Chapter Text
There are, in fact, Very Good Reasons for why Wei Ying is sneaking around the Forbidden City, dressed entirely in black with a mask obscuring most of his face. It's just that all of those reasons scatter and flee like startled birds when, in the course of hiking his leg onto a rooftop, he finds himself face to face with His Excellency, His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor himself.
The Emperor who, he was assured, was supposed to be in bed already and who is most definitely not, because he is instead standing on a rooftop in the Forbidden City.
Later, Wei Ying will remember being absolutely vacant of thought, which is his only excuse for why he doesn't kowtow, he doesn't bow at all, he doesn't even address the man as Your Excellency. What does come out of his mouth is: "This isn't what it looks like."
And then he cradles his jars of alcohol close to his chest so that they don't clink in the stillness of the night, and absconds very quickly in the same direction as his Very Good Reasons.
The Forbidden City is never completely quiet – there are the masses who work through the night to provide the luxuries of the elite, after all – but the walkways are largely clear of people. This is useful, because Wei Ying is used to having to dodge crowds and stalls and passers-by when he's made a run for it previously, but it also makes it much more difficult to lose a tail.
Because, apparently, the Emperor, His Imperial Majesty, Son of Heaven, et cetera, et cetera, is personally chasing after him.
"The hell?" Wei Ying exhales, in between one step and another. He touches his mask, to make sure that it's still securely on his face.
It's fortunate that the Emperor is dressed entirely in white. (It's a strange colour for an Emperor to be wearing, but he's been told that is a symbolism thing, that he's in mourning after the war. Wei Ying's always thought that he can't be too sad, because winning the war was what made him Emperor, but still. That's not the point.)
The point is that those beautiful iridescent robes make him a beacon in the night, easy to spot and veer away from. Honestly, he's impressed that the man can run in them at all. Official court robes are heavy and stiff, with multiple layers and far too many dangling bits of jade and stone; Wei Ying makes sure to wear them as seldom as possible. The Emperor makes it look effortless.
Of course, there was a time before the Emperor was the Emperor, when he was merely Lan Wangji, the Second Young Master of Gusu Lan, Hanguang-jun, and esteemed war hero. There are tales – song and poetry – of his improbable strength and fighting prowess. A few layers of silk and embroidery are probably nothing to him.
Wei Ying, on the other hand, slithers through the shadows in his black robes, using every arch and corridor and overpass to disguise his route. He's trying to strike a balance between speed and stealth but he's not familiar enough with the Forbidden City (yet) and he knows he's fast getting lost. The longer this takes, the louder his breath is becoming, but he's finally stopped getting glimpses of white robes out of the corner of his eye. He's getting complacent; he wouldn't have thought twice about a run like this during the war, dodging arrows and sword strikes at every turn.
After all, it's not only His Excellency who used to be a war hero.
*
THREE MONTHS AGO
From a war hero to exiled and in disgrace to… this. Whatever this is.
Wei Ying - for he still thinks of himself as Wei Ying, though no one has called him that to his face in many years - looks down at hands. They're the only thing he can see, so he might as well look down at them. Thick gold rings cluster there like lions mobbing a kill, making it impossible for him to close his fingers together. Bracelets run up his pale and knobbly wrists almost halfway to the elbow, weighing him down like shackles. They're beautiful, he supposes, and then tsks at himself. No, they are beautiful, no supposing about it. They're the best that Yunmeng Jiang can offer. Like he is, apparently.
The gold headpiece that adds a handspan onto his height and its dozens of dangling ornaments is already giving him a headache, his hair pulled more tightly back than he ever keeps it. The thick red veil pinned to it with sixteen pins (eight had not been enough to stop it from sliding, so another eight had to be added, and all sixteen dig at his scalp) is what's obscuring his vision. He's told that the passage between Yunmeng and the Forbidden City is beautiful but he can only see the vaguest of shapes through the swathe of red. He's mostly relying on his other senses at the moment.
The plump, embroidered cushion beneath him is not plump enough to save his backside - and the rest of his joints - from the rutted roads, gouged from too many trampling armies and carts in the last fifteen or so years and bearing the scars of war just like the rest of the country. The weather is bright and warm, auspicious for an imperial wedding just as their horoscopes had said, but the six layers of thick robes lie on him like quilts, smothering. The hour spent in the bath this morning (so early it had practically been last night) where he'd been soaped, primped, scrubbed until his skin felt flayed is all for naught, as sweat settles like a seventh robe on him.
His ears tell him that there are crowds lining the roads - peasants most likely who are there to gawk at the sight of the carriage, freshly painted red and bedecked with gold, taking him to the Forbidden City. There's a too-small window but Wei Ying's veil is almost opaque, so anyone hoping for a look at the elusive bride-to-be is surely disappointed. Along some stretches, they cheer for him. Along others, there's a curious, sullen muttering. Wei Ying can more or less track which areas have come out better or worse from the wars from which it is.
At some point, the carriage moves from muddy roads onto stone. They must be nearing the Forbidden City. The horses' hooves take on a sharper tone, clacking smartly down on the cobblestones. Someone draws up beside the carriage, matching their horse's pace to him. He peers - a shadow? "Yes?"
"It's me, you idiot." Ah. Jiang Cheng.
Wei Ying huffs, and pulls the stupid veil out of the way.
"Wei Wuxian!" hisses Jiang Cheng, casting a look around. "Put that back down."
"There's no one around but you, and you already know what I look like."
"Unfortunately," mutters Jiang Cheng. This dynamic is familiar, and for a moment, a tense smile stretches between the two of them. "Anyway, I have a wedding present for you."
Wei Ying waves around at... well, everything. The robes, the carriage, the horses, the thirty-six chests of various art, valuables and jewellery trailing them, even the darned veil. "I assumed that this was the wedding present."
"That's from Jiang to Gusu, to thank them for taking you off my hands. Here." Jiang Cheng reaches in through the window, thrusts something into his hand, and looks away.
Wei Ying looks down at the thin ring, still warm from Jiang Cheng's hand, and bites his lip. Oh. "Thank you."
"You should have – something from home with you." These are echoes of another argument - one that Yunmeng Jiang lost, or perhaps never had a chance to win in the first place. They would have sent Wei Ying with all his own belongings, robes with the Yunmeng lotus embroidered on, in rich purple and turquoise. His Imperial Majesty's council had said that this would have implied that the Imperial Household was unable to provide properly for the future Empress.
The ring, pale gold with purple jade inlay, doesn't match any of what he's wearing, but he wrestles a dragon and phoenix ring off where it's threatening to consume his knuckle and slips the ring on underneath.
He almost asks Jiang Cheng what Madam Yu would have thought of her son giving away her most precious family heirloom but that too is another argument, one the two of them have already had, and had again, when Wei Ying, already Wei Wuxian to the world by then, finally officially took Jiang as his family name only after the deaths of Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan.
And then, because Jiang Cheng finds the idea of having sincere emotions almost repulsive, his brother (-in-arms, adoptive, no – just brother ) adds, "To remind you which family took you in and looked after you."
But Wei Ying hears it for what he means. To remind you of me.
Jiang Cheng rides ahead, and Wei Ying lets him, dropping the veil back down in case the raw feeling in his throat and chest is somehow visible on his face.
*
Wei Ying has been told that the area around the Forbidden City and leading up to it is beautiful. An architectural triumph. It's a shame he can't see it, especially since once he's inside he's never going to be allowed to leave it.
All he does know is that there are stairs. A lot of stairs. They'd left the carriage at the bottom of one sprawling flight and he'd been allowed outside for just long enough to feel a mild breeze across his palms - which are just about the only part of him exposed to the air - before being ushered into a palanquin, which takes him up some more stairs. He's not a heavy man by any means, but the palanquin certainly isn't light and nor is the small fortune of gold and red silks he's wearing. There was a moment where he thought they had come to the end of the stairs, but no - it was merely a plateau before the next set began.
And then after the palanquin is set down, there is another set that he is expected to walk up himself. This would be easier, if he could see more than a single step at a time. There's a trick to walking in this many robes, all of which sweep the floor. It's a rocking of the hips, to get all of the material to swing in the same direction at the same time, lifting just enough at the front that he can raise his foot without stepping on any of the layers.
Wei Ying has, admittedly, not mastered this technique, so it's pretty slow going. He has plenty of time to think about what's at the top of those stairs. He can't see it, but he's been told what will be there a hundred times now, by the etiquette masters - both of Yunmeng Jiang and Gusu Lan. Wei Ying is to ascend the stairs - gracefully, directly up the middle, with the poise of a thousand swans, apparently - and waiting there will be his Imperial Excellency.
The marriage itself is a quick affair. Three bows, three sentences, and that's it. He's the Imperial First Wife of the Emperor.
The wedding on the other hand, manages to take hours and yet involves none of the fun things that Wei Ying likes about weddings. There are hours of speeches, each one getting more elaborate as the Emperor's ministers try to each outdo the last. Prominent families bring gifts up that Wei Ying has to nod his thanks for even though he can't see what they are.
There's tea poured for the Emperor, tea poured for him, tea poured for the Emperor's family (and for a man with no parents and a single brother in seclusion, the Emperor still seems to have a terribly large extended family), tea poured for the Heavens, tea for the ancestors, tea on the earth for the dead, tea for their subjects. It goes on. Wei Ying does not actually get to drink any of this tea, which is just as well because he suspects getting up to use the bathroom in the middle of his own wedding is frowned upon. Also, the tea is bitter.
The Emperor doesn't drink alcohol, so no one else is allowed alcohol either. He claps politely for the entertainment he can't see. The Emperor does not, even once, actually speak to him.
Wei Ying has met His Excellency before, back before the two wars, before the Lans had even considered ascending the Forbidden City and becoming the Lan dynasty. He remembers His Imperial Majesty as studious and aloof, even before he had become of age. He had been skilled in all of the Six Arts and a veritable paragon of society. Wei Ying had found him both unbearably boring and fascinating, and had spent a good three months trying to get under his skin before he had been sent back to Yunmeng in disgrace for an entirely unrelated incident. He doesn't know if His Excellency remembers him.
After the interminable speeches, Wei Ying is escorted to their marital chamber.
It's a shame – he's starving, and he's not even allowed to stay for his own wedding feast, and the food is close enough that he could smell it. Instead, he’s shepherded off to wait for the Emperor to grace him with his presence.
But there are more pressing things. Firstly, he can lift up this cursed veil and loosen these robes he's in. Secondly, there is a tray of food left for him, thank the Heavens. And thirdly, he's in the Emperor's chamber, and if he scoops up some food into a bowl and then takes it with him, he can manage to eat and take a look around at the same time.
He's just about to do all of these things when a voice pipes up from the corner, "Will you require some help with the headpiece?"
Wei Ying nearly stabs himself in the neck with a very expensive gold pin. "What the – Mo Xuanyu! Why are you hiding in here?"
The young man looks at him, daring to huff a small laugh. He's been with Wei Ying for a few years now, but has never quite lost the twitchy, nervous habits of years of humiliation before that. "I'm your attendant. I am here to attend."
It's no wonder that he was hard to spot – the entire suite is draped in banners of red fabric, and although there are plenty of lanterns and candles around, only the one in the bedchamber right next to the bed is lit, giving the set of rooms a dark red hue that settles over everything, with only the occasional glint of gold that catches the light. Wei Ying beckons him forward.
"Yes, get this blasted thing off me. Have you eaten? I'll bet you haven't. Here, it's surprisingly good." He pushes the tray at Mo Xuanyu, gesturing for him to help himself as Wei Ying tries to pull out ever more pins without taking hanks of hair with it.
He's not supposed to be completely undressed before the Emperor gets here, but he had been thoroughly instructed on what was appropriate. For example, it would be inappropriate to make His Imperial Majesty have to deal with hairpins.
"So, anything interesting in here?" asks Wei Ying, stuffing his cheeks full as Mo Xuanyu takes over with the headpiece. It should be a while before the Emperor is done with the formalities and feast, but he's not sure how late it will run. He's going to take this chance to be himself in peace while he can.
Mo Xuanyu’s hands still in Wei Ying’s hair as he looks at him, aghast.
"What, you didn't take even a tiny peek in his drawers?"
"I could be beheaded for that," says Mo Xuanyu, moving on to easing him out of his many layers and then testing the temperature of the bath in the corner. "You might not be, but I definitely would."
"There doesn't seem to be a lot in here," Wei Ying says, looking around. Oh, it's certainly expensive – there's jade and marble everywhere, but it reminds him of something specific. It's not until he pokes around, peering at the wall, and sees where older wooden carvings have been pried out to make way for new ones that he realises.
This room looks a lot like the interiors of Koi Tower, the Jin dynasty family stronghold, based on the one time he visited. The koi of Lanling have been replaced with clouds for Gusu, but otherwise it looks like little else has been changed from when the previous Emperor was resident. Odd.
He gets into the bath quickly – the day's warmth has given way to a coolness that seeps up from the shadowed of the Forbidden City without the sun to keep the temperature up – and scrubs himself clean, feeling the day's sweat peel off him with relief. If he were a woman, there would have been attendants in here, including some of the Gusu Lan elderwomen, to help him clean, shave and perfume every inch of his skin. As it is, he has Mo Xuanyu, who sits with his back to him and nudges the towel nervously within reaching distance.
Between them, they split the tray of food, and then Mo Xuanyu takes it away with him, some other servants joining him for just long enough to haul away the bath and any other sign that Wei Ying had to make any effort to be presentable before the Emperor, leaving Wei Ying in another pristine red robe, alone in the bedchamber. And so he waits.
He's expecting the revelry to continue well into the night, so when the door to the outer Imperial Chambers opens with the sound of wood sliding across wood, he's actually halfway through rifling through the only cabinet in the bedchamber. (It's an incredibly boring, if exquisitely carved, cabinet, almost completely empty save for a couple of volumes of poetry.)
He only just manages to throw himself down onto the cushion he's supposed to be kneeling on and get the veil draped vaguely back over his head when the bedchamber door slides open.
Wei Ying bows, forehead to the floor. "Your Imperial Majesty."
"Jiang Wuxian."
It takes Wei Ying a breath to remember that that’s him; for one thing, the name still rings unfamiliar in his ears. It's all official and in the genealogy records and everything, but even Jiang Cheng still calls him Wei Wuxian. Secondly, he has no idea if that was an acknowledgement or permission to stop bowing or an order or what. Thirdly… the smooth silk of the veil, now unfettered by hairpins, is sliding across the gloss of his oiled hair, slowly and then picking up speed as more of its weight slithers over Wei Ying's face. He doesn't even have the presence of mind to save it before it pools into a puddle of fabric in front of him, baring his head to the Emperor.
There's a moment, and then the Emperor exhales. In anger? Bemusement? Resignation? Wei Ying can't tell, what with his face still on the ground and everything.
"Rise."
It seems that he is just going to ignore it, and Wei Ying can run with that. Wei Ying reaches for the teapot instead, kept warm with a hot stone, and pours out a cup for the two of them. No alcohol even in the most traditional of marriage rites, it seems. They each hold a cup in their right hand, intertwine their arms, and drink the tea.
Tea which, Wei Ying belatedly realises, he's been steeping for about two hours. It's disgusting. He's not sure how he manages not to flinch but the Emperor doesn't so somehow he also doesn't and they drink their revolting tea and untangle themselves and set their teacups down.
All in complete silence.
It hangs in the air oppressively, thick enough to be the presence of a third person. Wei Ying becomes all too aware of any tiny, minute sound he makes, like when his teacup clinks down on the table and his fingernails catch on the scratchy gold thread embroidery, every sound adding to the weight of the silence.
So, this is going well.
"Let's retire," says the Emperor.
Wei Ying remembers Lan Wangji as a young nobleman of concise speech, but he had rather hoped for more than this. His instructions on the wedding night from advisors of both Gusu and Yunmeng had been expansive, but most of them boiled down to 'do whatever on Earth the Emperor asks of you', which is difficult when the Emperor seems to want to speak no words. Perhaps he's just expecting Wei Ying to know what to do? Why would he, he's never been married to the most prominent man in the land before.
Instead, he lingers, and tries to anticipate. He reaches out when the Emperor undoes his sash, and retreats when it becomes clear he's going to undress himself. He climbs onto the bed when it appears the Emperor is waiting for him, and lies down. He's tense, not so much because he's nervous, but because some small, gremlin part of him is whispering that maybe he should just pick up a pillow and smack the Emperor over the head and see if he's still so silent then.
He does not, because he's not an actual idiot.
But when the Emperor lies down next to him, tucking his hair down to lie neatly, and crossing his arms over his chest, looking for all intents and purposes as if he's actually going to go to sleep, Wei Ying leans over and blurts out, "Really? " before he can stop himself.
The Emperor barely rotates his neck look at him, the lantern flickering behind his head casting shadows over the side of his face and making him even harder to read.
Wei Ying tries again. "You're not going to…?"
"There is no need. I have an heir."
The expectation of consummating the marriage has been so ingrained in him that it takes Wei Ying a moment to catch up. Of course – he can't bear a child, and the line of succession is already secure, so there is no practical function to it in their situation. And it's not like it's a love match.
"Of course. One understands, Your Excellency."
Wei Ying had thought that perhaps – well, they had been classmates, briefly; fought in the same war if not together. To him, that's a connection. Enough of one to spark a relationship – perhaps not romantic, but at least civil.
He rolls back onto his back, staring up at what he knows is red silk but just looks like black from here. There's an arm's length of space separating them, big enough for that silence to settle in comfortably between them.
As the Emperor reaches out and snuffs the lantern with the force of qi from the tips of his fingers, Wei Ying suddenly has a vision of how this marriage is going to be. Silent. Efficient. Distant. It takes a long time for him to fall asleep.