Chapter Text
Zewu-Jun will be back soon. Huaisang drags the pads of his fingers across the relief carvings on the end of his fan, catching ridges and tiny nicks in the wood. His feet have long gone numb from sitting so still.
He’s still not sure what he's hoping to gain from Lan Xichen’s arrival. These intelligence reports are strictly speaking addressed only to the head of the Nie clan, which he is, or the acting head anyway, so he'd still have to read them before passing them on to Zewu-Jun. He’s just starting to become unsure of how much more detail he can read about the massacre of the Jiangs (cores melted by Wen Chao’s lackey, which Huaisang hadn't known was even possible, and then whipped to death) without throwing up. Again. And his face hurts, and it only gets worse and worse the longer he sits here trying to ignore how much it hurts, and it only gets harder and harder to concentrate on the reports instead of the curtains blowing gently in the wind or the groans of injured men outside.
There’s a lot that da-ge hadn't told him, that he probably would have liked to know. Like the fact that Jiang Wanyin and Lan Wangji are on the hunt for the missing Wei Wuxian, and interrogated a Wen soldier who claimed to have been there when Wen Chao threw him alive into the Yiling Burial Mounds. He'd almost thrown up again at that. He's trying to picture Jiang Wanyin searching desperately for his brother but it seems out of place, like both of them belong messing around in Gusu, which, by the way, was burned to the ground, and Huaisang just had to sign off on a thing saying that he’d read the lists of all the disciples they’d killed, and…
“Huaisang?”
He's on his feet and gasping in relief before he can stop himself, even though he should really be pretending this work doesn't bother him as much as it does, this isn't stupid saber practice, this is serious, people’s lives are in his hands here - his stupid, incompetent hands. “Zewu-Jun.”
Wherever Zewu-Jun was hiding for these many months, it seems to have done him good. He shines from within, in this place full of war and dead bodies, with injured men crying out in the courtyard and even the most skilled cultivators looking haggard. He looks well-fed. His eyes are dark and calm. “Sect Leader Yao tells me you assigned some of his people to tie up loose ends in Langya.”
Uh oh. That's Zewu-Jun’s Gentle Voice, which means Huaisang has done something wrong. Again. “Yes, um, he volunteered so…”
“Langya’s already almost defeated, and Sect Leader Yao’s men are pretty far away. Do you think it would be best to let the Nie forces already there handle it?”
“Um. Right.”
Zewu-Jun sighs, still gently, and folds his hands behind his back. Oh, Huaisang does not like this conversation. But he stays silent behind da-ge’s big desk as Zewu-Jun glides - he always sort of glides, never just walks - to his side, and puts his hand on Huaisang’s shoulder. It’s warm and soft, but it’s lighter than da-ge’s hand.
“How are you holding up?” he asks.
Huaisang takes a breath to respond - hesitates, and breathes out. Shrugs. He kind of wishes Meng Yao were here, but he’s with the Jins and hasn't written and it’s all a mess.
“Casualty reports. That's pretty heavy.” Zewu-Jun slides it under another of the scrolls on the desk, out of sight. “This kind of work makes you grow up fast.” He's talking about da-ge, he must be. Da-ge and himself. “I regret that it's fallen to you. How is your face?”
Despite his meek mood, Huaisang can't help but pout. “It hurts.”
“I'm sorry to hear that.” Zewu-Jun presses fresh, clean qi into him, dulling the pain. “Why don't you take a break? I can take over your da-ge’s work until he recovers. You need to recover too, after all.” And work like this is no good for a child like you, goes unspoken, even though da-ge took it all on a year younger. Huaisang could choke on his own weakness.
“But they're addressed to…”
“It's alright, I asked your brother. Provided that I also have the permission of the acting sect leader?” He raises an eyebrow at Huaisang, eyes twinkling.
“Of course!” Huaisang pushes the scrolls towards him gratefully. “You talked to da-ge? How long until he’s up and about, do you think?”
“Don't you think you had better go ask him that yourself?” At Huaisang’s face, Zewu-Jun sighs. “Huaisang, you have to go see him at some point. He's worried about you.”
“Well, tell him not to worry! I'm fine. I'm fine!” Huaisang shakes his head, as if he could shake off Zewu-Jun’s concerned eyes lingering on the side of his face.
“He's worried that you're angry with him,” Zewu-Jun says.
“Well, I'm not!”
“Then why don't you go tell him that?”
Huaisang presses his mouth firmly closed and frowns at Zewu-Jun’s feet.
“He’s been very upset. He tried to get out of bed–”
“What? No!”
“That's what I said, and that's why you had better go see him.”
Again, Huaisang cannot answer past the coiling in his gut. What is he going to say to Zewu-Jun, that he doesn't know if he can even face his brother anymore for his own terror and helplessness? Fat chance.
“At least go see a doctor. It doesn't look like your face is healing properly. If you don't take care of it quickly, it might scar.”
A cold trill surfaces in Huaisang’s chest. “You really think so?”
“I do. Now please.” Zewu-Jun gestures at the intelligence. “I will review these.”
Huaisang nods and scurries out of the room.
He could - should - just go see one of the wartime medics outside, but the idea of facing all of the people and their groaning and crying and knowing that he’s technically responsible for them makes him sick. Instead he flags down da-ge’s personal physician on the way out of da-ge’s room, and asks him to come to Huaisang’s room to examine his face.
The man is a Lan refugee, not a Nie doctor, and his gentle, taciturn demeanor kind of wigs Huaisang out. He agrees with a nod and a little bow and of course, young master, and glides along the hallway to Huaisang’s room with almost, but not quite, as much grace as Zewu-Jun.
“Goodness,” says the man as he peels off the dressings. “That must be painful.”
“It is!” Huaisang says, and shifts. He’s not used to being examined in his room, never mind sitting on his bed with the doctor sitting beside him like a friend. It doesn’t feel very Lan-like either. “You have painkillers, don’t you?”
“Of course. Sit still and we will have you feeling better soon.”
Huaisang sits as still as he can even when the powders the doctor applies start to really sting. He taps his foot, squirms, and eventually asks: “How is da-ge?”
“I’m sorry, Second Young Master. I don’t know how things are done in the Nie clan, but the Lan precepts state that treatment is between a doctor and patient, except in the case of guardianship.”
“But I am his guardian!”
The doctor looks somewhat skeptical, and starts applying a poultice without saying another word.
“It’s true,” Huaisang insists. “He’s unfit right now, the other doctor said so, the day after he, um - got sick. And I'm the acting clan leader.”
“Well,” the doctor says.
“And I’m his brother. And if anything happens to him I need to know in case I have to step up for my clan! It’s an exceptional circumstance, isn’t it, doctor? Please can you tell me? It’s really important that I have the details of his condition. And obviously he’s not in his right mind because of the - ! Um.”
Huaisang isn’t making much sense and he knows it, but the doctor’s expression softens in obvious pity at his wide, watering eyes. “Your brother is recovering quite well, considering the severity of his qi deviation. It seems a problem had been brewing in his meridians for quite some time.”
It must have been seeing Wen Xu that tipped him over the edge. Huaisang shudders at the thought of his brother’s blood rage and reaches up to touch his face, but thinks better of it and puts his hand back down. His first act as acting sect leader had been to take down the rotting head that da-ge strung up outside the gate. It wasn’t doing anything except attracting crows and making young disciples lose their lunch. Truthfully, he was probably already partially qi deviating when he strung that head up. Huaisang should have seen it sooner.
“He was… already unbalanced?” Huaisang tries to keep the squeak of terror out of his voice. Da-ge was hiding something from him all this time? Because he was freaked out after coming back from Qishan? Or even before that?
“Yes. He told us that he fought Wen Zhuliu when the Wens invaded Qinghe. It’s not unheard of for a cultivator to deviate after fighting the Core-Melting Hand.”
“Oh. But people who - I mean, they don’t die, right?”
“Those who have their core completely melted are usually otherwise unharmed. Those who suffer a near miss can be more unpredictably affected.”
Huaisang rubs the uninjured side of his face. He feels a headache coming on. He’s been having them all the time ever since da-ge got sick.
The doctor gently pushes his hand away. “Don’t touch your face now, Young Master.”
“Right. Yeah.” He clutches his fan instead, rubs it and tries not to think too much.
“I do agree that Sect Leader Nie is being… unreasonable in his expectations of recovery,” the doctor says, which translates to, your damn brother keeps trying to get out of bed even though he almost died less than a week ago. “Me and my colleagues agree that he’s become overeager and is perhaps not the best judge of his own medical needs. Since you’re his guardian…”
Huaisang tries not to let the shock of being taken seriously show on his face. “Yes?”
“While it’s always best to let the patient recover on their own time, we are… at war,” the doctor says. He says the words at war the way one might say projectile vomiting. “It is possible to artificially speed up the timeline. Get him back out onto the battlefield faster. It may negatively affect his temperament, but having a capable commander could save many lives.”
But having a bad temperament is, like, half the reason he’s - he almost died! Huaisang wants to scream, but instead he just folds his hands and says, “I’ll think about it.”
“Very well. Let us know.” The doctor sighs and reaches for a dressing. “It is so difficult to see young people like you and your peers on the battlefield.”
Huaisang can’t help but stifle a laugh. The day he’s on the battlefield is the day he gets chopped summarily in half. The doctor gives him a confused, slightly apologetic look in return, and he clarifies - “Sorry. I just - da-ge doesn’t let me. On the battlefield I mean.”
The doctor blinks and looks at the gash on Huaisang’s face, a deep and angry red line that snakes its way out from his hair, across his temple and cheek, and ends at the corner of his mouth. “How were you injured?”
“Um.” Huaisang tries to laugh, but it comes out as a vague sort of coughing sound. “The day da-ge had his qi deviation, I, um, we were arguing, and he got so mad he… and… yeah.” It’s hard to articulate, the feeling of Baxia carving through his skin like butchered meat, the blood pouring into Huaisang’s eyes, the taste of iron in his mouth, coughing, choking on it, Zonghui fighting for both of their lives, screaming for da-ge to stop, stop, that’s Huaisang. As if mere words would make da-ge recognize his brother.
It was only a glancing blow, a near miss. Baxia was aiming for his neck. He’d fallen. He couldn’t move. He thought he was going to die, he thought da-ge was going to die. He can firmly say he had never felt more terrified in his entire life. It was an anguish only overtaken by the next day, and the next day, and the next.
The doctor is very professional. He doesn’t even bat an eye. “Your brother’s saber? That would explain why there’s resentful energy lingering in the wound.”
“Resentful energy?” Huaisang feels faint. “But it’ll heal. It won’t scar or anything. Right?”
“It will heal, but it will also scar. Only time can tell how badly.”
Huaisang is already mapping out the closest place to have a full nervous breakdown in private. “Oh. Are you done? Thanks. I have to go.”
He knows as he’s marching down the hallway to da-ge’s rooms that if he hesitates in front of the door or tries to knock or call or anything, he’ll suddenly be struck dumb, so he says to himself, alright, I’ll just go straight in, I won’t even stop walking. And he does. He charges into da-ge’s room, sliding the door open and then shut with a louder noise than he really intended, and da-ge sits bolt upright in his bed.
Huaisang stares at da-ge. Da-ge stares at Huaisang. His hair is braided, a token effort at being presentable even though he's in his nightclothes. He looks unwell, sunken eyes, pale skin. It makes him look younger and much older at the same time.
Huaisang’s mouth goes dry and his tongue feels swollen and he really really wants to just run away or maybe start crying.
Da-ge says, “Huaisang.”
“Um,” Huaisang says, “Zewu-Jun said I should say I wasn’t mad at you. I’m not mad at you. Please stop trying to get up. Bye.” He turns to flee.
“Wait,” da-ge says. In his voice there's a hint of desperation. “Come here.”
Huaisang swallows. Without thinking, he takes out his fan and slides it open before crossing the room, one, two, three, four, five steps. He kneels at da-ge’s bedside. His fan comes up between them, armor for his fearful expression.
Da-ge reaches out and pushes his fan low, so they can see each other in full. Up close, da-ge looks haggard. His eyes are bloodshot. He puts a warm, rough hand on Huaisang’s jaw and gently, gently, traces the path of Baxia, down his temple, across his cheek, right to the corner of his mouth where it tugs when he smiles.
Da-ge’s hand starts to tremble. His breath comes quicker. His eyes water.
“Ah - da-ge,” Huaisang says quickly, blinking away tears of his own. “It’s nothing, really. It’s just a little cut. Wei-xiong says a man should have a few scars.”
“I’m so sorry, Huaisang,” da-ge says, in a voice smaller and more watery than Huaisang knew he was capable of. He starts to breathe unevenly again. “I…”
“I said really don’t worry about it! You’re supposed to be resting, anyway.” Huaisang shoves his fan between him and his brother, flutters it quickly. “It’s my fault anyway for arguing with you.” That was the wrong thing to say. Da-ge’s face twists, as if he’s about to start wailing and kowtowing. “Forget it! Just forget it. I’ve barely thought about it at all, I’ve been too busy. How is your recovery going?”
Da-ge looks like he’s about to say something more, but he catches Huaisang’s eye, makes a pained expression and drops it. He lies back onto his bed and sighs. “Slowly.”
“I bet it would go faster if you stopped trying to get up!”
“We don’t have the luxury of rest, Huaisang. We are at war.” He clenches a fist in the sheets, as if holding a phantom Baxia.
“No, I’m at war. You are recovering. I’m the acting sect leader if anything happens to you, remember?”
Da-ge gives him a weird look. “It’s good,” he says, “that you’re becoming used to the role. I wish it were under better circumstances. Xichen tells me you’ve been handling all the intelligence.”
“Yes, yes!” Poorly, Huaisang thinks, but da-ge will have plenty of time to get mad at him for mucking things up later.
“I’ll teach you soon how to run the intelligence network properly. You’ll have to take over more often in the future.”
“For all the vacations you take, right?” Huaisang laughs. Da-ge does not. Huaisang stops laughing. “Okay, but seriously, it’s just temporary, right? You’re not going to make me spymaster or something?”
“No, but it’s good to think about the future.” Oh, great, now he’s dancing around the subject just like Zewu-Jun.
Huaisang plays dumb. “Well, I’m not. I’m only running things until you’re back on your feet. I have paintings to finish!”
“You will become Sect Leader sooner than you might think.”
There it is.
“No, I won’t.” Huaisang’s voice comes out quieter than he would have liked. “Because you’re going to be more careful with your cultivation.” As if that would help. They both know he's gone too far to turn back now - resentment rings between him and Baxia, a burning star, a swelling anger that cracks him apart from the inside out.
“Huaisang.”
“No.”
“It’s only a matter of time.” Now da-ge is losing patience, it’s in his voice. The anger leaks out whether he wants it to or not. “Be realistic.”
Normally Huaisang would back off at this point, but now he can’t bear not to press on, though his heart is pounding and his face is throbbing in warning. He knows better but he can't stop. “Why should it be a matter of time? Talk to Zewu-Jun or something, there’ll be something that works. You’re way too young, it’s not normal.”
Da-ge catches his hand. His grip is steely. “Ow, da-ge, ow, ow!” Da-ge ignores him and brings his hand down, so that Huaisang’s palm is pressing just below his ribcage, overtop of his golden core. Through his thin under-robe, his body is uncomfortably warm.
“Do you feel that?”
Feel what? Huaisang is tempted to ask, but at that point he would just be making himself look stupid. He nods. Da-ge’s qi is strong, radiating like heat off a bonfire. It’s almost scalding. Huaisang tries to pull back, but da-ge holds him firm.
“As long as this golden core serves me,” da-ge says, “I will use it to protect you. But I can’t control it forever. It’ll keep burning and burning until it burns me to ashes, and you need to be ready.”
Huaisang shakes his head, blinks his tears away.
“Huaisang.”
Huaisang gets up in one convulsive motion, finally rips his hand out of da-ge’s grasp. He wants to scream at him, accuse him of scaring Huaisang on purpose, call him a stubborn asshole. He wants to cry and throw things across the room until da-ge screams back at him and then they can both just scream and scream at each other until they’re spent.
But da-ge isn’t supposed to strain himself, so Huaisang whirls around and storms out of the room, trying and failing to swallow bitter tears.