out his nephew on it, but his words die in his tongue as the door slowly slides open to allow Jin Ling in.

Wangji feels his breath stuck in the back of his throat, his body is very, very still with the newness and the wrongness of this moment. Jin Ling looks back at them, unsure, and Jiang Wanyin forces himself to close his mouth, to school his own shock, and nods, once, in approval.

Nothing stops him from looking grim as his nephew walks into the house, the door closing behind him.

Jin Rulan, as Lan Shizui, is never denied access when he visits, not even once.

Lan Meihui approached the classroom with sure steps, though her heels were nipped by a mix of determination and trepidation. As she neared the entrance, she slowed her steps, hesitating just outside the door. The soft rustling of robes and the murmured conversations of guest disciples reached her ears, as well as the imposing voice of Grandmaster Lan, imparting the same lessons onto them as he had imparted on the many other students before them. She took a deep breath and steeled herself, peeking inside.

The classroom was a sea of pristine white and blue, the disciples seated with their backs straight, attentive—or pretending to be—while Lan Qiren’s voice droned on, delivering yet another lecture on the importance of rules, morality, and righteous cultivation.

Lan Qiren’s voice, a monotonous yet authoritative presence, filled the room. He lectured on the principles of the Lan Clan, his words familiar and repetitive, like the endless flow of a serene but unyielding river. Meihui knew better than to interrupt him mid-lecture. She waited, watching the disciples' heads nod in unison, their backs straight, their postures perfect.

It was a picture of disciplined conformity, the very essence of the Lan Sect.

Once, she would have been prouder of the sight.

As things stood, all things regarding their Sect felt somewhat… Cheaper, in her eyes, under her touch.

"A cultivator must uphold the virtues of righteousness and morality," Lan Quiren intoned. "To stray from these principles is to invite chaos into oneself and the world. The path of cultivation is a solemn duty, not a pursuit for personal gain or glory."

Lan Quiren's eyes roved across the room, his voice a steady cadence of authority and tradition. He paused for a fraction of a moment when his gaze met hers, a subtle acknowledgment of her presence before he continued his lecture.

Lan Meihui pressed her lips into a thin line, her hand moving behind her back to adjust the weight of her bag. Inside were healing salves and other medical items—things she had brought in case her concerns about Wei Wuxian's health were confirmed. She knew that Lan Quiren had seen her, and she understood his silent command to wait.

Suppressing the bittersweet memories, she waited quietly, her fingers unsurely clutching the medical pouch at her side. Her healer's intuition had been nagging at her for days, urging her to address her concerns about Wei Wuxian’s health. He was no longer the vibrant, spirited young man she remembered; his seclusion had taken a toll on him, and she had more than enough cause to fear for his well-being.

Finally, Lan Qiren concluded his lecture and the class was dismissed. The students rose from their seats, bowing respectfully to Lan Quiren before filing out of the room in orderly, single file. Their quiet murmurings filled the air, a soft hum of conversation that contrasted with the previous silence. A sea of white-clad youth flowed past her, and she moved against the tide, stepping into the room as they left it. As they filed out, Meihui stepped back, allowing them to pass, her presence unnoticed amidst their orderly exit.

She made her way to the front, her footsteps barely audible against the wooden floor. Lan Quiren stood waiting, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression as unreadable as always.

“Quiren, may I speak with you?” Lan Meihui's voice was calm but firm as she approached him.

“Meihui.” Lan Quiren's tone was neutral, but a hint of defensiveness crept in. “I thought you were too disdainful of my actions to speak to me again.”

She took a deep breath, setting her jaw as she understood the tone this small conversation of theirs would take.

“When a patient is concerned, we have to make do with the resources we have.”

“And a patient is concerned, I take it.”

Lan Meihui didn't dignify the obvious question with a response, her silence a statement in itself.

“Is it Wei Sizhui?”

“His physical health is exemplary, apart from the concerns I brought to you.” She gave him a pointed look. “Don’t bother justifying them. I know how keen you are to ignore things that are unpleasant.” Her voice grew colder. “I won’t even bother you with his mental health, given that those scars obviously come from this mockery of justice you insist upon a second time over-”

“Enough, Meihui.” Lan Quiren's voice was sharp. “How is Wei Wuxian's health then?”

"You need to release a few of the suppressive spells," she said directly.

"You know I can't do that. And even if I could, I wouldn't."

"He's withering."

"If he misses his wretched cultivation, I have no sympathy for him." Lan Quiren's voice was devoid of compassion. "He's lucky to be alive."

"It's a wonder he's alive." Meihui’s eyes flashed with a warning edge. "And I would not call his conditions lucky."

"Would you prefer execution?" Lan Quiren retorted, with the closest thing to a scoff he could produce without going against the Clan’s doutrines. "Mayhaps one of the Jin’s dungeons? We no longer have the Wens’ lodgings to offer him, though he seemed fond of them."

"One of our principles forbids murder in the Cloud Recesses." Meihui's voice was ice. "Yet you killed two people this way before. Must you kill a third?"

Lan Quiren’s knuckles were white when he grabbed onto the table, as if holding himself back from any stronger of a reaction.

"You don't know what you are talking about."

"I know more than you." Her voice trembled with restrained fury. "You didn't take your sister-in-law's pulse week after week, you didn't see her wither. It wasn't you who found her dead body, hanging from the ceilings."

“This conversation is over,” Lan Quiren snapped, moving to walk past her.

“Permanently, if you insist on ignoring my words.” She presses, her voice barely holding down the edges of anger. "He will be dead soon enough, if nothing changes."

"He might yet die a decent man, then."

The thought of Wei Wuxian, frail as he was, his arms like twigs, his longing eyes always watching the door for the mere sight of his child, his soft-worn voice and the constant acceptance, defeat,exhaustion in him… The mere implication that man might not be a decent one until his lungs no longer held breath was horrible enough for her to step in front of Lan Quiren, holding up his path.

"Do you think your nephew will remain here after that man is dead?" Meihui's voice cut through the air, stopping him in his tracks. "Do you think the noble Hanguang-jun will ever again look at your face after you murder his zhiji as you murdered his mother?"

Silence filled the space between them, heavy and suffocating. Lan Quiren stood still, his back to her, the weight of her words hanging in the air.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint rustling of leaves outside, a stark contrast to the tension within.

"My nephew knows his duties."

"He despises them. He despises you. And his brother." Lan Meihui's voice was unwavering. "I speak only the truth, and no amount of deluding yourself will make my words less real. If Wei Wuxian dies, he will leave. And he will take the child with him."

Lan Quiren hesitated, his back to her, before turning his head ever so slightly, signaling he was listening.

"What exactly is Wei Wuxian's condition?"

Lan Meihui took a deep breath, feeling both relief and a pang of guilt, fully aware that this battle was far from over.

"I would like to discuss his health with Sect Leader Lan present."

Lan Quiren turned more to glare at her, his eyes filled with anger. The mention of Lan Xichen brought to the surface  once more that he was not the pinnacle of power in their Clan anymore. Now, with his brother dead and his nephew grown, the hard decisions belonged in the hands of the boy he had taught. And they weighed heavily on them, as they were all aware, especially where his own brother’s feelings might be involved. But Meihui held his gaze, unflinching, caring little for his emotional turmoil when a man's life was on the line.

"Very well," he said, nearly spitting out the words, turning around and walking ahead. "We'll meet with him."

Lan Meihui followed.

The children take more easily to each other than Jiang Wanyin and himself ever did, which is quite the considerable blessing, as far as blessings go. Every time the Jiang Sect visit the Cloud Recesses, Jiang Wanyin will bring along his gold-clad nephew for a few days with whom the boy has quickly taken to calling his cousin Yuan .

That afternoon, the boys had successfully managed to visit Wei YIng at the same time, which did not, in any way, make his heart ache, but did successfully get the children to laugh happily as they left the house with drawings and hands sugary and sticky.

Even Jiang Wanyin had smiled.

They walked silently behind the children, and Wangji pointedly did not scold either Jin Ling or A-Yuan for their excited tones or loud laughs as they played ahead of them in the walk back to their rooms.

Jin Ling chased A-Yuan around the courtyard, his voice carrying a playful taunt.

"Wei-jiu looked better today!” He declared, sticking his tongue out at his older cousin. “Your niang usually looks like a ghost, A-Yuan! I don’t know why he always wears white, he looks better in black!"

A-Yuan stopped in his tracks, turning to Jin Ling with a puzzled expression.

"What are you talking about, A-Ling?” He asks, sounding genuinely confused. “A-Niang always wears black and red. He always has."

As if a testament to the words, the same red ribbon he had taken to tying to A-Yuan’s hair at the boy’s request fluttered in the wind, recalling memories for both him and Jiang Wanyin that they could never voice.

Jin Ling frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. 

"No, he doesn't.” He says, shaking his head. “Every time I see him, he’s always dressed all in white. I always tell him, he looks like a ghost and he laughs!"

A-Yuan shook his head vigorously.

"You're wrong. A-Niang wears black and red, just like he always has."

Wangji frowned, exchanging the same concerned glance with Jiang Wanyin

"What's this about Wei Wuxian's clothing?" The Jiang Sect Leader asked, approaching the boys.

Jin Ling looked up at his uncle, a determined expression on his face.

"Jiujiu, I swear I always see him wearing white! Sometimes he will wear black, when A-Yuan tells him I’ll visit, but most times he’s dressed like a ghost."

When A-Yuan tells him I’ll visit . Wangji frowns.

"A-Yuan.” He calls, gently. “Are you sure your niang always wears black and red?"

A-Yuan nodded emphatically.

"Yes, he always wears black and red when he's at home! That’s why I ask Ji-gege to let me wear black and red too!"

Wangji presses his lips in a thin line, his hand laying above the boy's head.

“I believe you.” Jiang Wanyin's eyes narrowed in thought. “That's strange. Even a Lan has to admit that."

He nods, in quiet agreement. A-Yuan’s visits are always scheduled. Jin Ling’s are not.

"Jin Ling, A-Yuan, go play somewhere else.” He encourages gently. “It will be dinner-time soon, and this courtyard is not the place for arguments."

The boys, albeit reluctantly, scampered off to continue their game elsewhere. Jiang Wanyin turned to Wangji, a serious expression on his face. 

"So we both agree that fool wears white around the house but changes into black and red when he knows your kid will visit him?"

Lan Wangji's brows furrowed in confusion.

"Mm."

The Jiang Sect Leader presses his lips, turning his face away. They do not speak of the subject further until the day he’s set to leave.

“I have a suspicion.” Jiang Wanyin confesses, when he and his delegation are leaving. “Could I return in one week’s time to put it to the test?”

Wangji nods. It’s all the other man needs.

The courtyard was quiet as Jiang Cheng arrived back in Cloud Recesses. Lan Wangji, already waiting, saw the small bundle Jiang Cheng carried — incense, a delicate candleholder, and a few carefully chosen offerings. Even from a distance, he noticed a gleam of silver; the shape of a hairpin, Jiang Yanli's, tucked carefully among the items as well as a small assortment of items that seemed too rough and poorly made to have belonged to him. Amidst them, silver needles peek out, and the broken head of an arrow in the Wen’s design.

Lan Wangji begins to understand.

They exchanged no words as they began to walk, Jiang Cheng leading the way through the familiar paths, his footsteps a fraction slower than usual. Wangji stayed back a respectful distance, sensing the weight of what Jiang Cheng was carrying in his heart, not only in his hands.

When they reached the small, secluded house, Jiang Cheng stopped and knelt down, placing each item carefully on the doorstep. He smoothed his hands over the hairpin, his fingers lingering on the cool metal, tracing it as if seeking warmth, comfort, or perhaps some silent reassurance from his sister.

Taking a deep breath, Jiang Cheng looked up at the door.

“A--Xian,” he called, voice quiet but steady, each word woven with an intensity that showed in the faint tremor of his hand. “I went through the Burial Mounds. I found things... things you would want. Items from the Wens for your shrine.” He paused, as though waiting, hoping. But the silence stretched, unyielding. “I even brought something of hers for you.” He tried again, his fingers tightened around the hairpin. “Jiejie’s… from her keepsake box. She would have wanted you to have it.” His voice softened as he added. “ I wanted you to have it.” His shoulders rose and fell, with another deep, fortifying breath. “Can you…” Jiang Wanyin’s words faded into an almost pleading tone. “Can you open the door, Wei Wuxian?” 

But there was no sound, no movement to indicate that Wei Wuxian was even listening. 

Jiang Cheng shifted, leaning closer, his hand pressed against the door as though it could close the distance between them. 

“Wei Wuxian?” he said again, voice breaking slightly. “At least answer me… please?”

“Are we really doing this, Wei Wuxian?” He demanded, his voice low but edged with pain. “If we’re both grieving, why do we have to do it alone?”

Nothing. Not even the faintest stir from within.

“Answer me! Don’t just… don’t just sit there!” His voice cracked, carrying the strain of months — years, really — of betrayal, of anger, and love he barely knew how to express. “What, are we never going to see you again?” His hand balled into a fist and pounded against the door as he fought back tears. “You selfish, cowardly… Do you really think this is what she would want?! What would your Wens want?!” 

The moments stretched painfully. Wangji could barely witness the scene.

“Forget it,” He spat, voice raw. “Leave the things behind.” He said, pulling back from the door, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing with unshed tears and anger. He turned sharply on his heel, shoulders stiff with unspent grief and resentment, striding away from the door. “Knowing him, he’ll appreciate them more if you do it.”

He had barely taken a few steps when he caught when the breath had been stolen of Wangji in a soft gasp, his eyes widening in silent shock, his heart skipping a few beats.

“What?” Jiang Wanyin demanded.

Lan Wangji could not find the words. He could only gesture behind him, to the sight that had rooted him to his spot and did much the same to Jiang Wanyin, when he whirled around to look at what he had been gesturing towards, a small wounded sound escaping his lips. 

The door, which had been shut to them for so many years, was open, if only the slightest, and just beyond the doorstep, knelt Wei Ying.

Jiang Wanyin’s hands tightens, in held back emotion, and shake, his face hardens in something so dark he cannot name it as grief or anger or sadness. Wei Ying takes it, places it inside the small house he’s to live and die in, without even allowing them to step close, to look upon his face. He turns back to them, bringing his hands in front of him and bowing, deep, until his forehead touches the floor as he lowers himself in all aspects to express something that is a mix of respect, gratitude and apology. Jiang Cheng lets out a strangled sound at that sight, his hand extends forward to reach for him, raise him maybe.

At last, Wei Ying began to straighten, slowly rising until his back was slightly hunched, his face still hidden. His pale hands extended toward the doorstep, fingers trembling as they moved for the offerings.

Suddenly, a sharp sizzle cut through the quiet, and the acrid smell of burning flesh filled the air. Wei Ying’s hands trembled violently, fingers blistering as they forced their way through the boundary of the wards, breaking the barrier to retrieve the items.

One by one, he gathered the items laid before him with unimaginable care and gentleness, his fingertips searing against the invisible threshold as he pulled it close to him. He held each item as if they were precious, taking them into his embrace, refusing to let the pain halt him.

And then, with the last of the gifts in his hands, the door shut quietly, without him even letting them see his face.

Jiang Wanyin’s hands close in a fist again, the emotions draining out of him as he carefully places himself back under control, arms lowering after a few seconds.

"He's mourning.” He says, voice flat. “He’s still mourning, for all of them.”

Lan Xichen approached Wei Wuxian's secluded house with a horrible feeling and a pointless hope.

If what Shufu had brought him, which in order had been brought to him by Lan Meihui, he was unsure of what to do. There would be little hope of remedying this. And there was even more risk at keeping this secret, in the long run, if the long run led to where they had been told it would.

He stopped, unsure, at the very doorstep of the house. The Moshi, people whispered. Devil's room. Xichen looked at his uncle, by his side, for reassurance, as if he was still young enough to be a boy waiting for his uncle's permission to knock at his mother's door.

Shufu looked at him, his eyes hard, and nodded.

Lan Xichen knocked gently on the door, his expression a careful mask of calm despite the anxiety churning inside him. After a moment, the door creaked open, revealing Wei Wuxian. Polite and meek, he stood there, his figure a shadow of its former self. He was pale, almost ghostly, and thinner than they had ever seen him, even more so than the last time their paths had crossed, the fateful night he had sealed his fate to this very house. His eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark circles, evidence of his lack of sleep, and he seemed to be drowning in the white mourning robes of Yunmeng Jiang that Sect Leader Jiang had left him in his last visit, the fabric visibly worn from constant use.

"Sect Leader Lan, Old Master Lan," Wei Wuxian greeted, his voice neutral and measured, yet carrying an undertone of defeat. His eyes were heavier than Xichen remembered, though that might also be a trick of the light. As if noticing that they might give him away, Wei Wuxian dipped his head respectfully, and averted his gaze, embodying exemplary manners, in contrast with how he had behaved in the past. "Please, come in. Make yourselves comfortable." Wei Wuxian invited, as if he had a choice on wether or not to allow them in, stepping aside to allow the two Lans to enter, trying to make the whole ordeal as polite and positive as he could. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if even the simple act of opening the door had drained him. "I'll make us some tea."

Lan Xichen and Shufu exchanged a brief, concerned glance as they stepped into the small house. The interior was sparsely furnished, reflecting the isolation and simplicity of Wei Wuxian's current existence. They had, naturally, been quite... Rigorous with the restrictions on what could be allowed inside Wei Wuxian's home, seeing as said home was also his prison. The nature of it's inhabitant lent itself to many doubts and fears, and Xichen was not proud to say that he had delegated most of the overseeing of supplies to Young Master Wei to Shufu, at least in part to try and distance himself slightly from the matter of his imprisonment, in hopes that Wangji would look at him as if he was still his brother, even once. Looking back, that had been a failure of judgment. Shufu had never been fond of Wei Wuxian, going as far as punishing him more than the other disciples back during the Guest Lectures, and distilling that dislike to pure contempt as the boy had grown into a master of a cultivation method Shufu abhorred.

However, even he seemed uncomfortable if the crease between his brows was anything to go by, now that he could see the reality before them - the house was nearly empty, devoid of any personal touches, save for the silencing talismans placed meticulously over every wall and window and the few childish drawings of A-Yuan, along with some other trinkets the boy must have brought him. Even the talismans had not at first being allowed, and to see so many of them, almost as many of them as there were drawings, was equally worrying. The silence they had enjoyed, it would seem, had not meant a lack of night terrors for Young Master Wei.

There was an unnaturalness to that lack. Even the most strict of the Lan Clan still had a few things to cater to their tastes. They had expected at least a few of the items they knew Lan Wangji had attempted to sneak to Wei Wuxian — books, medicinal herbs, candies, jars of spices, even wine - but none of that was anywhere to be seen. They had heard, of course, that he had rejected the gifts Wangji had tried to give him, that the flowers outside the house withered until this very day, but XIchen had assumed it was because Wangji had been too brazen. Surely, he had found a more discreet manner. Lan Meihui was critical enough of the conditions of his imprisonment to aid them in that and to keep such things from her reports to himself and Shufu.

Yet, nothing. It was as if Wei Wuxian was merely a ghost, haunting the shell of what should have been his home.

They stood unsure, at the very entrance of the house, overseeing from the kitchen to the living room and glimpsing the bedroom further ahead, and imagined how Wei Wuxian must feel. How Xichen's own mother must have had.

Wangji hated him for this.

If Lan Meihui was proved right, he would hate him for much more.

Wei Wuxian, ever committed to being the perfect host, remained courteous even at their admittedly disrespectful posture. He moved past them, slowly but with purpose, one of his legs dragging a little, but still gathering the items needed. The stark surroundings only emphasized his ghostly appearance. His white mourning robes fluttered slightly as he moved, and he pulled them slightly, not to let them be stained by the tea as he prepared it.

As he did, Xichen took a step closer and into the living room, where some of the drawings were pinned, all done by A-Yuan's hand that he could easily recognise, hopeful images that stood in stark contrast to the lifelessness of the room. They were simple, childish depictions of A-Yuan, his life, the things and people he liked, but to Wuxian they must be precious, glimpses at the life he could only know a day a week. His lips twitch, into an involuntary but heartbroken smile, at one drawing, depicting A-Yuan, red ribbon in his hair, holding both Wei Wuxian and Wangji's hands while standing in a field of rabbits.

"Please, sit," Wei Wuxian said softly, indicating the small table, the tea ready, as if he were hosting esteemed guests rather than his jailers.

He moved with a deliberate grace, but as he settled into his seat, he did so at an awkward angle. A fleeting frown of discomfort crossed his face, one he couldn't quite mask before he began to pour the tea. Despite his condition, he maintained the demeanor that would have been demanded of a Great Sect's First Disciple, as if that boy in Jiang purple was not a lifetime away, his movements precise and his manners impeccable.

As Wei Wuxian poured the tea, Lan Xichen's eyes were fixed on his face, a deep concern etched into his features. He noticed the lines of exhaustion, the pallor of his skin, and the way his eyes seemed too large for his gaunt face. Each sign of Wei Wuxian's suffering struck a chord of worry within him, and he could only feel thankful that he so firmly refused to open the doors to Wangji. He was not sure whether it was done out of kindness, pride or spite, but he did know for certain that Wangji would not survive such a sight.

Lan Quiren, on the other hand, observed Wei Wuxian's hands. As the teapot tilted, his hands shook slightly, the motion betraying a frailty that was hard to ignore. Lan Quiren's gaze traveled up to his arms, noting how they were almost as thin as his wrists, the sleeves of his robes hanging loosely around them. 

"Wei Wuxian." Lan Xichen began, a bit too loud, too sudden. So much so that the man spilled some of the tea, this time due a nervous tremor. When his gray eyes looked up at him, uncertain and almost afraid, the old man forced himself to stop, if for a moment, then softened his voice: "You don't have to go to such lengths. There's no need to strain yourself."

The man remained unsure for a moment, frozen in place like one of Wangji's rabbits before forcing his shoulders to relax, his hand to continue the motions.

"It's no trouble, Sect Leader Lan." Wei Wuxian offered a weak smile. "Isn’t it a pleasure to learn and practice what you have learned at the right time¹?" He recites, his words strong with a sense of nostalgia, before his eyes flicker with a shadow of their former mischief. "Lifting the tray up to the eyebrows is something I can still do²."

"Respect out of fear is never genuine." Lan Xichen answered. "Reverence out of respect is never false³."

The smile on Wei Wuxian's face seemed to barely be hanging on his lips, his eyes, suddenly, were closer to what he remembered of the Yilling Patriarch - skeptical and unimpressed.

"It's just tea, Sect Leader." He said, simply.

Lan Xichen fell silent again, swallowing past a feeling that filled his mouth with the taste of bile. He allowed Wei Wuxian to do what he thought he must. The room was filled with an uneasy silence, the only sound the quiet pouring of tea. Wei Wuxian, despite all, managed a polite smile as he finished serving the tea. He looked up at his guests, his expression calm yet undeniably weary.

"It's not as fine as you are used to, but I hope it does suffice."

Silence lingered a while longer. In a strange turn of events, Lan Qiren was the first to pick up the teacup. Startled, Lan Xichen gazed discreetly at his uncle before doing the same, allowing Wei Wuxian, by order of rank, to take his own cup as well.

Lan Xichen took a sip, and though the tea was not what he was used to, it at least washed the taste of sickness from his mouth and fortified him for what he had to say. The warmth of the tea spread through him, providing a small measure of comfort amidst the tension. At last, he spoke, his tone measured and serious:

"Wei Wuxian, we need to discuss something important about your imprisonment here." He paused, watching for any reaction. Wei Wuxian's expression remained calm, but there was a flicker of betrayal in his eyes, as if he was too aware of why they were there. "Have you faced any problems while being here? Is there anything we need to know?"

Silence hung heavy in the air at the end of Lan Xichen's questions, as if the very walls of the house were judging him for what he had asked. Still, Wei Wuxian remained surprisingly pleasant, his demeanor unyielding even in the face of such probing inquiries. He responded calmly, his voice carrying a serene acceptance.

"I have nothing to complain about." Wei Wuxian replied, his tone gentle yet firm. "I have faced nothing I did not agree to."

His words were a subtle acknowledgment of the harsh reality of his circumstances, a tacit admission of the sacrifices he had made willingly.

He could see the truth in Wei Wuxian's eyes, the quiet acceptance of his fate. It was a sobering realization, one that weighed heavily on Lan Xichen's conscience.

Wangji would hate him for this. Forever.

But before Lan Xichen could speak again or confront Wei Wuxian's response, Lan Quiren's voice broke through the stillness like a thunderclap. His usually stern demeanor cracked under the weight of what he had seen—the barren room, Wei Wuxian's withered figure, the undeniable signs of his declining health.

"Nothing to complain about?" Lan Quiren's voice was sharp, tinged with a mixture of frustration and concern. "Not even about the harmful implications to your health?!"

The night was beautiful.

The moon hung low in the sky, casting a gentle light on Cloud Recesses, a gentle breeze provided good weather and rustled leaves, and the silence of this place was only ever broken by the faint sounds of wildlife.

For Jiang Wanyin and Lan Wangji, this night was hell. They stood still, for a moment that might have been as long as a heartbeat or a hundred years. slightly dazed, as they processed the brief, heart-wrenching glimpse of Wei Ying they had seen.

“I never…” Jiang Wanyin whispered to himself, so faint Wangji could barely hear it. “I never thought I would see him again.”

When his eyes strayed from the door of Wei Ying’s house to the back of Sect Leader Jiang’s back, he could see his hands still trembling slightly, and that brought back the image of those zhiji’s blistered fingers, forcing their way through the wards. A wave of nausea went through him, and he barely kept himself from vomiting.

“Mm.”

Whatever is happening in Jiang Wanyin’s mind mustn’t be very different. He turns shakily to Wangji, his eyes wide and watery and dazed, taking slow steps towards him. When he’s close enough, he finally dares to mumble:

“I…   I think we need to sit down.”

Wangji nods. He needs to sit down as well.

With a last glance to the house, they begin to walk.

Leading Jiang Cheng away from the door, his own heart heavy with the weight of unspoken emotions. They walked in silence until they reached a small pavilion by a pond, its surface reflecting the tranquil beauty of the night.

“This is so stupid.” Jiang Wanyin says, even as he sounds so very close to breaking. Wangji gives him room to decide when he wants to do so. “We barely saw him at all. He didn’t even say a word, and look at us.” Wangji nods, understanding but observing. At last, he lets out a strangled sound, half laugh, half sob and says: “It’s not like he let us in, he just… opened the fucking door… Fuck!”

Jiang Cheng sank onto a bench, his elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. After a moment, Wangji sat beside him, the quiet stretch of the night enveloping them both. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Finally, Jiang Wanyin broke the silence, his voice low and strained. 

“We’re going to grow gray and die before he lets anyone but the kids in.”

Lan Wangji’s gaze remained fixed on the moonlit water. 

“Not true.” He replied, quiet, restrained. “He let Sect Leader Nie in.”

Jiang Wanyin’s head snaps towards him with such fury it’s amazing his neck didn’t break with the movement.

“Nie Huaisang?!” He bellows, his nostrils flaring, his eyes blazing. “Are you fucking serious?!”

“Mm.” Wangji confirms. “Last month.”

“Unbelievable.” He says, at first, breathless and disbelieving, and then, with the usual Jiang Wanyin level of barely held back anger: “Un-fucking-believable.” He whirls his head towards Lan Wangji, as if he has decided it was his fault in the first place that the Headshaker of all people was allowed into the house when he was trying for years and only got a bow from partially open doors and said: “Why?!”

“I don’t know.”

He looks at him as if he's considering shaking him or strangling him.

“What did Huaisang say?”

He feels an itch, an impish impulse. The spark to A-Yuan’s eyes, the jovial smile on another’s face that he clings to with all he has. His lips part to let the words out before he can even think it through: 

“I don’t know.” He says, once more.

Jiang Wanyin frowned, his face contorted in exasperation and outrage.

“You didn’t ask him?” He demands.

“That’s what he said.” Wangji says, very very calmly, his sentences are quite spaced out. “ ‘I don’t know’ .”

There is confusion at first, then a dawning horror and undeniable hints of a crisis of what is known and unknown in Jiang Wanyin’s eyes as he realizes Wangji has just told a joke.

In his ears, Wei Ying’s delighted laughter rings, as if he was here to witness such a scene. Even in his absence, he is sure that he would be delighted even to hear of the exchange.

Jiang Wanyin must think the same, by the way his lips twitch, even in the depths of his disbelief, and how he turns his face, suppressing a dry bark of laughter, covering his mouth, then abandoning that to cover his eyes, his brows drawn together, his laugh turning into a tired, winded sound. His head hangs, held by his hand, still shielding his sight, massaging his temples.

They sit together.

It’s the most cordial they have been in a long while.

“Has he ever let you in?” Jiang Wanyin asks, quietly. Wangji’s good mood dies a premature death. “Even once?”

“No.” He admits, quietly.

Jiang Wanyin nods to himself, as if he had expected the answer.

“Had you ever… Has he ever let you see him? Before today?”

“Once.” He says, and the words carry a longing so pungent he has to take a moment to find the words to put the memory to words. “When Sizhui got better from the fever he had when he arrived, he wanted to see him but was too weak. So I argued his case to the healers and to the elders and to xiongzhan. They said no. When he asked again and cried, I couldn't take it and carried him to the house.”

“And?”

“I saw him then. When he opened the door and took A-Yuan in his arms.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“No. I spoke to him, but he didn't speak to me.” Wangji shook his head. “He looked me in the eyes for a moment, nodded, then closed the door and that was all.”

“You saw his face.” Jiang Wanyin said, his words bitter with a jealousy he could scarcely resent him for. “It’s more than I’ve had.” 

“I suppose.”

Jiang Wanyin laughs, a dry and bitter sound that sounds like it's been punched out of him, until he finally bends again, his head hanging, as if he truly had been punched. 

“Sometimes, it feels like he died that day.” He admits, miserably. “Like every story Jin Ling tells me is just wishful thinking.”

Wangji's heart twists in sympathy and understanding. He finds himself sharing things without meaning to once again:

“When Sizhui was growing up, I often had the urge to steal the pages of writing he would come back with.” He recalls, the words soft, as if he was once again living the moment, the papers were once again in his hands. “It would be easy. I could tell him he misplaced it and next week he would have another. I felt so ashamed, but…”

“It was proof he was still alive.” He says, putting the feeling in words swifter than Wangji could. He turns to look at him, and finds his pain echoed in the resigned lines of Jiang Wanyin’s face. “I have that stupid flute of his. I will be damned if I let the Jins have it, after they raided that cave and took it all  like it wasn’t… Like that wasn’t his life’s work.”

“Like that wasn’t his home.” Wangji agrees, a bitter feeling stabbing through his heart again. “Shufu wanted to take Suibian into our vaults, but I would not let him. It was not a war relic, and it was not his to take.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I hid it.” He admits, unashamedly. “Until it’s time for Sizhui to have it.”

Jiang Wanyin scoffs, shaking his head as he looks away.

“It feels like he has all of him these days.” He spits out, surprisingly bitter considering his attempt to bring both nephews together , in a way that has Wangji gearing up to defend the child if he had to. “Like he’s sucking him dry and not leaving anything at all behind for us to have, not even scraps.”

“He’s a child.” He reminds him, stressing the next words: “And his son .” The words are a worn truth in his tongue. “Wei Ying is all he has left.”

“I know.” He grunts. “But wasn’t he all I had left too? Wasn’t I and a-jie all he had once, before he left us behind for them ? I mean— Ah, fuck.” He cursed, before covering his hand with both his palms, letting out a shuddering breath. “It’s so hard not to be angry when I look at him. It’s even harder not to be jealous.”

With a quiet horror that makes his spine stiffen and his eyes be glued to the horizon ahead of them, Lan Wangji realizes Jiang Wanyin has begun to cry beside him. It's strange to know that even if he had witnessed that before, a lifetime ago, it has left him equally ill prepared to witness it now.

“I’m so afraid one of us is going to die before either of us gets to say sorry.” Jiang Wanyin admits, his hands wiping violently at his face, as if he meant to tear out the very tear ducts that allowed them to come to be. “That I’m so sorry I didn’t help and I’m sorry I left him alone and that I’m so, so sorry that he thought he didn’t have anything else to live for but that boy. And that I’m sorry I still can’t think of him as my nephew even though he’s my brother’s son, and that I’m sorry I never called him my brother when he could hear it.”

It's the most honest he has ever heard the man be. Wangji does not know what to answer for a while, especially not when his shoulders spasm, sporadically, his sobs quieter than he had expected them to be.

“You’re not the only one that regrets not having said things when they should.”

“Cowards, the two of us.” Jiang Wanyin muttered, his hand still covering his eyes, adding a cover for the wetness of his voice. “How did we land ourselves back here, all this time later?” 

He can see themselves in a different time, younger, thinner, just as desperate. Missing the same person, over and over again.

“I don’t know.”

The two of them sat in silence for a moment. The night stretched on for a few more seconds before Lan Wangji broke the silence, his voice soft but firm.

“We will keep trying.” He vowed, his eyes straying to the direction of Weu Wuxian’s house. “We owe him that much.”

Wei Wuxian's serene expression faltered for a moment, a flicker of something akin to vulnerability crossing his features before he composed himself once more, breaking the silence with a casual, almost nonchalant remark.

"Ah." He spoke with a resigned acceptance but also clear distaste, as if he was being forced to acknowledge a truth that had long been kept buried beneath layers of denial and avoidance, averting his gaze and lowering his teacup to the table with a tired sigh. "That."

Lan Xichen's heart clenched as the pieces fell into place in his mind. Lan Meihui had told them the grim fate Wei Wuxian had agreed to, the cause of his deteriorating health. When he had turned to resentful energy his body had been battered beyond remedy, and the twisted font of his powers had seeped into his bodies, stitched him back together, filling the cracks in his bones, holding his joints, knitting his muscles. The day he had stepped into this house, that they designed to purify him of that, he had agreed to nothing short of torture and inevitable death. It was only a matter of when.

Yet, things had worsened then, as she had added to his condition that in the chaos of the siege, when Wei Wuxian had destroyed the Stygian Tiger Amulet, he had suffered a wound so deep it was a wonder it had not pierced his heart and killed him. Whatever had inflicted was undeniably resentful in nature, hence had never closed, and powerful as it was, it had neither been purified by their arrays nor been dispersed, trapped within Wei Wuxian's flesh as it was, half keeping him alive, half slowly poisoning him. His body, constantly subjected to mending and purification, was becoming weaker faster than it would have otherwise.

Xichen's mind had reeled with the implications of this revelation then, but nothing could match the horror he felt now, having heard it from Wei Wuxian's own mouth.

"You knew." Lan Xichen said, his tone half-accusing, half-horrified.

Wei Wuxian met Lan Xichen's gaze evenly, his expression betraying no hint of remorse.

"I did." He admitted simply.

Lan Xichen's heart sank.

Wangji would die with this man , he thought. He might kill us all if he knows how it came to be .

"You didn't say anything," he continued, his voice tinged with an angry accusation.

"Would any words I offered matter?" He countered, his voice heavy with the weight of bitter truths, arching one dark brow at him. "Would anyone believe the Yiling Laozu if he said this meant death? Would anybody have cared?"

In the shadows and hollows of his face, the Yiling Patriarch of that night came to him, covered in ash and blood, holding a child to his chest and telling them in no uncertain words they had killed farmers, sick and elderly. They had not cared for his word then. He had said to Sect Leader Jiang, even, that his words had never mattered before. He had warned, as he had many times before, of what he would do.

Keep his silence.

Lan Xichen's mind raced, grappling with the harsh reality of their past actions, the grim inevitability of Wei Wuxian's fate and Wangji's devastation in its wake. As Lan Xichen's hands trembled around the vice grip of his teacup, he dug deeper, his voice wavering with a mix of disbelief and desperation:

"And you didn't care that this was a death sentence?"

Wei Wuxian smiled then, seeming truly amused for a moment, though almost detached, as if he was seeing his life's events from afar, reading this fate of his like a play where he knew long ago the character was doomed and they are only catching up to it now.

"I have died twice before." He admitted, his voice tinged with a weary acceptance. "Fearing a third seems... Pointless."

Lan Xichen's heart clenched, not at his nonsensical ramblings, but at the peace with his death in his words. This was not a man who thought he could save himself. He had likely long stopped trying to.

"You have been letting us kill you." He said at last, tasting the truth of his actions in his tongue, now that all pretenses had been pulled away from it.

Wei Wuxian met Lan Xichen's gaze steadily, his expression unreadable.

"I have been letting you punish me." He corrected pointedly, his tone laced with bitterness. "As was our agreement."

Lan Xichen's grip tightened around the teacup, his hands shaking with emotion.

"Through a painful, agonizing death." He added, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.

He felt irrational. A murderer angry at his victim. The blood had already been spilled, even if the corpse in front of him still breathed. Lan Meihui said the only way to save his life was to take him from this place, rehabilitate his body, try to heal what they could, and to allow him to return to his previous cultivation. Lan Xichen could do none of these things. The Cultivation World would never stand for it, but neither would the Lan Elders. Shufu himself had reacted sharply at those words, saying Wei Wuxian was better dead than a demonic cultivator.

You put your blood in my hands , he wanted to tell him. Why would you ever think this was what I wanted?

Because they all wanted the Wen's blood to be spilled.

Up until they realized how they had spilled it.

Xichen was doomed to commit the same mistake a hundred times over.

Wei Wuxian remained silent, his eyes averted to the drawings, the glimpses of A-Yuan he clung to, as if remembering why he endured the things he endured.

"I have long enough." He said softly.

Lan Xichen couldn't help but press further, his voice pleading, desperate for something he could dig his nails to, bind this man a little longer to this world:

"Long enough for what ?"

Wei Wuxian sighed, the sound heavy with sorrow and regret.

"I'll see A-Yuan grow." He explained, his voice tinged with a mixture of longing and sadness. "I'll see him pick a sword. I'll see him become a man. And I'll know I did keep at least one more promise, which will be one less regret." He paused, his gaze distant yet filled with a quiet determination. "It's a cheap price to pay for that." He concluded softly, lips twitching in the most genuine smile he had given them the whole time they had been there. "And as long as I have that, it will be enough."

A murderer should not resent his victim for their death.

And yet Xichen did.