Chapter Text
Wei Wuxian blows frantic notes into the makeshift dizi. He cut it in a half dozen strokes from a piece of bamboo, and this new body’s fingers and are too short, lips and lungs unused to the instrument. It’s a wonder he can play at all, actually, and very unfair of the Lan juniors to lurch away from his music like it was a physical blow. Anyways, they should be focused on the stone statue smashing its way through the ranks of cultivators and not on critiquing Mo Xuanyu’s musical skills.
Wei Wuxian winces his way through a familiar battle song, reaching out with resentful energy for something—anything—he can call to the fight against the angry statue. He senses a jolt of familiarity for a second, but no—a couple notes later, the creature jerks away from his summons. He curses to himself; whatever it was had felt powerful.
He reaches out again to find some weaker undead, a couple hungry ghosts and some fierce corpses. Oh, and one dead cultivator on the ground here, his neck broken with one careless swing from the statue’s fists. Wei Wuxian trills them onward, the first corpse rising and slamming into the stone statue just in time to keep the creature from raising Jin Ling to its lips. Wei Wuxian’s nephew falls away unharmed, but the dancing statue barely takes a scratch either. Wei Wuxian’s flute trills higher, urging resentful energy into the corpses. The statue sends another lurching dead creature flying.
In the moment before the statue would have struck a Jiang disciple, a violet blur wraps around the statue’s wrist with a crackle of lightning.
“Shuangjian Shengshou!” the Jiang cultivators chirp in relieved unison as Zidian yanks the statue back a step. Wei Wuxian’s playing falters for a second as he gulps. Shuangjian Shengshou, the Twin Blade Master, Jiang-zongzhu, Jiang Cheng. The man Wei Wuxian is most determined to avoid.
Wei Wuxian blows into his flute again and watches Jiang Cheng release Zidian from the statue and pivot out of the way of the monster’s next grab. Wei Wuxian had seen the hilts of two swords rising over Jiang Cheng’s back in the twilight, but he hadn’t seen them up close. Now the sect leader reaches across his back and pulls both blades free in one fluid motion. Sandu’s violet sword glare breaks a shard of rock from the statue’s leg while the other blade sends the fairy’s next punch skidding off to the side. Jiang Cheng pivots from under a stomp of the creature’s foot, a fluid dodge that reminds Wei Wuxian of the moves he’d developed during Sunshot to stay out of sword range while playing his flute. Then Jiang Cheng brings both blades around, two sword glares flashing, and—
Oh. Oh. Wei Wuxian knows the second sword’s glare, silver with a hint of red, better than any other. His brother is wielding Suibian, the first and last sword that had ever belonged to Wei Wuxian. Time moves slowly for a second as he watches Jiang Cheng use the crossed blades to brace against a hit, the red and purple lights of the two swords flaring together. Jiang Cheng flies backwards and catches himself with sturdy Sandu, already rebalancing to bring lightning-quick Suibian around for another strike.
Wei Wuxian plays on, and the undead cling to the statue’s limbs as Sandu and Suibian pound cracks into the stone with every strike. The blows come fast, too: Jiang Cheng keeps the two blades constantly in motion. With every sweep of his arms, at least one of the swords cuts for some weak spot. Jiang Cheng has taken the Jiang sword forms and made the blocks into swirling twists, every defensive sweep into a decisive strike. The fairy never even touches Jiang Cheng except when a blade cuts home. Wei Wuxian’s chest swells in a mix of pride and terror—those are definitely some of his dodges, at least at the heart of them, and how much must Jiang Cheng have grown Wei Wuxian’s core to be able to handle two first-class weapons like Suibian and Sandu at once?
Wei Wuxian weaves his undead around the sect leader’s sword forms. The creatures claw and cling to the statue where they can. Aside from Jin Ling shooting the occasional arrow, the other cultivators have fallen back: no one wants to be in range of the whirl of blades and stone. A howling corpse tugs the statue off-balance just as Jiang Cheng leaps into the air with a burst of spiritual force, bringing both blades to the monster’s neck. The sound of metal against stone shrieks through the clearing one last time, and the stone fairy’s head falls to the ground with a thud.
Wei Wuxian lets his flute screech out a quick victory, and then he changes the tune. His fingers pick out a half-remembered song, the most calming one he knows, and he slows the dead just enough for his brother to pick them off one by one. Wei Wuxian turns to back away, ready to run as soon as the fight is settled.
The last fierce corpse drops, and Wei Wuxian takes a last step backward into something warm and solid. A hand grips his wrist, and Wei Wuxian drops the flute at the sudden pain. Panicked, he looks up to see the impassive golden eyes of Lan Wangji staring down at him. Unlike Jiang Cheng, Lan Zhan and his perfect, icy beauty haven’t changed a bit. Still that aura of otherworldliness like no dust or demon could touch him, and that cool gaze that always made Wei Wuxian’s mouth go dry. His clothing, though, doesn’t have even a hint of the soft blues he’d once worn to mute the white of his robes. He really looks like he’s dressed for a funeral now. Maybe it’ll be Wei Wuxian’s.
Fuck. He’d never expected to be lucky—he certainly hadn’t been in his first life—but he couldn’t have any worse luck than this.
Jiang Cheng stalks across the clearing towards Wei Wuxian as a confusion of disciples swirl around the stone fairy’s rubble. Jiang Cheng has grown in plenty of ways in the last thirteen years, it seems: not up, he’d already been at his adult height, but his shoulders have broadened and settled with responsibility. His puffed-out-kitten walk has settled into a sleek and predatory prowl and his scowl has grown an extra edge of sharpness. Wei Wuxian tries to tug against Lan Wangji’s grip, but his hand is as good as a cuff around Wei Wuxian’s wrist. Pushing back only sends him further into Lan Wangji’s immovable chest.
“Thanks for the save—I don’t suppose you feel like letting me go now?” He tries one of his winning smiles on the stoic Lan cultivator. Mo Xuanyu is definitely shorter than Wei Wuxian had been--he’s sure his head would not have fit so neatly in this spot right below Lan Zhan’s chin in his previous life.
“Mn.” Lan Wangji doesn’t move one step, and now Jiang Cheng is here, in front of him and glaring.
“Are you going to confess?” Jiang Cheng snaps at Wei Wuxian.
“Confess to what?” Wei Wuxian thinks quickly. “Preferring Lan-er-gongzi to you?”
Jiang Cheng scoffs, his eyes not moving from Wei Wuxian. “Hanguang-Jun. This one gets the sword.”
“Shuangjian Shengshou,” Lan Wangji replies coolly. “It is unnecessary.” Jiang Cheng narrows his eyes at Lan Wangji.
“Pardon this humble cultivator for not taking Lan er-gongzi’s opinion as fact,” Jiang Cheng snarls. He pauses for a glance around the clearing, where plenty of traveling cultivators are watching the scene with mouths hanging open. “Scram!” Jiang Cheng snaps. Within seconds the only cultivators left in the clearing are some Jiang disciples, some Lan juniors, and one spiky little Jin. Once the last rogue cultivators have left, Jiang Cheng reaches over his shoulder, pulling one of the swords and its scabbard from his back.
“Haha, isn’t this too much?” Wei Wuxian sputters, recoiling. He hadn’t asked for this second life, but he already finds himself very attached to his new body. “I’m always honored to catch the attention of two handsome, strong cultivators and their very lovely swords, but-”
“Gross,” Jiang Cheng declares. Lan Wangji is still doing his best impression of a marble statue: beautiful, perfectly proportioned, and not going anywhere. Jiang Cheng thrusts the sword out, and Wei Wuxian closes his eyes and waits for it to strike home. He has been stabbed before, has been stabbed before by Jiang Cheng in particular, but he still isn’t excited to repeat the experience.
And he doesn’t. There’s a long moment of silence and no sudden pain in Wei Wuxian’s side. Instead, there is a cool point of pressure in the center of Wei Wuxian’s chest. “Draw it,” Jiang Cheng snaps, and Wei Wuxian opens his eyes.
The hilt of a sword is pressed against the center of his chest. It’s Suibian, Wei Wuxian recognizes with a jolt. Wei Wuxian looks up at Jiang Cheng, wide-eyed.
“I said draw it!” the Jiang clan leader snarls again with a more forceful poke. “You get Suibian by the hilt or Sandu by the point.”
“Unnecessary,” Lan Wangji says again, but Wei Wuxian reaches for the sword’s hilt with his free hand.
“If Jiang-zongzhu insists!” he babbles. He really, really does not want to get stabbed. His fingers wrap around Suibian, trembling slightly. It’s not the same, Mo Xuanyu’s fingers are shorter and his grip weaker than Wei Wuxian’s had ever been, so his old friend bites slightly into his palm. (That tracks, he thinks dazedly, with his record with old friends.)
Jiang Cheng impatiently tugs the scabbard away, and the blade falls free. A surge of spiritual power races up Wei Wuxian’s arm, overwhelming Mo Xuanyu’s weak core like a giant dog bowling over a little kid. The spiritual energy surges through Wei Wuxian and burns through his meridians. The pain is unfamiliar: though Wei Wuxian had long been used to the gnawing dark hunger of too little spiritual energy, his core before the transfer had always wrapped any excess spiritual energy around itself with ease. The sword’s weight draws its tip towards the ground as Wei Wuxian gasps with pain and his scrawny new arms waver. His legs wobble too, and Lan Wangji adjusts his grip on Wei Wuxian to keep him from completely collapsing.
The sword’s energy subsiding slightly, Wei Wuxian looks up at his brother. Jiang Cheng looks like he was hit by a wave of spiritual energy too, Suibian’s sheath hanging loose in his hand. The scowl on his face has changed into something more complicated.
“So you’re back,” Jiang Cheng says slowly. “And this is the first I know of it.”
They can’t be certain, though, Wei Wuxian thinks desperately. They haven’t even said his name yet. “You have caught me twice now just tonight! But I hope you weren’t planning on a duel. This sword is gorgeous, but even the finest weapon wouldn’t make a fight between the two of us even.”
“Sect Leader Jiang will not be dueling this person,” Lan Wangji says. Wei Wuxian sags with the tiniest amount of relief. Lan Wangji, at least, thinks Jiang Cheng is wrong.
“Of course not,” Jiang Cheng growls. He crosses his arms and looks at Wei Wuxian. “Anything to say for yourself? Choose wisely.”
“Um. Here’s your sword back?” Holding Suibian unsheathed is draining Mo Xuanyu’s core dry. “And sorry about being rude to Jin-gongzi.”
Jiang Cheng’s mouth twists sarcastically. “What an unasked blessing,” he says at last before pulling Suibian from Wei Wuxian’s hand and slinging it across his back again.
The buzz of too-strong spiritual energy begins to fade, leaving a faint empty feeling behind. Wei Wuxian ignores it and tries to turn his pleading on Lan Wangji. “You know I’m just a humble flute-player, don’t you, Hanguang-Jun? Just ask your juniors.”
“I do not need to ask,” Lan Wangji says. Wei Wuxian’s hope lifts. “I know you are not Mo Xuanyu.”
So much for that hope. “I’m not not Mo—”
“You’re really not going to admit it, then?” Jiang Cheng says, his voice flat with a hint of anger crackling at the edges. Wei Ying opens his mouth reply, but Jiang Cheng is already looking up at Lan Wangji to continue. “This is going to take a long time. Once he has a good lie in his teeth, he never lets go of it. I plan to bring him back to Lotus Pier and see whether he has some iota of shame or if he can keep the lie going while kneeling in front of my parents. Does Hanguang-Jun have a better plan?”
Lan Wangji stiffens. “He will be safer in Gusu.”
“There’s no need to-” Wei Wuxian stutters.
“You shut up. Do you think I’m just letting you go on the side of a fucking mountain? Or even if I did, that Lan-er-gongzi would let you go a step further than that? Lotus Pier or Cloud Recesses. You’re going to one of them.”
Of course, Wei Wuxian thinks. Gusu’s three thousand rules or Yunmeng’s whip-wielding sect leader: he gets to pick that much of his punishment. But… he knows Lotus Pier, both the sect and the town. If Jiang Cheng takes his eyes off Wei Wuxian for one second, he could be gone and on his way to somewhere no one knows his name. Any of his names.
“I hear Yunmeng's nice this time of year?” Wei Wuxian suggests. Lan Wangji shifts behind him, away from him, and a look of triumph flashes across Jiang Cheng’s face. Stomach twisting, Wei Wuxian wonders if he just made a very bad choice.
The Lan and Jiang cultivators quickly get in formation for the flight to Yunmeng, everyone seemingly surprised that the Lans are heading back to Lotus Pier as well. No one is slowed down much by Wei Wuxian’s attempts to embarrass the sect leaders with caterwauling and complaints—he catches a sympathetic look from one of the Lan juniors, he thinks, but the Lans are too polite and the Jiangs too cautious of their sect leader’s glower to ask. Jin Ling keeps sneaking curious glares at Wei Wuxian, who Lan Wangji still won’t let go of Wei Wuxian for longer than it takes to wrap an extra outer robe around Wei Wuxian. The too-large white robe seems to draw some extra glares from Jiang Cheng as well.
Wei Wuxian’s babbling ends the instant they lift off the ground, cut off by a wave of paralytic fear. Except in the nightmares of falling and falling and falling again, Wei Wuxian had never again flown on a sword after being dropped into the Burial Mounds. With every foot the sword gained in the air, Wei Wuxian could imagine himself crashing that much further down. At least the battle of wills between Lan Wangji and Jiang Cheng over who would carry him hadn’t ended with him dangling between the two. Wei Wuxian finds himself clinging to Lan Wangji, eyes firmly shut for most of the trip. Lan Wangji’s firm unmoving grip is almost (embarrassingly) comforting while hurtling through the air. The robe helps, too: it still has that sandalwood smell that Wei Wuxian can remember from his last life, traces of it clinging to him even in the damp of the Xuanwu of Slaughter’s cave. Wei Wuxian thinks he hears Lan Wangji murmur his name softly into his hair when Wei Wuxian flinches at a hard gust of wind, but the rush of air is too loud to be sure.
“Look up,” Jiang Cheng says after a few hours of flying. “If you can pull yourself away from Hanguang-Jun long enough, that is.”
Lan Wangji’s arm tightens as Wei Wuxian opens his eyes and looks over at his brother. Jiang Cheng juts his chin forward, and Wei Wuxian looks. Ahead of them are the lights of Lotus Pier, a glow over the water. Wei Wuxian’s heart lurches. He hadn’t seen Lotus Pier like this—not so bustling, not so bright—since before the burning of Lotus Pier. It’s thriving again, just like the town that Wei Wuxian had first seen while held tight to Jiang Fengmian’s chest on a late-evening flight.
Jiang Cheng had done it all, and done it without him. Some knot unclenches in Wei Wuxian’s chest. He looks over to smile at his brother, but Jiang Cheng has already surged ahead again.
When they land, Jiang Cheng is instantly mobbed by servants and disciples, excitedly peppering their sect leader with questions and greetings. There’s so many of them, Wei Wuxian thinks—by the time he died, there weren’t even this many people in the whole sect, let alone inclined to rush out at midnight for the sect leader coming back from a night hunt. Jiang Cheng seems to forget about his brother for a moment. In the light of the lanterns, Jiang Cheng’s sharp angles look a little softer for a second, his voice a bit smoother and softer. Like the voice he had when they were young and it was just Jiang Cheng, Wei Wuxian, and Jiang Yanli.
An unfamiliar woman wearing the head disciple’s bell gestures over at Wei Wuxian and the Lans, and the harshness comes back to Jiang Cheng’s face. Wei Wuxian schools himself back into wide-eyed puzzlement and fear. Jiang Cheng and the disciple march over to the Lan delegation. “Welcome to Lotus Pier,” Jiang Cheng intones without a single note of welcome. “You’ll be staying in the guest rooms. Jiang Meihua will take you.” He turns then to Wei Wuxian, mouth flicking again, and then turns to one of the hovering servants. “Open up the sealed room. This one will be staying there.”
The servant looks at him wide-eyed, and a couple other Jiang freeze and stare. “The sealed room? Are you sure, zongzhu?”
“That’s what I said,” Jiang Cheng tells her. She nods, takes one more look at Wei Wuxian, and then darts off. Wei Wuxian swallows.
“Come on,” Jiang Cheng says, tugging at Wei Wuxian’s arm. Lan Wangji keeps his grip on the other arm, and Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “I know it’s past your Lan bedtime. If you have anything to say, Lan-er-gongzi, you can say it in the morning.”
Lan Wangji gives Jiang Cheng a full-strength icy glare. “Shuangjian Shengshou will also restrain himself until morning.”
Jiang Cheng’s lip curls. “So little trust in the hospitality of Lotus Pier.”
“Mn.” They glare until Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes.
“On the honor of the Yunmeng Jiang I assure Hanguang-Jun that all of my guests will pass the night unharmed. And that I intend to secure this prisoner and go directly to my own bed. Is that adequate?”
“It suffices.” Lan Wangji finally releases Wei Wuxian’s arm and steps back, those dizzying golden eyes once again making contact with Wei Wuxian’s. “Sleep well,” Lan Wangji says at last before stepping away to follow a servant.
“You, with me,” Jiang Cheng hauls Wei Wuxian by the arm. “Don’t play dumb, you know which way.”
“I don’t, actually,” Wei Wuxian says, following along. “I’ve never been to Lotus Pier before, not in my whole life! And why would I know anything about a sealed room in Lotus Pier? That sounds scandalous.”
Jiang Cheng snorts. “As usual, you’ve got one truth slipped in every third lie or so. The sealed room has brought years of shame on the Jiang Sect already, and with your help it’ll bring more.”
The path Jiang Cheng takes is familiar, though: past the central courtyard, along the side hall where Jiang Yanli had liked to read, down to the family’s quarters and—
Oh. A servant is stepping out of a very familiar room. He bows at Jiang Cheng as the sect leader shoves Wei Wuxian inside.
“Huh, what a nice place,” Wei Wuxian says softly. It is his old room, still untouched—his old notes and favorite books spilling off the shelves; his ancient stains on the desk; his souvenir painting from Caiyi Town pinned to the wall and faded with a decade’s time. He rubs his thumb across the carving of two stick figures kissing that he had long ago carved on the bed. He looks up at Jiang Cheng, mentally settling his puzzled Mo Xuanyu face back in place. “Why is this all here?”
“We purified and burnt the demonic junk, so don’t go looking for any of that. But the rest of your stuff is all here,” Jiang Cheng bites out. “No one else wanted it, and I wouldn’t stick some poor disciple in the Yiling Laozu’s room. I’ll be posting guards, so you’d better still be here in the morning. If I have to hunt you down again I’ll break your legs.”
Wei Wuxian settles on the bed, the exhaustion of the day catching up with him. Being resurrected is hard work.
“This bed seems fine to me,” Wei Wuxian says with an only slightly exaggerated yawn. “Yiling Laozu or no.”
Jiang Cheng jerks his head in a nod and sweeps out the door without a backward glance.