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The prevailing rumor about his brother is that he never cried, even as an infant. 

Lan Xichen never corrects anyone who claims this.  He’d thought to, when he was younger — of course he cried, babies cry, it’s how they communicate, what an absurd expectation to have of a newborn — but realized it was important to Wangji to maintain his composure, and if others believing a silly exaggeration about his childhood temperament was what it took, then Xichen was happy to allow it. 

The truth of the matter was this: Wangji was an almost frighteningly well-mannered and subdued child, but as an infant, he was the most stubborn, finicky creature alive. 

He wouldn’t wear this material. He wouldn’t eat that vegetable.  He wouldn’t listen to this song, or be in that room, or have this blanket. He absolutely would not let anyone outside of his family hold him. Even Uncle was a hard sell some days, the tiny A-Zhan wailing the instant he left his mother’s arms. In his infancy, it wasn’t so bad, with the newborn able to stay with his mother or father in their secluded cottages.  Once he grew, though, he needed to get out of his parents secluded cabins, out of the back hill that allowed no visitors, as clan leaders and dignitaries arrive to pay their respects. Only a child himself, Xichen learned quickly how to hold an infant without hurting him, how to support his too-large head. He would walk around the Cloud Recesses, his new little brother in his arms or on his hip, and quietly show him all his favorite spots around the Lan sect’s ancestral halls. 

On one night, the moon is full and very bright.  Lan Xichen walks up to the wall of laws and holds his little brother up so he can see.

“Look, A-zhan,” Xichen whispers brightly. “These are our rules and principles.  I know them already, and you’re going to learn them soon, so I wanted to give you a head start.”

“Ababa,” his brother babbles, and clutches onto a long strand of hair. 

“Look, this one says, ‘ Make sure to act virtuously’.  That’s probably the most important one.”

“Bamababamaba,” Lan Zhan says, bobbing his head and pulling on Xichen’s hair, trying to put it in his mouth. “Abamada.”

“No, don’t eat that! Look, see, it says there, ‘cease bad habits.’  A-zhan, you’re already breaking the rules.”

His brother whips his overlarge head around at him and babbles some more, looking very put out.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Xichen pulls him back against his chest, bouncing him softly. “I broke the rules too, don’t worry.  ‘Be harsh with yourself, but gentle with others.’ We can take our punishment together, how about that?”

He babbles something much more pleased, and Xichen starts walking back toward their parents’ cabins.  He holds his brother’s head softly against his shoulder, humming a song he’d been piecing together on the xiāo for his brother’s first birthday, a date that crept closer every time Xichen turned his back.  

The moon was impossibly bright.  The walk to the back cottages was quite long, uphill most of the way, and yet Xichen doesn’t feel the slightest bit weary.  The comforting weight of his now-sleeping brother fails to slow or tire him. When he looks back on this night, he remembers that he sang to him and promised a thousand things — that he would never hurt his brother, or let someone else hurt him, that he would protect and stand by him his whole life. 

Most of all, he remembers wondering how it was possible to love someone this much without his whole heart bursting.  

The seasons turn and change. Before anyone can catch up, Xichen’s little brother can speak and walk, and has joined the other disciples for lessons.  A-Zhan quickly grows into Lan Zhan and even more quickly into Lan Wangji , the name his brother seems to prefer most of all.  He is thoughtful, considerate, and introspective. He is their uncle’s favorite student by far and Lan Xichen couldn’t possibly be more proud of him.  

Even so, Wangji struggles to make friends among his peers.  They call him cold, stonefaced, unfeeling, sometimes even inhuman, the last of which makes Xichen’s knuckles go white around the pristine, new handle of Shuoyue . His brother is not that difficult to read, if any of these children would bother learning his language. Just because Wangji struggles to articulate the way he feels about things doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel them.  He has taken every lesson their uncle Lan Qiren has recited and held it in his heart. Everything he does, he does with a ferocity that rivals the sun, but when his classmates try to hold a conversation with him, he freezes up and chokes out a word or two before returning to his studies.  Xichen worries about him, but Wangji seems content with just his brother as a confidante, so he doesn’t press the issue. 

It’s Xichen’s responsibility to collect his brother for their monthly visits with their parents.  He knows Wangji looks forward to these visits, so he is careful to always be on time and prepared.  This time, however, Wangji is not in the disciples’ quarters where Xichen expects him. As he recites sutras to calm the panic that gnarls in his stomach, Xichen asks after Wangji with the first disciple he sees, who points him to the library pavilion.  Running is prohibited, so Xichen hurries his way across the Cloud Recesses with a walk that stops shy of defiant. As he approaches, he sees his brother sitting at the low table with a pot of ink, a brush, and some rice paper, writing.

His first thought is relief that nothing has happened to his brother.  Soon after, though is confusion: why would he be here when he ought to be elsewhere? To flaunt propriety is unlike Wangji.  Not to mention, his robes are white, and the ink he uses is indelible. Xichen slips in and settles across from him.  

When his brother does not look up, Xichen nudges him. “Wangji,” he says, then more insistently, “ Wangji, ” which finally gets his attention.

“Brother,” Wangji says, standing and bowing slightly. 

“Wangji, it’s time to go see mother.  Why are you here? This is your rest period.”

Wangji looks at the paper, drawing Xichen’s eyes to it.  The characters, though clearly in a child’s hand, are flawless.  Not a drop of ink has been spilled. “... I was practicing,” Wangji says. “The last set was imperfect.”

I wanted mother and father to see a perfect set, Xichen hears. He sighs.  “Wangji, mother never wants to discuss our schooling, you know that. She’ll be happy to see you regardless.”

“Father.”  Wangji says, eyes still downcast. 

Oh. Oh, no. Xichen hasn’t been paying close enough attention to his little brother. He’s been so caught up in his own work, in his training to lead GusuLan when their father passes, that he hasn’t seen how hard it had been for Wangji to be away from everyone for hours, even days at a time.  The word Wangji said may have been only “father,” but the meaning is, as always, clear to Xichen : maybe if my work is perfect, Father will want to leave seclusion for us.  Maybe I can earn our parents’ presence. 

Xichen scoops his brother up despite the fact that he’s nearly up to Xichen’s shoulder and straightens his forehead ribbon.  “ Dìdì, our parents’ seclusion has nothing to do with us, you know that. They already love you lots, you don’t need to try harder.”

“Nn,” Wangji mutters into his shoulder. “‘Diligence is the root’.”

“‘Love and respect yourself’.” Xichen’s voice is gentle as he starts walking toward the back hill. 

Wangji’s face is still on his shoulder, but his voice is clear. “‘Have a strong will and anything is achievable’”

“‘Do not argue with your family,’” Xichen counters, “‘because no one will win’.”

A flicker of annoyance washes across his brother’s face — that principle is easily Wangji’s least favorite way that Xichen wins an argument — but he says nothing. Xichen smiles at him, then kisses the top of his head. “How about when we’re done visiting with mama, I brush your hair for you?”

Wangji brightens at that and nods. Xichen grins back and brushes a strand of hair back from his baby brother’s face.

They don’t know it then, of course, but this would be the last visit the two have with their mother.  The sickness that takes her comes on fast, and before they know it, she is receiving her funeral rites in the family pavilion.  Xichen is the model of a first son in public, Wangji as stone-faced as ever, but for a week, he has his brother stay with him at the Hanshi, their bodies curled up around one another like they can block out everyone else.  

Xichen tries not to cry, for Wangji’s sake.  He does his best not to leave his brother alone in the Hanshi either, but sometimes it’s necessary as he does his duties for their clan and sect. When he returns one night, he finds Wangji gone again.  Overtaken with sick fear, he runs full tilt, shouting for his brother. He does not care that he’ll have to copy lines the next day. The only thought in his mind is I have to find Wangji.

He slips on a patch of ice and falls. It barely registers. The knot in his stomach hurts more than a scraped palm ever could.  He brushes off his robes, stands, starts running again. There’s one place Wangji could have gone where no one would have looked.

Snow muffles the sound of Xichen’s pounding footsteps as he approaches Wangji outside the Jingshi , the place their mother lives — no, used to live.  He is kneeling facing the door, in pure funeral white, his tiny arms outstretched and shaking with a single bamboo rod across his upturned palms.  Xichen has no idea how long he’s been here. A thread of sweat has found its way down his little forehead despite the cold. 

Xichen skids to a halt beside him. He grabs the rod off his brother’s hands despite the protests and says altogether too loudly “Lan Wangji! What are you doing!?”

“Please give that back.” Wangji’s voice is tight, choked. He rises painfully and reaches for the bamboo Xichen is holding away from him. “I need— Wangji needs to—”

“You scared me half to death, disappearing like that, just to come here and— and— why? You could catch cold, you could get sick!”

“Return the bamboo. Interfering with another’s punishment is forbidden.” Wangji  kneels back into his stiff posture, looking altogether older than six.

“Your punishment? Who gave you a punishment?”

“I did!” Wangji finally looks him in the eye and Xichen can see he’s been crying. “Uncle always says if Wangji follows the rules, righteousness will follow. Now, mama is dead. Is that righteousness?  I broke the rules, I know I did, I have to take this punishment—” He balls his hands into little fists, striking his legs as if he could beat the grief out. “— I have to, I have to fix it, I’m not good enough—”

Xichen falls to his knees. He pulls Wangji into his arms, onto his lap, wrapping his brother’s arms around his neck to keep him from hitting himself anymore.  Wangji wriggles and fights, protests devolving into meaningless cries as he buries his head into the crook of Xichen’s neck. He holds Wangji so tightly he’s afraid he might crush him. “You didn’t do anything wrong. This— sometimes bad things happen and it isn’t anyone’s fault, and you shouldn’t hurt yourself because of them.” 

I have to, Xichen hears in the way his brother’s hands pull at the fabric of his robes. If I do it myself, it hurts less.

“Alright, dìdì. We’re going back home. We’re going home, and we’re eating dinner, and nobody—” Xichen stops for a moment, hearing the way his voice cracks and feeling the tears burn in his eyes. “Nobody’s gonna get hurt anymore.  I’m going to hold you until it stops hurting, okay?”

Wangji nods, face still pressed into his shoulder. Xichen stands, supporting Wangji’s legs against his hip and walking back toward the Hanshi .  Uncle is there, clearly coming to reprimand them for the noise and the running and the leaving after curfew, but Xichen resolutely walks past him, gritting his jaw to keep himself from sobbing the way Wangji is.

As soon as the door is latched behind them, Xichen collapses to the ground, sliding down the door until he’s leaned against the wall with Wangji sitting in his lap. Finally, he bursts into tears himself. Wangji looks up and uses his sleeve to pat at Xichen’s face, which only makes him cry harder.

“Wangji is sorry,” he says, voice tight and raw. “Didn’t mean to hurt brother.”

“You didn’t, you didn’t,” Xichen says between sobs, “I was— I am scared, and sad, and I miss mama too. Brother promises he isn’t upset with A-zhan, just upset.”

Wangji chews on his lip, his hands flexing into fists, but he just tips forward and wraps them around Xichen’s waist so his head is on his brother’s chest.  

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Xichen wraps his arms around his brother, curling up so they’re wrapped around each other, and they mourn together, safe and locked away from prohibitions against noise and wandering eyes, the only two people left in their world.

They both change, after that.  Although they are almost closer than before, the wound their mother’s absence leaves makes their hearts seal off like an abandoned sword. There are no more displays of affection between them, especially not from Wangji.  Xichen takes to referring to his brother by his courtesy name only; no dìdì, no Lan Zhan, and definitely no more a-Zhan. Wangji had never really referred to Xichen by casual forms, but the few times it would occur dwindle to nothing, calling him only by Xiongzhang and at times Zewu-Jun.   They are parallel, in perfect sync but never touching. By Wangji’s tenth birthday, they have already garnered a new name: the Twin Jades of GusuLan. 

Xichen works overtime to be without reproach; he resolves to be the kindest, the most reasonable, the perfect model of a clan leader.  Wangji throws himself into his studies, following the ever-growing list of rules as if one deviation would send his soul flying out of his mouth.  Xichen has never really been able to hold onto a serious grudge or stay angry for too long, but he can see that beneath the perfect porcelain mask Wangji wears simmers a volcano of resentment just waiting for an outlet.  He snaps at his peers for the most minor infraction, refusing to talk to them when they are socializing. If he had friends before, he certainly doesn’t have them now.  

Wangji waits every month by their mother’s home, even long after the threshold has gone dark. Sometimes, if he isn’t swamped with other responsibilities, Xichen will come and sit with him.  When he does, he brings his xiao to match Wangji’s qin , and he and Wangji play their mother’s favorite songs as a duet. 

As for their father — Wangji is the model of filial piety, but aside from the duties required of him as a son, Wangji is icy and reserved. He never snaps at their father, or treats him disrespectfully, but when it becomes clear that he will not leave seclusion after their mother dies, their relationship becomes one in name only. He gives their father one-word answers, speaking mostly about his studies and nothing about his development.  

Qingheng-jun never presses, and a little part of Xichen that he tucks away as soon as it appears feels hurt.  Xichen might be affable and well-liked, but Wangji has nothing but his brother and his father. Their uncle loves them, but holds them at an arm’s length. Although he understands his father’s choice to enter seclusion, respects it even, this distant relationship is the one that their father has earned, considering the way he has spent his life so far from his children.  If he seems dissatisfied with Wangji’s demeanor toward him, Xichen very stalwartly refuses to notice. 

Most of those years are a grey blur, the days blending together as duty takes over grief. One day that stands out is the visit with their father just after Wangji turns ten. The time with their father was fine, if brief; Xichen makes an effort, but aside from conversations about sect business and their studies, their father is difficult to speak to. Wangji is even more silent than usual as Xichen walks with him back to their uncle's residence. He nudges him as they approach the house, trying to wake him up out of his deep reverie. 

Wangji startles badly. He flinches back a few inches, almost as if he’d been struck. He quickly rights himself, meeting Xichen's eyes guiltily before looking away. 

Fear lances through Xichen's chest, and he herds his brother into the room off the main hall of their uncle's house. Lan Qiren won't be back for about an hour, and if something happened, Xichen needs to know about it first so he knows how to talk to his uncle.  He kneels in front of Wangji, who is standing straight with his hands clasped behind his back. He’s growing so quickly, Xichen has to kneel tall just to see him eye to eye.

He clasps his brother by the hands. “Wangji, what’s going on? Did something happen? Was it a fight? Did uncle punish you? Wangji, if he used the discipline plank, I swear I’ll bring it before the elders, there’s no reason for him to treat you that way, you never break rules—”

“Brother.”  Wangji’s voice is even, quiet. “No one hurt me.  Wangji prefers not to touch others.”

Xichen drops Wangji’s hands as if he has been burned. He examines them, wondering what it is about his hands that has made his brother so jumpy and aversive.  Did he cause this? Why would his brother run from affection otherwise?

As if reading his mind, Wangji steps a little closer. “It is not about you, brother, just…” he trails off, clasping his hands behind him and bowing his head. “I do not prefer it. Please don’t be hurt,” he adds, so quiet it seems like he didn’t mean to say it.

“Wangji, of course I’m not hurt.  You have the right to ask people not to touch you.” His brother steps back, his arms drawn in to his sides, and Xichen stands up. “I just wish you would have said something sooner. Promise me you’ll tell me things like this? I’m your brother, I care about you. If you need something, I want to do it.” He pauses, a memory popping up unbidden. “Is this… like when mother died?”

Wangji nods, looking away. 

“Wangji…” Xichen doesn’t know how to ask it, but he manages, clumsy and unsure. “Are you… punishing yourself again?”

He shakes his head, and Xichen breathes a sigh of relief. “When— it feels like— unclean, or insects,” Wangji says slowly. “With brother, not so bad, but—”

Xichen wants to say I miss you so much already, how can I keep you past arm’s length.  He wants to beg his brother to work this out with him so neither one of them has to hurt. All he does is close his eyes and nod. “It’s alright. If you don’t like it, I won’t do it. If it gets any worse, will Wangji come tell brother?”

Wangji meets his eyes, and nods quietly. The moment lengthens into a thousand before collapsing back into one as Xichen’s little brother starts to fidget.

Xichen smiles softly, dismissing him to go join the other juniors in swordsmanship training. 

As he watches those white robes flutter out the door, Xichen leans against the wooden post that frames the inner doors.  The wounds of their mother’s death have long healed over, but every time Wangji steps further from him, Xichen can feel them ache. The acute pain of loss drives its needles deep every time he remembers how Wangji used to sit in his lap and read aloud, or let Xichen style his hair.  He wonders, for a moment, if those days were gone forever. 

He steps out of their uncle’s office and sees Wangji flowing through sword forms like he was made for it.  Even with the little, wooden sword the children use, his brother looks elegant. The swords master has nothing but praise for him, and Xichen sighs. Perhaps this is how it was all meant to work out. Xichen would sacrifice his own desires for Wangji’s welfare without hesitation.  

Xichen worries about him, because of course he does, but Wangji seems… fine.  Not overly happy, but then again, gross displays of emotion are forbidden. Aside from his slow-burning temper and his cool relationship with their father, he grows into the model disciple. His sword-work is beautiful, his cultivation flawless.  Xichen is so proud of him, and Wangji is easily his favorite cultivator to bring along on the night-hunts the nearby towns call for.  

The days turn into weeks, which turn into months and years. Before he can think to count, Wangji is fifteen and making a name for himself in the cultivation world.  Xichen has heard the way the female disciples (and some of the men) whisper behind his back: his brother is something to be desired. Anyone would be lucky to have him, Xichen thinks, though he wouldn’t embarrass his brother by saying so.  He’s tried to subtly pass some of the female cultivators in Wangji’s peer group by him to see if he showed any interest, to no avail. It goes the same as it does with anyone: Wangji is perfectly polite, with all five words he ekes out to them, but in general, he prefers to talk cultivation or swordplay over any personal matters.  

That being said, Xichen has decided that if Wangji isn’t going to try and make friends himself, it is Xichen’s brotherly duty to drag him into it kicking and screaming. As such he decrees that since Wangji is the same age as the other disciples attending the GusuLan Conference this year, he’s going to attend with them. 

Wangji is, in a phrase, not pleased. 

“Wangji, it will do you well to interact with the disciples from other clans,” Xichen says, meeting his brother’s stony gaze. “As you grow older, you’ll have to night-hunt outside our boundaries, and interact with other cultivators from other clans.  You should learn their ways and mannerisms.”

“I have books,” Wangji replies. 

“I became good friends with Clan Leader Nie at the lecture,” Xichen says. “Books can’t make connections and strengthen bonds.” 

Wangji grimaces slightly and looks away. 

“I know you don’t like the other disciples.”

“Undisciplined.”  Wangji is still not meeting Xichen’s gaze. 

“Even so.”  Xichen rises from his seat behind the desk to join his brother. “Wangji, please. Uncle would be overjoyed to have you there as an example for the others, and learning to keep your temper when others act badly will only help you in the future.”

“An order, Zewu-jun?”  Wangji pulls his eyes back to Xichen. 

“If it must be, Lan Er-ge.”

Wangji bows. Xichen does not miss the slightly exaggerated dip of his hands that in “wangji” means “I am very annoyed about this and will continue to be regardless of your reassurances.”

There are a good group of juniors coming this year.  First, Nie Mingjue’s younger brother, Nie Huaisang, arrives with a family courtier who seems to be tasked with keeping him in line and ensuring he actually does his work. The last time Xichen met Huaisang, he was a boy, playing make-believe and serving tea to his toys at the Unclean Relm.  It seems as if, much to Mingjue’s chagrin, Huaisang has not grown into the martial arts. He would probably frustrate Wangji half to death with his delicate constitution.  

Xichen moves on.  The LanlingJin sect has sent a number of talented cultivators, including their heir Jin Zixuan.  Xichen speaks to him briefly as his group arrives and quickly writes him off as well: he has what Clan Leader Nie has termed “terminal affluence,” and is insufferable to even someone with Xichen’s easy personality. He can’t imagine the political disaster that would come from his interactions with Wangji. 

As always, the QishanWen clan has declined to send their cultivators, which leaves only the YunmengJiang clan.  Jiang Fengmian has been kind enough to send along all three of his children: Jiang Yanli, a lovely, kind, talented young woman who is unfortunately already betrothed; Jiang Wanyin, whose hotheaded nature and cultivation skill seem to be equally matched; and his adopted ward Wei Wuxian, a notorious troublemaker with an exceptional gift.  Frankly, Xichen has the most hope for Jiang Wanyin, who seems to be well-mannered despite his quick temper. Additionally, he is the heir to the Jiang clan, which would make another strong bond for GusuLan. 

However, he and his brother seem to be a package deal.  Despite being younger, Jiang Wanyin appears to have taken on the responsibility of making sure Wei Wuxian does not embarrass himself or their family at the event. This task, by the first evening, has proven itself to be completely impossible.

“He drank the entire thing?” 

“Yes!” Wangji storms back and forth across the floor, grip tight around his sword. “Insufferable! Ridiculous! I cannot believe such a disciple could be here —”

“This is young master Wei, yes?”  Xichen hasn’t lifted his eyes from the reply he is writing to a letter his father has pawned off on him. “He’s not of our sect. It’s understandable he doesn’t know the rules, yes? YunmengJiang is much more… chaotic in that way.”

“Ignorance is no excuse. The principles are carved into the wall on the way in.” Wangji has stopped pacing  and is now glaring at him, although to most outsiders his expression probably seems the same. “ This disciple fails to see why the delegation from YunmengJiang would not know how to read. ”

Xichen lifts his eyes to meet his brother’s, sighing. “Wangji…”

Wangji’s body is tense as a drawn bow, his knuckles nearly white from attempting to choke Bichen to death.

“... you still have to attend the lecture,” Xichen finishes.

If his expression is to be believed, Wangji is about a second from throwing the sword at him. 

“Don’t be like that.”  Xichen goes back to his letters. “Look, now it will be even easier to be Uncle’s favorite.”

“I’m already Uncle’s favorite,” Wangji mutters. 

“See, there’s the spirit. Off you go.” 

Wangji flips his hair over his shoulder in a manner that means “go fuck yourself,” and Xichen is inspired to call after him.

“Maybe you’ll meet someone else who likes fighting strangers over alcohol at 3 in the morning.”

Wangji whirls around with an actual scowl on his face (a change of expression visible to someone besides Xichen? Now he’s in trouble) and grits his jaw before turning on his heel and storming toward the lecture pavilion. 

He’s going to make friends, Xichen thinks, a serene smile settling onto his face. He’s going to make friends if it kills him.

Xichen has changed his mind.  Sending Wangji to the lecture was a bad idea.

Every day, when Xichen checks in with him, it’s “Wei Wuxian said that we should cultivate using resentful energy,” “Wei Wuxian tried to copy the sect rules upside-down,” “Wei Wuxian snuck a bamboo pole in his sleeve so he could poke me with it in the library.” If Xichen never hears the name “Wei Wuxian” again, his life would improve markedly. Really, if this is how Wangji makes friends, he supposes that’s fine, but he has to recommit himself to his goals every time the name “Wei Wuxian” comes out of his brother’s mouth. Usually, this takes the form of preventing  himself from screaming the entire time. 

Xichen is fairly invested in the Wei Wuxian friendship development at this point. When he hears his brother go “Wei Ying tried to make me read pornography today!”, his head shoots up embarrassingly fast. 

“Wei… Ying?”

“Yes! Who else, brother, but Wei Ying? He switched the covers with my poetry book! I almost challenged him to a duel in the middle of the library.”

“No, I believe that,” Xichen says, “but Wei Ying? ”

“Yes, Wei Ying!”  Wangji sounds frustrated, as if he doesn’t understand the gravity of what he’s just said. “That disciple is ridiculous, brother, I cannot believe—”

“Wangji.” Xichen stops him, takes this chance to look him over.  His hair is slightly unkempt, his posture wider and less formal than usual, but most startling of all is the fact that his ears have blushed a stunning magenta. 

Well. 

It makes a bit more sense why Wangji was so uninterested in the various female cultivators Xichen had been nudging him toward.

A million thoughts fly through Xichen’s head, but most of all, he knows he can’t possibly let on that he finds this little crush adorable.  In fact, it’s probably not time that he lets on that he realizes at all, so he simply continues with, “I’m sure Uncle will have some new punishment for him.  Perhaps kneeling, since copying the sect principles seems to have no effect.”

Wangji stills completely and his ears somehow get even redder. “I— well, he has been punished quite a bit, and I’m sure he’ll get one again sooner rather than later.”

“As you will.  Uncle did leave you in charge of the punishments, after all.”

Wangji clams up, mentioning something about meditation, and makes a quick exit. 

Xichen tries his best to give Wangji the opportunities to be around this boy, when he can. When the opportunity presents itself, he takes Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin out to handle the waterborne abyss.  He watches as Wangji stands too close to him, then much too far away, and thinks his brother is a complete lost cause. 

So what, then, if he waves Wei Wuxian toward the cold springs where he knows Wangji will be meditating after they both get in trouble for sneaking out past curfew?  It’s not as if his brother was going to make that move himself.  

It’s not necessarily that Xichen enjoys teasing his apparently all-too-easily-flustered brother, but the lecture is only a year long, so there’s a time limit on how much fun he can have with Wangji’s first crush. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that Xichen was having a schoolboy’s infatuation with a lovely newcomer.  The feelings were as intense as they were fleeting. Wei Wuxian is a good boy, if rowdy, and comes from a good family, but he’s hardly soulmate material. If this makes his brother happy, Xichen is willing to oblige.

It does not fade after a year.   

Wei Wuxian is sent home after getting into a fistfight with Jin Zixuan, nominally over his shijie’s honor.  Xichen has already stopped making Wangji go to the lecture sessions after Uncle feared that “certain unruly disciples” were adversely affecting his behavior, but he stops even hanging around the remaining visitors, locking himself into secluded meditation for days at a time.  Some of the younger disciples say they can hear the sounds of his qin floating across the tranquil air when they walk by his room.  

Xichen tries to cheer him up but doesn’t make much progress until the news of a new discussion conference in Qishan comes out.  He rushes to his brother’s quarters, and it’s like Wangji wakes up, studying and training as if the world would end tomorrow to prepare for the hunt and what comes with it. 

It’s a disaster.  Wei Wuxian doesn’t even recognize Wangji at first. Then he’s far too playful and improper and snatches the sect ribbon right off Wangji’s forehead, sending Xichen’s brother storming back to their camp and, well, pouting for the rest of the conference. 

I suppose that’s the end of that, Xichen says to himself, and buys his brother some new qin strings, and they start working on a song to create illusions. Wangji pouts a little more until Xichen makes the boiled shrimp that he knows is Wangji’s favorite (or, at least, very politely asks Madam Yin in the kitchen to make it, which she does, because Xichen is her favorite and Wangji her second favorite).  It may be just the two of them again, but hasn’t that always been enough?

All of that is swept to the wayside when the apocalypse visits itself upon the Cloud Recesses. 

The apocalypse has a name. His name is Wen Xu. 

Wen Xu marches in with a false claim that GusuLan has been stealing QishanWen’s tightly-guarded secret techniques.  He enters by immolating their path guards where they stand. He is demanding payment in blood. 

“I have already lifted the wards.” Their uncle fits another book into the bag in front of Xichen.  “You must ride with all haste as far as you can without stopping. Head north, to Lanling; Koi Tower is the safest place for you right now.”

Here, on the back hill, Uncle has taken all the most precious books of their sect and is packing them into saddlebags on their fastest horse. Xichen is carrying the second load on his back in a modified qiankun bag. Even this far from the main buildings, he can still hear the screams of their people.

He whips his head around, and Uncle stops him from trying to return. “Xichen. I know you want to help, but this— if we cannot save our texts, our practices, the Lan clan is as good as dead.  If you stay, Wen Xu will burn these texts and perhaps you with them.” His voice is level, measured, but Xichen can hear the way it breaks when he speaks of losing his nephew. “This is the future of our people; you are the future of our people.”

Xichen is already in tears, not bothering to try and wipe them away. He can just barely manage to squeak out,  “Wangji…”

“Wangji is nearly a man grown, and he is no fool.” Uncle reaches up and thumbs a tear off Xichen’s face like he is a child again. “I will be here to protect him and the other disciples, alongside your father and the rest of the elders. I swear to you, your brother will be here when you return.”

Xichen bites his lip. He turns his face away and up toward the moon, squeezing his eyes shut tight, trying to remember the way the quiet of this place he called his home sounded. He wants to etch it into his soul, to keep it close to his heart.

Then he nods, and with one clean motion, mounts the horse and takes off into the forest. 

Xichen rides day and night for two days straight. By the second sunset, he is nearly falling off the horse, who is sweating and unsteady. He slows to a walk, looking for cover where he can shelter the horse and books while they rest, hopefully near some clean water.

A man clears his throat behind him

Unceremoniously, a startled Lan Xichen falls off the horse and into the dirt.  The stranger who startled him rushes to help him to his feet, bowing with his hands outstretched as soon as they’re both upright.  He’s small and slight, with a kind face and smooth features. He can’t be much more than twenty.

“A thousand apologies from this lowly cultivator, Zewu-jun,” the stranger says, only standing upright when Xichen gently grasps his arms to keep him from bowing.  “I recognized the uniform of your clan and wanted to get your attention. I presume you are fleeing the attack of Wen Xu on your home?”

This man looks familiar in a way Xichen can’t place, making his deep knowledge of the situation chasing him more than slightly unnerving.  “I’m sorry, young sir,” Xichen says finally, “but this young master must admit he does not recall if we have met.”

“Of course, of course. I was only an attendant to young master Nie Huaisang when our paths crossed in Gusu.  My name is Meng Yao.” He smiles, soft and honest, then says, “Although Sect Leader Nie and I have parted ways, when I heard of the disaster that befell your clan, I felt it my duty to come and help after all I was able to learn in your home.” 

He moves to bow again, and again Xichen gently stops him. “There’s no need for that. I am more than honored to meet you again, young master Meng, but I’m afraid you know as much of the situation as I do. I have been dispatched to Koi Tower to meet with Sect Leader Jin, and must be on my way.”  It isn’t a lie, but Xichen is not sure if the whole truth is safe yet. “If you want to help, please direct me to a place where I can rest for a bit before I continue forward.”

Meng Yao shakes his head furiously.  “No, no, that’s why I came to find you.  You’ve been reported missing; Wen Xu’s men are looking for you.  If you continue for Lanling, you will surely be discovered.” He surges forward and grasps Xichen’s hand in a display of earnest concern that Xichen is entirely unaccustomed to. “Please, allow this disciple to assist you — you will need a place to hide until it is safe to return to your family.  I have a small house with some livestock and a garden, I would be honored to allow you to stay with me until the danger has passed. If some harm came to you on this journey, my conscience would be forever plagued.”

Xichen sighs. The logic is sound, and if the news of this disaster has reached this young man, then surely it has come to Lanling and probably further.  Jin Guangshan’s men may be looking for him, but just as many of Wen Xu’s will be as well. The likelihood of him making it through alone isn’t high, and he can’t take the risk.  He has the entirety of the Lan sect’s knowledge with him. He meets Meng Yao’s eyes, then closes his and nods once. 

Meng Yao breathes an audible sigh of relief.  “Please let me lead your horse, Zewu-jun. I’ve brought a mule, you can ride that.  I live only an hour from here, at a moderate pace.”

Exhausted, Xichen can’t do more than nod again and drag himself atop the mule when Meng Yao leads it over.  He thinks he nods off a few times during their journey, but eventually they make it to the small cottage as promised. Once they feed and water the mounts, Meng Yao tries to guide him straight to bed, but Xichen insists on caring for the books first.  Meng Yao leads him to a small trap door with an invisible latch hidden in the floor. Raising it, Xichen can see the inside has been prepared to safely house delicate things.  

“I thought perhaps Zewu-Jun would be travelling with some of the Lan Sect treasures,” Meng Yao explains.  “I took the liberty of preparing this space, if it is sufficient.”

As an answer, Xichen begins unloading the books. He carefully places them into the hidden room and layers them with guardian talismans to keep them safe. Meng Yao helps, handing him tome after tome from the bags until they’ve depleted the burdens entirely. Xichen seals the entire thing off with a sigil and a few more talismans, then covers it with a thick woven rug. Only then does he allow himself to be laid on the narrow mattress, and despite the earliness of the hour, falls into a deep, unyielding sleep. 

When he wakes the next day, his horse is gone. 

Xichen runs into the kitchen, ready to demand an explanation, but Meng Yao gets to it before he can. 

“Zewu-jun, I’m sure you’re wondering where your horse is, but the thing is she’s a beautiful mare and quite recognizable.” He’s wringing his hands awkwardly but his voice seems genuine. Xichen hovers in the doorway as Meng Yao makes his way over. “This one has sent her off with a merchant I trust, in exchange for a chestnut gelding who’s out behind the house. No harm will come to her, and Zewu-jun can leave with the chestnut at any time if desired, I just-”

“I understand.”  As his panic starts to subside, Xichen has half a mind to grab Meng Yao’s arm just to preemptively stop him from bowing again. “You were being very thoughtful. I appreciate you considering it so thoroughly, when I did not.”

Meng Yao starts to bow, and Xichen almost steps forward, but the other man thinks better of it and instead gestures at the low table nearby. “Please, this one has prepared some tea and congee.  Zewu-jun needs to keep up strength, even if all he can do is lie low at the moment.” 

Obliging, Xichen settles into the table and dutifully, silently sips the tea and eats the congee. When he is finished, he rises to clean his bowl and Meng Yao watches him carefully. 

“Was it alright?” he asks after a moment.  “Zewu-jun does not have to eat something he doesn’t like for this one’s sake.”

“It was lovely?” It comes out as more of a question than Xichen means, but he’s truly confused. He hadn’t thought his demeanor to be anything less than amiable — but perhaps his concern for his family showed through, and Meng Yao took that as a sign of displeasure with the meal? 

“Zewu-jun was so quiet during the meal…”

“Oh! No, it’s simply an edict of my family not to speak while eating.” Xichen places his bowl upside-down to dry, smiling at the other man and bowing slightly. “Many apologies for the confusion. I had forgotten you spent only a short time in Cloud Recesses.”

Meng Yao inclines his head, still somewhat stiff . “Ah, of course.  This one should not have assumed so readily.” 

“You don’t need to do that,” Xichen says, almost surprised at himself for how easily it slips out. “Be so formal, I mean.  You sought me out just to save my life, and my sect’s future. We will probably be spending a bit of time together, at least for right now.  We can be familiar with one another. Call me Lan Xichen.”

“Of course. And Lan Xichen can call this one by his name as well.”  Meng Yao gives Xichen a soft smile. “I have to go into town to gather some things.  Please, make yourself at home.”

Xichen does.

Living with Meng Yao is… surprisingly easy.  Once he relaxes a little around Xichen, they find they have a lot in common. They work alongside one another in caring for the household, hold lively conversations over tea.  Xichen spends hours a day meditating and playing his xiao, while Meng Yao goes into town for supplies and information, and to conduct his business as a bookkeeper for a number of local shops.  

It almost — almost — feels like home, like the way he and Wangji moved in perfect tandem without ever touching, so comfortable and intimate.  There are times when he doesn’t feel so very lost and lonely, times when he can pretend things are okay and he isn’t being kept from his family by forces so far beyond his control. 

At one point, the time comes that they need to wash their robes. This presents Xichen with a particular dilemma: he has never actually washed clothes before. It couldn’t be very difficult, however; he’s the first young master of a major clan, it won’t be clothes that undo him. He awkwardly follows Meng Yao to the back-yard area of their little home, carrying their clothes in a basket, until they reach a river that runs through the area and Meng Yao crouches by the riverbank. 

He gestures for Xichen to follow and takes the basket from him, putting it in-between them. He rolls up his sleeves, revealing tan, wiry forearms that seem surprisingly muscular, considering his background. Xichen watches carefully as Meng Yao takes a garment from the basket, dips it in the clear water, and starts scrubbing at it. 

He looks a little too long, apparently, because Meng Yao picks his head up and smiles at him. “Everything alright, Xichen- xiong ?”

“Yes, yes!” Xichen kneels beside him and takes one of his own sash belts. He rolls up his sleeves and dunks it into the water, recoiling a little when it splashes up into his lap. He figures that must just be a part of washing and continues, trying his best to mimic Meng Yao’s movements.

He takes the belt in his hands. This is not that hard, he thinks to himself.  He holds down one side with his left hand, and with his right, he tries to pull the belt straight to scrub at any dirt on it. 

Instead of cleaning the garment, Xichen rips it in half in one smooth motion.

He lifts the ruined pieces of cloth out of the water in time to see Meng Yao’s slack-jawed, wide-eyed expression.  His friend’s eyes dart from Xichen’s hands and forearms, to his face, to the mangled belt, back to his hands. 

After a very long moment in which Xichen becomes uncomfortably aware of how much water is getting on his clothes — the ones he’s wearing, that is — Meng Yao says “Has Xichen- xiong perhaps… not grown up washing his own clothes?”

Xichen winces. “That obvious, huh?”

Meng Yao suppresses a laugh behind one hand, the other holding a wrung out undershirt in his lap. “Well, I suppose being born into one of the most powerful cultivation sects has its drawbacks after all.”

Xichen flicks water at him. Meng Yao flicks water back. They pause for a moment, an apparent stalemate, before Meng Yao dissolves into laughter first with Xichen a close second. Once he recovers, Meng Yao makes grabby hands at the basket until Xichen hands it over with a sigh. 

“I’ll finish this up. We can’t have you ruining any more of those expensive blue robes.  You go make some lunch. I know you can make rice and tea, at least, without breaking the pots.” His teasing is good-natured, harmless.  “Run off now, Young Master Lan. Leave the washing to us common folk.”

Meng Yao is unfailingly kind, and Xichen can feel an affection for him worming its way into his worried heart. When news comes out about Xichen’s father’s injuries and failing health, he gives Xichen the space to talk about his father’s relationship with his children in a way no one but maybe his brother ever has.  He is thoughtful and easy to get along with, keeping Xichen abreast of as many developments in the cultivation world as he is able. 

The young man may not be particularly gifted in cultivation, but he goes out of his way to make this place a home. He buys Xichen the kinds of food they have at Cloud Recesses and always greets him with an open smile when he arrives back from town.

This is why, when he walks through the door with a face schooled into a neutral expression, Xichen knows something is wrong. 

“Meng Yao?” he asks hesitantly.

“Xichen -xiong ,” Meng Yao replies, “I would like it if you took a seat before I speak.”

Xichen does, though it does absolutely nothing for his nerves.

“I have bad news from Cloud Recesses.” Meng Yao takes a deep breath. “Your brother has been taken to Qishan.  The Wen sect is demanding that each sect send its chief disciples, along with others, to the Nightless City for indoctrination.”

Xichen grips his chest as if that could stop his heart from pounding through his ribcage. “No. No, Uncle would never allow this. Your source must be wrong.”

“It doesn’t appear that your uncle had much of a choice.” Meng Yao kneels beside Xichen and puts a comforting hand on his forearm. “I’m so sorry. I wish there were more I could do.”

Xichen shakes him off. “I have to go back to the Cloud Recesses. No, there’s no time — straight to Qishan.”  

He stands, and Meng Yao scrambles to his feet alongside him. “Please, brother, don’t! There isn’t anything you can do. For all you know, this is just a ploy to get you to come out of hiding!”

“It’s working,” Xichen whispers, taking Shuoyue from its stand near the door. “I have to protect my brother. Please, Meng Yao.” 

The young man runs ahead and blocks the door, arms outstretched. “No! Think about this, please! Wen Ruohan has your brother, and he wants you. Why do you think Wen Xu has told the world you’ve disappeared? Surely if it were just that he couldn’t find you, he would have said you had died in the attack on the Cloud Recesses to save face. Why give up his pride and tell the world he failed at finding you by announcing you were missing?” 

When he sees that Xichen is not going to try to break through his guard, he relaxes a little and continues. “Why attack the Lan Sect in the first place? You are strong, and well-disciplined.  Any slight would surely have to be fabricated. Why not YunmengJiang, a weaker sect that shares borders with the Wens? Why not QingheNie, whose leaders are known for having a bad temperament, and therefore would be a believable target?”

Xichen has nothing to say to that. The line of thought Meng Yao has embarked on has never even slipped across his mind; frankly, he still isn’t sure what this has to do with Wangji being kidnapped. 

Meng Yao answers his own questions: “Because you have something he wants! The Lan Sect treasures — if you reemerge, he will find them.  He’s taken your brother to draw you out, since he couldn’t find you or the treasures during the assault on Cloud Recesses. If you deliver yourself into his hands now, he will surely kill you. With your sect treasures in his hands, what do you think will happen to GusuLan? Lan er-ge will be lucky to escape with his life!” Meng Yao’s voice is frantic. As his words settle into Xichen’s mind, he stumbles back, calves hitting the table.  Meng Yao doesn’t stop, and the fire in his eyes is unlike anything Xichen has ever seen. “Your brother could be absorbed into the Wen Sect — do you think he will adjust well to that? Or worse, he could have his core melted away by that Wen Zhuliu, and be turned into an average person with no cultivation! You can’t protect him right now, except by staying here, safe!”

As if they’d appeared by magic, Xichen feels tears running down his cheeks. His knuckles are white around his sword as he sinks to his knees. Pressing one hand to his mouth, he tries to swallow back the rising cries in his throat.  He really is useless. How could it have come to this? His brother, hurt and afraid, being dragged off to the most dangerous place in the world, and Xichen unable to lift a finger to help him?

Meng Yao kneels beside him, eyes carefully averted.  Xichen appreciates the attempt to save him some face. “Right now,” Meng Yao says, “the cultivation world stands on a knife’s edge.  Anger and resentment is building against the Wen sect. The next time Wen Ruohan makes a careless move — which will come sooner than we expect, I think — everything will boil over, and when that happens, there will be no room to care about books and treasures.  Lan Xichen must hold on for just a little longer.”

Xichen feels numb, like he’s spent too much time submerged in the cold spring. It’s all he can do to nod wordlessly and drag himself into the side room, sliding the door shut.  If he stays in seclusion like this, how is he any better than their father? Is it true, then, that the sons of the Lan clan are cursed to brokenhearted fates? 

He sits folded up on the floor, an improper position that would garner him at least one day’s worth of copying the rules back home, but he can’t bring himself to care. At some point, he falls asleep. When the sun rises at 5 the next day, Xichen awakes to a cacophony of stiff joints and a bruised shoulder.  It doesn’t matter. This mild discomfort feels like the least he can do in light of what has happened, is happening to his family. He has let himself get too lax, recently, and now his spirit suffers.

He settles into the lotus position and tries to clear his mind.  

For the next week, he does little except meditate, cultivate, and help Meng Yao with the household responsibilities when necessary.  He practices qigong, the tao yin, and inedia, flows energy through each dantian and back into the golden core at the base. The silence and cool, clean energy of the forms helps ground him where he is.  

Even the news that his brother is trapped in an impassable cavern with help more than a week away does not overcome him, as much as it tries. He digs his nails into his palms and recites the principles quietly, reminding himself with every exhale that even if he left now, he would never make it to Qishan without being caught.  He silently entreats the three sovereigns, the five emperors and the eight immortals to guide the paths of heaven and keep his brother’s soul intact and, ideally, in his body. He does not sleep, refuses food, keeping to his meditative state and cultivating his energy.

He holds his silent vigil, unmoving, until Meng Yao nearly breaks down the door to tell him that he’s received word: Wangji has been rescued. He is not dead, whole, and is on his way back to Gusu.

Xichen nearly collapses. 

He has never been so relieved, so exhausted.  He topples to his feet and stumbles to the doorway to be sure he isn’t hallucinating. Meng Yao nearly shoves him into the kitchen and insists he has to eat. 

“It can’t be long now, Lan Xichen,” he says as Xichen sips his tea and chokes down a few mouthfuls of rice, too tired to be hungry. “It feels as if everyone is holding their breath.  You’ll see your brother soon.”

All Xichen can do is incline his head softly and try not to fall asleep at the table.  Meng Yao helps him back to his room, where he falls into a black slumber for a day straight. 

Things regain a semblance of normalcy after that, though the tension is felt even in their little home.  No one is waiting for the bowstring to snap more than Xichen himself. Hope flares in his chest every time he hears Meng Yao arrive from town, deflates a again when there is no news. 

One night, he is shaken awake.

“Xichen-xiong! Wake up! Lotus Pier has been burnt to the ground by Wen Chao! Clan Leader Jiang and his wife are dead and their children are missing! Clan Leader Nie has denounced this violence and Clan Leader Jin is likely to follow soon! War is on the horizon!” Meng Yao is hovering over him, Shuoyue and Liebing in his outstretched hand.  In his sleep-addled brain, Xichen cannot figure why, in creation, the young man is so excited about such a tragedy.  It hits him just as Meng Yao continues: “Brother, you can go home!”

Xichen shoots to his feet. “I can go home,” he says, not quite believing it himself. “Meng Yao, I can go home?”

“I’ve already started packing your things!” Meng Yao has dashed to the other room, but his voice is loud enough that Xichen can still hear. “If you’d like, I can arrange to have them sent along if you’d rather fly in?”

Xichen ties his robe on quickly and follows. “No. No, this is my responsibility.”

“I thought Brother would say as much,” Meng Yao says. “I have a surprise for you, then. I was able to trade the gelding for your old mare; the merchant is back in town!”

All at once, with the anxiety of his stay fading, the kindness Meng Yao has shown him washes over Xichen like a tidal wave.  He reaches out to grasp the young man’s forearm and look him in the eye. “Come with me,” he says. “You have done more for me than any man could ask.  You will always have a place in the Cloud Recesses — or, I could contact Clan Leader Nie and tell him how you helped me, showed me kindness when there was so little of it in the world. I’m certain whatever fell out between you could be repaired.”

Meng Yao smiles at him, covering Xichen’s hand with his own. “Your offer is more than this one deserves, but I’m afraid I have business elsewhere.  We all must take our own roads in toppling the evil our world suffers.” He breathes deeply, seems distant for a moment, then meets Xichen’s eyes again. “Look for a letter from me soon, brother?” 

Xichen rises and bows to him. “I will wait with the utmost anticipation,” he says, before loading his horse and taking off into the night.

It is another two day ride back to Cloud Recesses. This time, Xichen stops to rest periodically, the sword no longer breathing down his neck. When he arrives at the base of the mountain the second evening, he transfers care of the precious materials to the guards and disciples who meet him there, then mounts Shuoyue and takes off for the peak as fast as he can travel. 

His heart pounds in his chest, some part of him afraid that if he hesitates for even a moment everything will be gone before he can arrive.  He flies over the smouldering wreckage and aches, but does not stop. He knows where he’s going, knows who he wants to see. 

He almost crashes when he spots Wangji, still in flawless white, and descends so quickly it might have been better just to fall. His brother is standing in the garden outside the Jingshi, both hands tucked behind his back . 

“Wangji!” Xichen says. 

Wangji whirls to face him when he hears. He looks so relieved Xichen thinks one or both of them might cry.

“Xichen- xiong ,” he breathes, almost too quiet to hear.  Xichen is wondering how to ask if he can embrace him, just this once, when he feels his brother’s arms wrap around his waist, head tucked into his neck just like when they were children.

“Your brother is here. You’re okay.  We’re here, we’re safe,” he says, wrapping his arms around Wangji’s shoulders, fingers tangling in his long hair. “You’re okay,” he says again, even though excess words are forbidden, because it needs to be confirmed. 

“Okay,” Wangji repeats. “Here. Safe. Alive,” he adds, and Xichen can feel how worried he was, how much Xichen’s disappearance affected him. He can tell Wangji is injured from the rigid way he holds his spine, even though he’s trying to suppress it, and feels a quick pulse of something near anger. 

They stand like that for longer than it might seem necessary, then pull apart. Xichen grabs Wangji’s wrist, checking his pulse, making sure he’s not badly hurt. He feels jinmai , but no damage to his cultivation center. “What happened? Why are you in pain?” 

Xichen realizes he is holding both of his brother’s wrists. Since Wangji has made no move to stop him, he keeps them, a reminder that his prayer and meditation came through. Wangji looks down, at his leg, and Xichen can see that he is favoring it just slightly. “QishanWen,” he says. “Healers have seen to it. It is on the mend. No need for concern.”

“You were trapped in a cave, with the great Xuanwu of slaughter? What a dishonorable action that Wen sect has taken...” 

“Wei Ying was there. He killed the monster.” Wangji has turned the tables on him and is checking Xichen’s pulses, releasing him without comment when he finds no harm. “Wei Ying… has found a place above friendship. To me.”

Xichen stares at him for a moment.  He is thankful for his habit of thought before speech, considering yeah, no shit is hardly the righteous response in this situation. When he sees Wangji begin to become agitated at his silence, Xichen places a hand on his shoulder and smiles at him. “I understand, Wangji. He is a good young man, with a good heart. Your feelings are very natural. I’m glad you had him to watch your back.”

If he didn’t know any better, Xichen would have said that he could see the tension drop out of his brother’s body.  He’ll be laughing privately for a few days over the fact that his intelligent, perceptive dìdì had the most obvious crush in the world and didn’t realize it until he was trapped in a cave with the object of his affections, but he also aches that it was causing him so much pain, that he thought for even a second that Xichen’s response would be something less than total support.  Didn’t Wangji know by now? Xichen would tear down the moon if it would make him happy. 

Their tender moment is cut off when their uncle comes marching through the archway.

“Lan Huan!” he says, and Xichen might be pushing twenty-four but that tone of voice is still terrifying. “You have returned after all this time and your first stop is not to kneel before your late father’s plaque or give an account before the elders? Have I taught you nothing? Don’t think that just because you are the clan leader by right that you can avoid punishment!”

“This nephew gives the greatest apologies to his uncle,” Xichen starts. Before he can try and talk him down, however, the rest of the lecture hits him. “My… late father?”

The fire in Lan Qiren’s eyes is instantly doused. “You didn’t know?” His uncle sighs and pinches his nose. His voice is soft when he continues.  “His injuries were great, and the healers did all they could, but your father passed just before Wangji returned.”

“Father is dead,” Xichen says, and even out loud, it doesn’t make any sense. “Father is dead? I’m sect leader?”

“You will kneel before the elders in two days time, when the moon is at its peak,” their uncle says. 

Xichen stumbles backwards, and Wangji catches him at the wrist. He wonders if this is what it feels like when your core is destroyed. His father was never much of a presence in his life or his brother’s but he was still their father, and the only person who stood between them and the end of childhood.  Xichen has been preparing for this since he was old enough to walk, but he still isn’t ready for the responsibility, not now, not when their clan is spun thin and fragile as glass.  An intense heaviness settles on his shoulders and he leans on his brother for a moment to steady himself. 

“I have to go to the shrine,” Xichen finally chokes out. “Uncle, if you would be so kind as to give my apologies to the elders, I will give an account tomorrow.”

Before he can turn and ask, Wangji says “I will go with you.  We should play for Father.”

Lan Qiren nods and turns to leave. Wangji tucks his arms behind him as he steps away, formal as ever, and Xichen grips Liebing with white knuckles as he follows. 

Somewhere, above the smoke and ash, it begins to snow.

So much happens over the next few months that it feels impossible to distinguish one day from the next.  Xichen is officially named sect leader and his first responsibility is to get his injured, demoralized, crumbling ranks into something approximating a fighting force.  There is no time for grief or mourning. He was not the only one to lose something when their homes burned. Xichen does his best to acquaint himself with every one of his clan members and sect disciples, learning their names and professions, skills and fears. The days of sitting in the Hanshi poring over texts and learning ancient arts are gone: now, he must be among his people, to know them, to let them know him.  

A few of the most able among them begin erecting the skeletons of buildings over the charred remains: new dormitories, medical centers, meal halls and kitchens, all in preparation for the coming conflict.  He and Wangji are there alongside them, carrying logs and supporting columns as the more experienced builders work. It feels good to do something productive that isn’t arguing politely with the other sect leaders about which actions should be taken and when.

It takes a few months to get on their feet, but the Lan are known for nothing if not discipline. Soon enough, they have a working base: nothing that holds a candle to the beauty and serenity their home once had, but something for them to all be proud of. The disciples train in earnest, Wangji and Uncle guiding them through crucial forms and techniques. 

 A message arrives from Lanling: Qinghe has announced that they will no longer tolerate the presence of a supervisory office and has launched the first assault. Xichen pens a quick response thanking clan leader Jin for the information, then a second letter to Nie Mingjue wishing him luck and reminding him Xichen is here if he needs supplies, reinforcements, or a place to keep his brother safe while he takes to the field. 

The first letter from Meng Yao is quick to arrive and more than welcome: it seems that the young man has, in the interceding months, managed to gain a coveted position at Wen Ruohan’s right hand. The letter has enclosed some outpost locations and a map of the Indoctrination Office, showing where they’ve stored the disciple’s swords.  Xichen has already begun to formulate an attack plan when another letter arrives: Jiang Yanli has emerged in Lanling, apparently being sheltered by LanlingJin, and Jiang Wanyin has returned to Yunmeng to assemble the last of the Jiang disciples and intends to march for the Indoctrination Office at once. 

There is no word on Wei Wuxian. Wangji, restless with the lack of news, insists he accompany the strike force of Lan sect disciples heading for the Indoctrination Office, and Xichen allows it; after all, Bichen is one of the swords held there. Xichen leaves his uncle with a small defensive force, then marches the rest of their disciples north to Qinghe to regroup with Nie Mingjue.

They call it the Sunshot Campaign.  Artists start drawing it before they even move for the first battle — Xichen sees little Huaisang painting a representative scene on one of his fans during a strategy meeting in the Unclean Realm.   It’s poetic, a name for the history books. 

The reality of war is far less elegant. 

After the third week, it feels as if Xichen will never be able to scrub all the blood off his clothes, his sword, his hands. He and Nie Mingjue start wearing their hair pinned up with simple sticks and telling their disciples to do the same, to keep it from being grabbed after one of the Nie cultivators was pulled off his sword and thrown to his death.  The first night, after he kills a cultivator himself for the first time, Nie Mingjue finds Xichen dry heaving behind the command tent. All he can think of is watching the man spit up blood and cry for his mother. Every time his eyes close, Xichen sees him clutching at the point on his neck where Shuoyue ran him through as if that could stop the blood spraying through his weak fingers and on Xichen’s white robes. 

“It’s hard the first time.” Nie Mingjue pats him on the back hard enough to send him coughing and stumbling a few paces then folds his arms, Baxia ’s imposing form outlined against the torchlight. “Was hard for me too. Even if they’re dogs, it’s not like killing a ghost or a fierce corpse. Fuckers cry and beg the same, but with the ghosts, you know it’s a trick. These Wen-dogs, they’re just cannon fodder for the rats in Nightless City.”

“I feel… wrong,” Xichen says once he’s regained his footing. “These are human souls; surely some of them are not here by choice. It tears at me to be their end like this. How could they deserve it?”

“Yeah, well. If they wanna defect, you can have a ribbon ceremony and induct them all into your clan. Have ‘em copy some rules to make up for it. This is a war. Did your disciples deserve to see their home go up in flames? Did YunmengJiang deserve to get its clan leaders slaughtered? What about your brother? Did he deserve to get his leg broken, to get trapped in a cave with a killer tortoise and left for dead?” Mingjue huffs and looks toward the forest. “Xichen, you’ve always had a good head and a good heart. Just make sure you’re using the right one here.  If you need to come back here to puke after a battle, go for it, just as long as I can count on you to have my back out on the field.”

Xichen takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, then exhales slowly. “Of course. I— thank you, clan leader Nie. You didn’t have to come back here to encourage me.”

“Who’s clan leader Nie to you? Heaven and earth, it’s bad enough I can’t get you to stop with the ‘Nie Mingjue’ shit and just call me by my name. I’ve known you since you were a scrawny teenager, Xichen, you can say ‘Mingjue’.” The man in question rolls his eyes and cracks his neck. “By the way, heard from your brother. He and Jiang Wanyin found that Wei Wuxian kid out in Yiling, at one of the relay stations.  Apparently he’s the one who’s been laying waste to Wen Chao’s entourage.”

“Ah, I know Wangji has been concerned for young master Wei’s welfare.” Xichen starts walking around the command tent, back towards the sleeping areas. “I’m sure it’s a weight off his mind to have confirmation that he’s survived the siege at Lotus Pier.”

“Forgive me my bluntness, but I’m not sure ‘concerned for his welfare’ totally covers it,” Mingjue says, and Xichen can’t help but laugh under his breath. Mingjue amends: “I don’t mean to talk shit; he’s a damn good fighter, your brother. You hear what they’ve been calling him now? Hanguang-jun. ”

“Quite the romantic title,” Xichen muses. “‘Lightbearer.’  Because of the white robes, I suppose.”

“That, and the way he shows up at the turn of the tide. Right where the fighting’s thickest. You raised him well, Xichen; you should be proud.” Mingjue nudges him with his elbow and Xichen nudges back, like they’re teenagers again and not two of the most powerful men in the world. “Maybe I should try and set Huaisang up with that Jiang Wanyin, see if that makes him half as good as your Lan Wangji. Balls of steel, those Jiang kids have.  Huaisang could use some toughening up.”

“Huaisang is a talented young man and a good cultivator, Mingjue- xiong, you’re too hard on him,” Xichen says, but he doesn’t mean it.  He knows Mingjue cares for his brother like he does anything: fiercely, with his whole soul, nothing left behind.  He talks a big game, but the instant someone raised a hand to Huaisang, Mingjue would lop their head off without thinking.  “And you are far too kind to this brother. I did not raise Wangji alone. The credit must go to my uncle, and the elders.”

“I know your uncle and your elders. That’s why I said it.” Mingjue claps Xichen on the shoulder and nearly knocks him over again — his good friend tends to forget that he is approximately two Xichens in one solid body and has bruised Xichen’s arms trying to get his attention before. “You did good. On the battlefield and with Wangji. Your mom would be proud.”

Xichen bows his head, hiding the soft smile the praise brings him. “And your father, of you, Mingjue- xiong .”

“Yeah.” Mingjue shakes out his shoulders again, like he does whenever he has too much energy. “Anyway, go the fuck to sleep before you puke on someone else’s shit again.”

“As clan leader Nie instructs,” Xichen says with an impressively straight face, and his friend chuffs and starts stomping off.  

“And stop wearing white to a war!” Mingjue yells over his shoulder as he leaves. “You’re never gonna get that fucking stain out!” 

Xichen is inclined to agree. 

Xichen did not know it then, but the re-emergence of young master Wei was the start of a change of fortunes.  

Wherever he had been in the interceding months, Wei Wuxian had cultivated the ghost path with a kind of ferocity the world had never seen. Corpses, both fresh and festering, crawled to the sound of his dizi, swarming across the battlefield like locusts, adding to their number with every opponent they defeated. Xichen counts himself lucky that he has been on the other side of the conflict, unsure how he would react to the sight of mangled cadavers clawing their way through the Wen sect’s cultivators. 

Every battle Wei Wuxian and his army of the undead enter, they win.  With every win, the army grows. Xichen knows this for certain because he receives a letter from Wangji every time detailing the ways he had begged Wei Wuxian to leave the tightrope he has chosen and rejoin Wangji on the righteous path.  The letters are increasingly rapid, increasingly frantic. Xichen’s heart aches for his brother, whose own heart is aching for the boy he has chosen to love. 

Xichen has seen the boy in question only a few times since his reappearance, at strategy meetings and the like, but even he can see something is… off.  He forgets Suibian  but keeps his knuckles ice-white around the dizi he has named Chenqing .  (“‘Whatever’ and ‘explanation’?” Mingjue mutters aside to Xichen during one particularly argumentative war council. “Someone has to stop letting that kid name weapons.”)  The Wei Wuxian he had met in Cloud Recesses was summer come to rest, all bright smiles and airy movements, an easy laugh and bright eyes. This man is a shadow of that. He is a thunderstorm in the height of the orchid month, sharp and cool, a snarl hidden behind every smile.  

Xichen sees Wangji despair for him — he is the only one who sees Wangji despair for him.  To everyone else, the two are at constant odds. The reports of their arguments during every battle reach far and wide. It never fails to astonish Xichen how people can watch his brother beg Wei Wuxian to come home, come back to Gusu with him, and think that it is born of hatred. 

The battles get closer and closer together until their forces are joined outside the Nightless City: the Jin, Nie, and the bulk of the Lan sect cultivators approaching from the east, and the splinter force Wangji commands accompanying the Jiang army from the south.  Wei Wuxian has enough sense left in his angry little body to keep his exanimate horde outside the boundaries of their camp, but their shuffles and groans are hard to block out entirely.  

Nie Mingjue spots the trio of junior commanders and elbows Xichen in the ribs, jerking his head to point them out.  “Ah, look, it’s xiao Zhan and Huaisang’s friends.” 

They’re far too involved in their own conversation to notice. Just as Xichen opens his mouth to call them over, Mingjue bellows “ XIAO ZHAN, STOP CHATTERING! COME GREET YOUR BROTHER!” 

The effect is instantaneous: Wangji visibly winces, Jiang Wanyin trips over his own feet and nearly falls into the dirt, and Wei Wuxian bursts into raucous laughter.

“ Xiao Zhan” awkwardly but politely salutes Mingjue, then his brother, before rushing (as much as he rushes anywhere) off to the Lan camp, his posture rigid and head bowed.  Mingjue has busied himself talking to Jiang Wanyin, so Xichen bows out to follow his brother.  

He can feel the heat of Wei Wuxian’s hollow eyes on the back of his neck.

But Lan Xichen does not answer to Wei Wuxian, and does not change his course.

Xichen ducks under the tent flap to find Wangji pacing back and forth in the dim lamplight, scratching at his arms as if he could claw his skin off. His face is a twisted mask. “I don’t think Mingjue meant anything by that,” Xichen starts, but Wangji cuts him off with a disconsolate look and Xichen knows the diminutive address couldn’t be further from his mind.

“Did you see him,” Wangji says. It is less a question than a statement, his voice rough and raw. “There is something wrong with him, something... changed.  Wen Chao did something to him. He will not listen to me. I have tried Clarity, Lucidity— if he would only return to Gusu, we could visit the library — “

“Wangji.” Xichen places a calming hand on his brother’s shoulder, using the other to guide his hands to his sides and away from his reddened skin. “You can’t make young master Wei do anything he doesn’t want to do. Remember, he has just gone through a great period of loss, and grief can be a cruel master. Punishing yourself won’t do any good.”

“He hurts himself with every step taken on the ghost path.” Wangji’s voice is taking a desperate edge, hands flexing uselessly and grabbing at the sides of his robes. “If I cannot guide him back then I have as good as condemned him— ” 

“And you think scratching at your skin until you— are you bleeding? Wangji!” Xichen takes his brother’s arm into his hands despite the protests. “What good does this do him? What good does it do you?”

Wangji’s eyes are huge, so wide and so dark that his pupils almost eclipse his pale irises. He is shaking badly enough that Xichen has to guide him to sit on the bedroll before he can try and tend to the abrasion on his forearm. They’re side by side, knees touching, Wangji’s arm across Xichen’s lap as he cleans the small wound. 

“... no paper,” Wangji finally chokes out while Xichen is wrapping linen around his arm. 

“What?” 

“For copying.” No bamboo rods, no ancestral hall. No choice, Xichen hears, and fights back the urge to pick his brother up like they are children and crush him into his chest again. 

He settles for wrapping the linen a little too tight, which makes Wangji hiss slightly. "Oh, now it hurts," Xichen says, voice dry but warm.

"Hurts," Wangji says quietly, still shivering despite the warm air. 

Xichen finishes dressing his arm but does not drop Wangji’s hands. Their knees are touching, Wangji’s eyes downcast as Xichen uses his first and middle fingers to channel spiritual energy through Wangji’s pulse points. They sit in silence until Wangji is no longer shaking and has started breathing evenly, at which point Xichen gently asks, “Has this been happening to Wangji often?”

Almost imperceptibly, Wangji nods.

“Whenever young master Wei uses the ghost path?”

Another nod.

“Wangji feels guilty when he can’t get young master Wei to stop because he’s helping him use a forbidden technique?” 

Wangji shakes his head.

“Because he’s afraid young master Wei will lose control and hurt himself?”

He nods.

“Is doing a punishment the only thing that makes it bearable?”

Wangji stills entirely, tugs softly at his sleeves.  Xichen keeps his grip firm. After a few seconds, Wangji nods, then in a cracked voice, whispers, “usually carry paper.”

Xichen takes a deep breath and recalls every lesson about emotional regulation to keep his worry from spilling out of his mouth.  Finally, he’s able to ask in an even tone: “Do you think if you don’t punish yourself, something bad will happen?”

Wangji bites his lip and turns his head, which means yes.

“Do you know that’s not true?” He nods again. “But it doesn’t help?” Another nod. “Alright.”  

Xichen releases his brother, but Wangji leaves his wrists in Xichen’s open palms. “I know you’re thinking I’m going to be worried, Wangji, but I’m always worried about you. Just… try to remember reason. This is a war. Sometimes, in wars, people do things — cruel things that they wouldn’t do at other times. That’s why we have the rules, so in times like these we don’t turn to such dark techniques.”

“Either way, we stand at the edge of victory now. Wen Ruohan’s head will be on a pike within the week, and young master Wei will return with his brother to Lotus Pier and rebuild the Jiang sect, and his army of the dead will return to the earth where they belong.” It’s a reassurance to himself as well — the sooner Xichen can forget the sight of thousands upon thousands of shambling corpses surrounding their camp, shuffling and groaning, the better. “Wangji is putting himself through so much suffering for a goal that will soon be unnecessary, yes?”

Wangji is so still that Xichen can feel the rise and fall his chest by the way his wrists move against Xichen’s palms. Finally he says, “Just a weapon?”

“Yes, the ghost path is just a weapon, like a talisman. When the war is over, he will put it aside and heal.”

“Wangji will learn new melodies for healing the spirit.”  

“This sect leader is certain we can arrange a state visit to Yunmeng, considering how Jiang Wanyin has so much work to do. It would be improper of Gusu not to offer a hand.”

Wangji has calmed significantly, nodding along to Xichen’s suggestions, but his brother is still incredibly tense.  Xichen feels a pang of guilt: he should have been there, should have insisted that he accompany Wangji for at least a few of these campaigns to make sure his brother was doing alright.  

Fortunately, smoothing things over and calming worried hearts is what Xichen excels at. “Kneel on the ground,” he says. Wangji does, albeit not before giving him an odd look. “Turn around so your back is to me— yes. Okay, hold still.” 

Xichen reaches across for the hairbrush and styling comb on the small table by the bed. He carefully removes Wangji’s decorative pin and receives an annoyed huff in return. “Wangji is not seven,” Wangji says witheringly. 

“No, but Wangji is Xichen’s xiao dìdì, ” Xichen says, loosening the ties of Wangji’s forehead ribbon and setting it to the side. “Hold still.”

“Wangji is Xichen’s only dìdì, ” his brother mutters, nevertheless doing as he’s told.

Xichen guides his brother’s back against his legs and says “Lean your head back.” When Wangji’s eyes meet Xichen’s, the latter looks pointedly at the fresh linen bandage on his wrist. “Yes,” Xichen says, pulling at his hair until it’s all splayed out on the soft blue of Xichen’s bixi . “Wangji is Xichen’s only dìdì .”

Wangji complies, settling against Xichen’s shins and resting his head on his knees. Xichen takes the comb and starts working through his brother’s hair. He detangles the ends, whipped around each other from flying on Bichen , and works his way up to the roots.  They sit in comfortable silence for a bit, the only sounds the chatter of the camp outside and the soft whisper of the comb.

Then Wangji starts to sing.

It’s not a melody Xichen knows, which means it’s something Wangji wrote himself. There are no words, just simple vocable sounds to guide the melody. Even so, Xichen can feel the way his brother has poured himself into every note, a way to speak the emotion he can’t find the words to say.  There’s love and tenderness, worry and frustration, even notes of panic at times, all of it subsumed in an ocean of longing. Xichen closes his eyes and listens to Wangji’s soft baritone fill the tent. 

He sits in industrious silence, brushing Wangji’s hair gently and efficiently while his brother bares his soul without ever looking at Xichen and thinks, this is everything we are, together. 

Nie Mingjue and xiao Sang yell at each other, fight and get into arguments they don’t mean just to show they care.  Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian make side comments and elbow each other in the ribs and wrestle like children.  He and Wangji sit like mountain springs, still and deep, and do not speak to each other except in worries and riddles.  How long has it been since anyone told Wangji they loved him? How long since those words passed between even the eminent Twin Jades of Gusu?  

Xichen has loved his brother so much he thinks his heart might bear him ill will at this point. He will always ache when he is gone, like one of his arms is missing. He will try to soothe his brother’s troubled heart for a thousand years, if loving this boy is what will bring Wangji the most happiness, but it pricks at him like a doctor’s needles to see his brother’s open devotion treated like nothing by its very object. 

As Wangji finishes his song, Xichen brushes out the last of the tangles and bent strands, carding his fingers through to check for any stragglers. With a deep exhale, he swallows the little seed of anger Wei Wuxian’s every rejection germinates deep in Xichen’s spirit.  He sweeps back Wangji’s hair, picks his brother’s ribbon up and carefully fastens it at his temples before pulling the hair along his temples up to cover the pins and sweeping it all into a high bunch. He folds it over once and wraps the ends around before securing it with the silver hairpiece Wangji had been wearing before.  He takes the low ends, near the nape of his brother’s neck, and pulls them up as well, pulling out his own jī and using it to fasten them just below the first bun in a twist.

Xichen ties the ends of the forehead ribbon in a neat knot just below the base of Wangji’s skull.  The tension his brother carried before is leaching its way out, his shoulders no longer shivering and his posture no longer rigid.  

Xichen pats him on the shoulder to show he’s finished. Wangji reaches up and feels the now-bare skin on the back of his neck, running his hands up the seam of the twist gently and

tilting his head back so he can meet Xichen’s eyes. “Up?” he says curiously.

Xichen nods. “We’ve had the Wens pulling people off their swords by their hair.  Sect Leader Nie and I, along with the others, have been wearing more conservative styles since then.”

Wangji narrows his eyes slightly, a gesture that means as if they could get that close to me and I won’t even be flying in this battle simultaneously. 

“I know you sleep like the dead, so I don’t have to worry about you messing the buns up overnight,” Xichen says, ignoring him. “I think that’s why Sect Leader Nie has so many braids. Harder to ruin.”

As if a clock had chimed the hour, they both yawn in tandem. Wangji starts shuffling to his feet and Xichen joins him, taking Shuoyue and Liebing from where he had left them near the entrance.  He is about ready to reach for the tent flap to take his leave when he feels a strong hand on his wrist. 

“ Xiongzhang, ” Wangji says, and his voice is thick with too much emotion to name, “...thank you.”

“Of course, Wangji,” Xichen says automatically.  Then the weight of it hits him. He feels like he might cry, but he just smiles at his brother who he has loved since before they ever met and says, “You never need to thank me.” 

For what it’s worth, the sunless day proves itself far brighter than one might think. 

With the Wen sect gone, the cultivation world settles back into a semblance of routine.  Xichen and his brother return to their home to regroup and rebuild, as do Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian.  Lanling, which escaped the fighting relatively unscathed, seems to have established itself as a temporary organizational head. They are tracking down any last fighting forces who have the poor idea of remaining with the Wen army in defeat.

Qinghe wasn’t hit quite as hard as Gusu or Yunmeng, but Nie Mingjue still has with plenty on his plate, if his letters are to be believed.  Even so, Xichen manages to convince him to come to the mountaintop with him and swear brotherhood with Meng Yao — now Jin Guangyao, as his father has finally recognized him given his heroism in the battle at Nightless City — even though he hasn’t been able to totally heal whatever rift came between them.  Mingjue has no heart for intrigue or trickery, and Meng Yao has a mind too well-suited to it, but Xichen’s sincere affection for the both of them, he hopes, will keep their bond from straining.  

He thinks they will balance each other well: the three coastal sect leaders, united as one. 

Perhaps, one day, Jiang Wanyin will be welcomed into their alliance; for now, he is a teenager, the youngest sect leader in history, and up to his ears in rebuilding work for Lotus Pier and the rest of Yunmeng. Xichen and Mingjue fought Jin Guangshan to allow a generous portion of the Wen-controlled villages —  along with all fishing rights to the Han river and a number of buckwheat and oat farms — to be reallocated to the struggling Jiang sect after their incredible contributions during the war. Both of them know too well how heavy the burden of sect leadership is, especially when thrust upon one unexpectedly. With so much work to be done in Qinghe and Gusu, this is the best they can do.

At home, Xichen rolls up his sleeves and throws himself into rebuilding their home into an image of its former splendor. Wangji spends hour after hour copying new versions of texts to replace the ones that Xichen couldn’t bring with him — the ones that Wangji watched burn while he bled on the ground.  Xichen tries to switch with him for a day or two, get him out of the library and into the sun for a few hours. It’s to no avail. His brother is a mass of nervous energy that only sleeps because his body is so accustomed to the routine.  

Xichen has seen Wangji’s single-minded determination at work before — when the juniors of his class were learning to fly by sword, he practiced day in and day out until he had mastered it, a full year ahead of his classmates — but he has never seen it so punishingly combined with his anxiety.  It takes everything Xichen can do to get Wangji to eat, to care for any part of himself other than his cultivation as he throws himself into the study and replication of their musical techniques. 

When the invitation to the first discussion conference after the war arrives, notifying the cultivators of GusuLan that the festivities will be held in Lanling and hosted by the Jin sect and that all cultivation sects are welcome and encouraged to attend, Wangji is the first person Xichen tells. 

“I will not attend,” his brother says, not even looking up from the score he is painstakingly copying. 

Xichen expected this.  He has his entire arsenal of “convincing wangji” attacks locked and loaded, but he doesn’t think he’ll need more than the first one: “YunmengJiang is bringing young master Wei, I hear.”

Wangji rises without ceremony and without looking at Xichen.  “I will pack immediately,” he says, and sweeps out of the room. 

Ah. That odd little ghost boy may win his way into Xichen’s heart yet. 

They arrive in appropriate style, Xichen leading their riding formation on a snow-white Ferghana stallion and Wangji close behind. Although he’s never understood why people think he and his brother look identical most of the time, Xichen can see it today: they’re dressed identically, both with perfect posture and flawless equestrian skills, bows on their backs and swords at their hips.  Some of the ladies alongside the approach shower flowers on them and they respond with a soft, dignified nod. Xichen is an adult, so he does not giggle at the petals that have snagged themselves on Wangji’s topknot. 

Suddenly, he sees Wangji’s hand fly up and catch a flower from midair. He pulls his horse up short and turns around. “Wangji, what happened?”

“Wei Ying,” is the response. Sure enough, a few yards back, there is the man himself, leaning on the front of his horse like he has no idea what has happened.

“Hmm? Hanguang-jun, did you call me?” Wei Wuxian makes a show of pretending not to know what’s happening as he brings a fake-startled hand to his chest. 

Wangji unfolds his hand, revealing a surprisingly intact peony. “Was it you?” he asks, and Xichen can hear him fighting to keep his voice level.

“What? Of course not!” Wei Wuxian says, just as the girls alongside him chime in “Yes it was, don’t believe him!”

Wei Wuxian makes a show of affront at their words. Xichen sees Wangji’s shoulders tense and hand close around the peony. After a couple seconds of this, Jiang Wanyin speaks up and apologizes: “Zewu-jun, Hanguang-jun, my apologies.  Please pay my brother no mind.”

“It’s fine,” Xichen says, and he smiles at them both. “I will offer thanks for the show of admiration in Wangji’s place.” 

With that, he spurs his horse forward. Wangji follows, leaving the Jiang sect behind. The rest of the cultivators file toward the archery arena, with the Lanling delegation bringing up the rear.  Jin Zixuan rides in full tilt and knocks out one of the targets without dismounting, which leads his cousin to issue a challenge to the rest of them. It’s a silly bit of posturing that they are all too old to entertain. 

At least, that’s what Xichen is thinking when Wei Wuxian gets about seven inches from Wangji’s face and asks for his forehead ribbon. 

“What?” his brother chokes out, and Xichen can see the knot of panic threatening to spill out from behind his wide eyes. 

He cuts in. “Young master Wei, you may be unaware of our practice, but—”

“ Xiongzhang, please don’t,” Wangji says, and Xichen makes a noise of affirmation and lets it be.  

Jiang Wanyin jumps in to yell at his brother, and within seconds it seems he’s already forgotten about wanting Wangji’s ribbon: he’s untying one of his own wrist guards and using that as a blindfold so he can attempt to show up Jin Zixuan.  This of course sets off another argument with the cousin in which Wei Wuxian takes the bait and saunters off into the forest still blindfolded. 

Xichen and Wangji hit the targets easily, of course. No showy moves or blindfolds are necessary. The two of them ride off into the mountain, as they planned, and separate to find some of the prey necessary to win the hunt. Xichen ends up alongside Mingjue, taking the time to catch up and ask after his brother. They’ve had so little time to speak, and even this meeting is cut short when one of the Qinghe cultivators arrives out of breath asking Mingjue to come help with a particularly troublesome monster that has, apparently, pinned Huaisang. Xichen offers to come help, but Mingjue says something about not splitting the credit of the kill between sects and takes off on his own.

Xichen wanders alone for a bit. He sees Meng Yao in the distance, his putou a stark black against the warm green leaves. Xichen does not run, because it is not decorous, but he might rush just a little— if he’s spoken to Mingue too little, then he’s spoken to his other sworn brother not at all. 

“A-Yao!” he calls. At once, Xichen sees that the smile he wears is strained. He looks harried, his steps purposeful and brisk. “What’s the matter?”

“Ah, second brother!” Meng Yao pauses for a second to bow in greeting before gesturing for Xichen to follow. “It’s nothing, nothing to be concerned about.  It just seems that a… certain cultivator has used... unique methods to capture close to a third of the available prey on the mountain, so I’ve arranged to expand the hunting ground to avoid any hurt feelings or lost face among the others.  I’m delivering the news to my brother and cousin now, along with Madam Jin.”

“Ah, well, let me come along,” Xichen says, matching pace. “I’ve a talent for calming troubled hearts, I hear.”

“So you do. Please, by all means,” Meng Yao says, and then they arrive at what almost seems like a standoff.  A-Yao’s cousin is shouting, and Wangji is standing in front of Wei Wuxian like he and Bichen can stop an avalanche alone. It is the first time since the war Xichen has seen him hold his sword out without shaking. 

It’s all a bit absurd. Apparently, though he looks well enough, Wei Wuxian has not stopped cultivating the ghost path, and has summoned almost a third of the prey into the nets set by the Jiang sect.  In addition, Mingjue has taken out half of the monsters remaining, which means there are pitiful few left for everyone else, and everyone is very angry. Xichen and a-Yao manage to diffuse the imminent situation, and Wangji offers to come and help a-Yao set up the new perimete, and everything is well and good other than a few hurt feelings.

Xichen thinks it is all okay, all worked out, until he walks into the quarters he and Wangji share for the week and finds his brother kneeling on the ground, half dressed, hands clenched into fists so tight it looks like his fingers are broken. Ink is spilled all over their desk.

Xichen rushes  to his side without thinking, kneeling next to him and trying to get his attention. “Wangji! What happened, are you alright?”

“There’s something wrong with me,” he says, and his voice sounds like he’s been crying. Sure enough, the eyes that meet Xichen’s are red and his usually impassive face is twisted. 

“Did you get hurt during the night-hunt? Tell me what’s wrong, I can call the healers—”

Wangji’s eyes go wide and it’s clear from the panicked expression he doesn’t want anyone else involved in this.  Xichen just kneels with him quietly while he gathers his thoughts and finally says ,“I— it’s not— I kissed Wei Ying, while he was blindfolded, and he couldn’t fight back.  He didn’t even know it was me, or maybe he did because he mocked me afterward and I didn’t know— I don’t know what’s wrong with me, there’s something wrong with me, how could I do something like that! I’m… blackened, my soul is twisted, I know it is, I can feel it, xiongzhang, please—”

“Whoa, slow down.” Xichen didn’t even know what part of that to start with. To begin, it was possibly the most words Wangji had ever said in a single sitting in his life, and they all said the same thing: Xichen’s little brother was hurting and he needed to do something to make it better. He took a deep breath. “Okay, there’s nothing wrong with you, first of all.  Yes, um, kissing young master Wei was not your… best move, technically, and it isn’t usually… wise to do that to someone without permission, but it’s hardly twisted and there certainly isn’t anything wrong with you because of it.  

“You’re barely twenty, Wangji, it’s not uncommon to be overcome with fantasies at that age.  You’re not above it just because of how we were raised. The way we were raised just helps us to control it.  It’s certainly not as big of a deal as you think; my guess is that young master Wei has forgotten the whole thing already.”  A broken look from his brother tells Xichen that that was the wrong thing to say, and he tries a different tack. “Lan Wangji, Lan Zhan, my precious little brother who has never loved anything in moderation. Both telling falsehoods and allowing one’s mind to run wild are forbidden, you know that, so if you’ve done anything wrong, it’s in telling me you’re somehow wicked and in believing it yourself.”

“Rule #1834,” Wangji sniffs, and Xichen smiles at him. Wangji takes a few more minutes to breathe rhythmically, visibly centering himself, before saying, “What punishment does Sect Leader Lan suggest for this unruly lead disciple?”

Xichen pats him on the side of his head and stands up, extending a hand for him to take. “Sect Leader Lan metes that Lead Disciple Lan ought copy Self-Regulation once and thoroughly clean himself and his robes before tomorrow’s festivities.”

Wangji takes his hand, rises, and bows formally. “Wangji will do as instructed, Zewu-jun.”

Xichen bows back. “Go in peace, then, Hanguang-jun. And don’t let me catch you doing it again,” he says, and he smiles, and he chooses to believe that Wangji smiles back.

Years from now, Xichen will look back at the months before the storm and see the patterns emerge. He will see how his brother disappeared more often and he won’t just assume it’s on night hunts; he will watch his hands grew steady and will not think Wangji is doing better; he will hear how he asked to bring the boy back to the Cloud Recesses and he will not think it is empty, lovesick musing.  He will stop it before it goes to far, he will— he will—

but in the present, he does nothing. 

Everything happens the way it does because Lan Xichen does not act. 

Wei Wuxian marches into the Lanling Glamour Hall and demands justice for the Wen remnants.  Privately, Xichen thinks he is likely in the right, even if he is aggressive and uncouth about it; publicly, Xichen is silent. 

A week later, Wei Wuxian leads the last of the Wen sect to Yiling and declares them under his protection. Xichen is unnerved by the descriptions he has heard of conditions at Qiongqi Way.  He does not argue with Mingjue when his sworn brother demands even the silent Wen members’ heads as payment, because he knows he cannot win, and he wants peace. His brother argues for young master Wei and gains some ground, then storms out after one of Jin Guangshan’s own disciples tries to take him to task with no effect.  It’s all Xichen can do to calm the awful shouting in the room. 

He knows his brother speaks to that Jin cultivator but he cannot find the way to ask him what it is he wanted from her. Besides, if he fails to place himself bodily between Mingjue and a-Yao, there may be violence. 

Wangji is angry that the Jin sect has been allowed to behave in a manner completely unfit of a great cultivation sect.  He says as much to Xichen, demanding that Gusu intervene in the matter of Wei Wuxian and the Wen remnants. 

Xichen looks at his brother, his beautiful younger brother who has painted the world in shades of love and justice since the day he was born, and does not know how to tell him that he is the young leader of a sect that is still rebuilding, and Jin Guangshan would happily level Gusu if it got him what he wanted, and that means they cannot do the right thing without doing the wrong one too. 

When Wangji disappears without a whisper, Xichen knows.  He knows, and he hopes, and he says nothing. 

When Wangji comes home alone, they eat together in silence, and Xichen writes his letters to Lanling and Qinghe because of course, of course he will attend the wedding of Jin Zixuan and Jiang Yanli, and of course, of course, there will be violence soon, and he will do what he can to keep it as small as he can. 

Xichen hopes, and prays, and kneels in his ancestral hall to try and keep the worst from happening.  Maybe if he just believes hard enough, he doesn’t have to see the world get torn apart for the second time before he reaches his thirtieth year. 

It is not enough. 

Jin Guangshan’s son, and his sister’s son, are killed at Qiongqi path by Wei Wuxian’s personal attack dog Wen Ning. Jin Guangshan is livid, and there is going to be war, and Xichen’s prayers are not enough to stop it. The thirty cultivators Wangji sent without his knowledge to try and stop the violence are not enough to stop it. Not even the sacrifice of the Ghost General and his sister are enough to stop it, despite Xichen actually arguing that they should let it be since the murder has, officially, been answered. 

Amidst it all he is too much of a fool to see his brother slowly slipping away from him. 

He goes to the pointless pledge conference in the place he never wanted to go again, the nightmare Nightless City, because what else can he do? The elders agree that Wei Wuxian uses wicked methods that cannot be tolerated, both his sworn brothers have insisted Xichen’s presence is necessary to maintain peace. How can he show the world less face than the 19 year old Jiang Wanyin and his broken fragment of a clan? 

When Wei Wuxian appears on the apex of the roof, Xichen thinks, of course.   He’s wan and sallow, all gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes.  There is nothing left in him of the summer-sun boy Xichen met five years ago, nothing left of the boy Wangji fell in love with.  

There is an arrow, and everything happens far too quickly.  Xichen cannot stop the battle that starts, but Wangji runs forward, summoning his qin and trying to calm the air, keep the piercing notes of the dizi from overcoming everything. 

For a moment, it almost seems to work. The sound disappears. There’s shouting. In it he can hear Wangji’s trembling voice yell “Wei Ying!” before the boy in question disappears into the field of battle as if on a mission.

Xichen is back-to-back with Mingjue and as such his field of vision is limited, but even so, he sees it.  A figure in funeral white, stumbling through the plaza — the widow Jiang Yanli. He can’t hear her, but he sees Jiang Wanyin’s head swivel and it’s not hard to guess who she’s here for. He sees her brothers try to get to her. He sees Wei Wuxian’s face clear for just a moment in panic as one of his puppets attacks at her and he cannot stop it — and then the three of them disappear as she falls and her brothers try to catch her. 

Suddenly, the corpses stop. Some just drop their weapons and begin wandering aimlessly, others freeze, and still others collapse to the ground. He and Mingjue are still trying to help their sects, but Xichen can tell something has happened to Wei Wuxian, and his thoughts fly to Wangji. He scans the crowd looking for a glimpse of white robes or a red ribbon.  

He sees Wei Wuxian go flying to the side as his sister pushes him. He sees a Jin sect cultivator lunge forward and pierce Jiang Yanli through the chest. He sees his brother, eyes wide, mouth open in a scream Xichen cannot hear over the chaos, shove the cultivators in front of him aside and sprint across the field — and he sees him already too late to keep Wei Wuxian from killing the boy who killed his sister.

He sees Wei Wuxian stumble to his feet, Wangji skidding to a stop a few meters away. The empty shell of a lotus sunset snarls and hisses and snaps together his cruel invention and the world whistles to a stop.

For a second that seems to last twelve years, everything is as silent as newfallen snow. 

Then the dead come over the walls.

 It is exactly as horrible as Xichen remembers it being — worse, even, because this time the rotting beasts come hurtling at him and his brothers, sworn and blood.  He sees Mingjue lurch to make sure Huaisang is out of danger, rushing across the field and away from Xichen to his brother’s side. Wangji is a vision in white, but Xichen only sees him in flashes — a burst of qin cultivation here, a white sleeve there. It is all Xichen can do to stay on his feet. 

He takes a clawed hand to his ribs, a half-broken sword piercing through his left bicep.  At some point, an arrow grazes his forehead. The blood from the wound blinds him. It leaves him sputtering and stumbling backwards.  His sword raised, Xichen takes a knee to try and shelter from the blows that rain down from every angle. How many of them are still alive? Will he die in this awful city after all?

The last thing he sees is his brother, half crippled, dragging a dying Wei Wuxian onto Bichen before flying into the howling night. Then the last of his spiritual power fades, and he slips into merciful darkness.

He wakes up back in Gusu with a splitting headache, a bandaged arm, and his uncle hovering over him.

He’s baffled as to how he arrived home through the melee. After a few minutes of concentrating, Xichen remembers rushing home on Shuoyue the instant he was able and stumbling through the gates before collapsing from injury and exhaustion. 

He and his uncle say it at the same time: “Where’s Wangji?”

Then, “Oh no.”

“Yiling,” Xichen chokes out, voice still hoarse from sleep. “We have to go to Yiling. Wangji will listen to reason.”

“I will gather the elders. We do not know what we will find in that place.” Uncle flips his sleeves behind him. “Be ready in six hours time.  If he does not return with us willingly, he will have to return unwillingly.”

“Uncle!” Xichen calls, and Lan Qiren stops for a moment. “We won’t hurt him. Promise me we won’t hurt him.”

His uncle turns, and his face is unreadable except for a twinge of pain.  He says nothing, except to grip his sword harder and leave the room. 

Xichen uses as much of his spiritual energy as he can spare to heal the wound on his arm, then meditates for four hours. He packs his qiankun pouch with healing herbs and neutralizing talismans and tucks it into his sleeve. He skitters around his room as if somewhere he will find the text that holds the secret to keeping his little brother safe in body, mind, and reputation.  He thinks of what might happen if Jin Guangshan or Jiang Wanyin have the same thought they do, if they’re headed for Yiling already.

He burns a stick of incense and prays he gets there first. 

It must be a sight to see: thirty-four old men and one injured sect leader, flying on swords because they cannot spare the time to ride, whisking across the sky like something out of a storybook.  Xichen knows his brother would not leave the boy he loves to the sky like carrion, so he instructs the others to work in a slow spiral pattern out from the top of the mountain, looking for any sign of Wangji. 

It takes two sleepless days of searching before they find him.  They pass the cave where Wangji has hidden twice before someone notices a spark of spiritual energy in the dark. They descend quickly and silently, Xichen leading at the front. He mouths silent prayers to every god and immortal he can think of, begging them for Wangji’s life and health with every shaking breath. 

The scene that greets them shatters Xichen’s heart. Wei Wuxian is upright, but that’s the only sign of life he exhibits. His eyes are dull and blank, shoulders slumped.  Wangji is supporting him with his own body, feeding an endless stream of spiritual energy into his pulse point. Even from a distance, Xichen can see that he is tired, but still he silently pours his soul into this hollow man who has been the harbinger of such ill fortune for their people. 

Wei Wuxian seems to be muttering something, but it isn’t until Xichen gets a little closer that he can understand what it is.

“Get out,” he slurs, unfocused eyes looking through Wangji as if he’s barely there. “Get lost. Leave. Get out.”

Xichen can’t speak. He doesn’t know what this feeling in the pit of his stomach is, crawling up his throat and threatening to choke him surely as lake-water. He’s frozen in place, not even sure if Wangji has noticed their arrival. He wants to grab his brother and run until they meet the sea, then keep running.  He wants to shove Wei Wuxian down his godforsaken hill and leave him for the crows. He wants to bring them both to Gusu and try to sort this out, he wants to turn on his heel and sprint as far as west is west and never speak to anyone again. He understands for a flash of a moment why Wangji claws at his skin with worry —  if he could, he’d unzip himself and step out and be anyone but Sect Leader Lan Xichen at this moment.

It’s their uncle that snaps him out of it, stepping ahead of Xichen and shouting, “Wangji! Stop this instant.”

Wangji looks up, but makes no move to stop what he is doing. 

“You will return with us to Gusu,” his uncle says. “This charade has gone on long enough. You will not make the same mistakes your father did.  Get your sword.”

“This nephew will not return to Gusu.” Wangji is still and calm as polished jade.  Xichen feels like he’s going to throw up. 

“You will,” Lan Qiren says, “whether you want to or not.”

Wangji simply inclines his head. 

“Fool of a nephew! Have you no care for your own reputation, your own life? Have you no care for the endless worries of your elder brother or the orders of your sect leaders and elders?”

“I will not return to Gusu, but remain with Wei Ying.”

“Of all the willful— Lan Zhan, I will haul you back to Gusu with two broken legs. I’m warning you. This is not a negotiation.”

“If it must be so, so be it.”

Their uncle throws up his hands and turns to Xichen as if to say you deal with him.

Behind him, the elders are rustling.  There is the sound of a few swords inching out from their scabbards. Xichen thinks he has never been this afraid in his life and it gives him the frantic energy to break his jaw open enough to speak. 

“Don’t make me do this.” Xichen knows he sounds desperate and more than a little unhinged. “Please, Wangji, don’t make me hurt my little brother. I can’t do it, I won’t do it, I can’t — please, Wangji, please, I’m begging you, come home with me.  We can figure this out if you’d just… I can’t hurt you, please, Wangji, please, please don’t make me.”

“ Xiongzhang, ” Wangji reaches out and takes Xichen’s hand, fingers closing over the white knuckles with which he grips Shuoyue . “This brother would never ask such a thing of you.”

The first thing Xichen feels is overwhelming relief as his brother starts toward him and the others. 

The second thing Xichen feels is his knees crumpling beneath him as Bichen connects with his jaw with a sickening crack.

The third thing Xichen feels is nothing at all. 

He wakes up, again, in Gusu, with his uncle by his bed. 

Again, the first words out of his mouth are “Where is Wangji?”

“Locked in the Jingshi . Two disciples guard the doors and there are alarm talismans surrounding it, so he doesn’t try to leave.”

Xichen breathes a sigh of relief. It could have gone so much worse — they could have injured Wangji badly, or killed him accidentally; he could have truly lost his mind and killed them — but they’re safe and back in Gusu at last. 

If they’re here, though, it means Wei Wuxian is, at best, back in a cave in Yiling. It means they had to forcibly tear his brother away from the person he loves the most. It means Wangji is locked in the house where their mother died, worried out of his mind, and Xichen is not there to comfort him.

Xichen rises, putting on his robes and going to kneel at the center table.  He wants to see his brother, but it would be wisest if he ate first, had some tea, got himself centered and calm. His uncle joins him at the table, sitting in silence as Xichen eats and sipping his tea.

“Xichen…” he says as soon as they have finished, and the terror-knot Xichen just finished untangling rolls itself right back up into his stomach. 

“Uncle, whatever it is, please just tell me.”

“Your brother badly injured every single one of the elders we brought to Yiling.  My cultivation is high enough that I recovered quite quickly. Some, like you, are coming around now.  Others were not so lucky. The healers say at least twelve will be permanently injured. Lan Linfeng and Lan Fanxue are not expected to last the week unless we are able to transfuse a great amount of spiritual energy in that time.”  

Xichen feels like he has been stabbed repeatedly.  He wants to cry, or throw up, or scream at the top of his lungs. He does none of these things. He listens as his uncle continues.

“Xichen, Wangji broke nearly fifty sect rules and injured thirty-three of our elders.  Out of the rules he broke, four of them are among the ten abominations. You know this behavior cannot go unmet. As much as it breaks my heart to say it — Xichen, your brother has to stand for punishment.”

Xichen is dead. He’s died, and he’s in hell, and all his nerves have gone numb and his spirit has left his body and he is watching himself sit like a statue in the center of the Hanshi and say “What has the council decided is fair?”

“Thirty-three lashes, thirty-three hours spent kneeling before the wall of rules, three years spent in seclusion.” 

“And there’s nothing to be done?”

“I already visited Wangji,” Lan Qiren says, and Xichen slumps forward in defeat, because he knows what his uncle will say. “Your brother has insisted he be punished to the full extent of the statute.”

“He’ll die.”

“He’s strong.”

“He’s injured .”

“He made his choices.”

Xichen’s body says “When will the punishment be delivered?” as his soul, ten feet above, screams in agony.

“Today at noon.”  Lan Qiren looks at Xichen and there is genuine sorrow in his eyes. “Xichen, you are not expected to attend. This will not be a time of celebration, and no one would fault you for not wishing to see your brother hurt.”

“I will attend,” he says, and that comes from body-Xichen and spirit-Xichen both. “He’s my brother. I need to be there.”

Their uncle nods. “As you will.”

He leaves, and Xichen’s soul snaps back into his body and he picks up his hands and covers his mouth and quietly screams into them for twelve seconds, just enough so he doesn’t feel like he’s going to throw up the breakfast he just ate. He would call this his worst nightmare, but he doesn’t think he’s ever had a nightmare so horrific. For a moment, he entertains the fantasy that Wei Wuxian’s puppets had torn him apart back in the Nightless City and he is a dead man who didn’t have to watch his brother get beaten half to death and stand there doing nothing. What a lovely thing it would be to be a corpse right now.

Twelve-noon.  It was only two hours away, because Xichen woke very late and moderately concussed.  If he doesn’t calm his spirit now, he is sure he will enter a qi deviation the moment the whip is raised.  Xichen folds himself into the lotus position, injured joints complaining uselessly as he flows the energy he has left through every point in his body, fighting back the tide of emotion that threatens to overtake him at every step. He knows he’s shaking, can feel the material of his robe shifting under the backs of his hands. He tries desperately to gain some semblance of calm before one of the disciples comes and fetches him.

He walks silently toward the place where his brother is already kneeling, stripped to the waist, posture flawless. Wangji still has half-healed wounds from the battle at Nightless City and for a moment Xichen thinks about turning back around and walking out. Their uncle gestures for him to sit, but Xichen just clasps his hands behind his back and grips his sword so tightly he thinks he might snap it in half. 

Wangji will not meet his eyes.  Instead, he resolutely looks straight ahead.   Xichen isn’t sure which is worse — his brother looking away, or his brother looking at him.  He can only be thankful that he does not have to speak during this exchange. 

Their uncle lays out the rules that Wangji has broken, the statutes he’s trampled, but it’s nothing but a buzzing in Xichen’s ears.  He can’t make out a single word until he hears his uncle’s sharp voice say “Begin!” and the first strike falls. Xichen wants to look away but he can’t, he can’t, he has to endure this because it is his failure to protect his brother that led to this and he deserved to be the one being beaten.

Xichen is afraid if he tears his eyes away he will rush forward and snatch the whip from the hands of the elder wielding it, grab his brother and run. He doesn’t. He feels the pain of every strike in his teeth, can hear the whispers of phantom lashes against his own back. The numbers blur together eventually, but he always remembers some: Wangji cries out first at seven, spits up blood at ten, falls forward onto one arm at twelve. Even the elders present have looked away, not able to bear the sight of pain so heavy it is visible on his face to outsiders, not just his brother. Xichen can no longer hold his tongue and makes a pained noise that sounds not unlike an animal dying, and for a moment his brother’s eyes flicker to him and Xichen can see, even now, sorrow without regret. 

By fifteen, Wangji is pale, shivering, a light sheen of sweat on his shoulders. 

At seventeen, Xichen sees the whip rear back and in its path there is a fine mist of his brother’s blood. 

At twenty-two, Wangji collapses. The white pants he wears beneath his robes are soaked red. 

At twenty-three, Xichen chokes out something that he will later realize is himself begging Uncle to stop this before it goes too far.  

At twenty-four, Uncle raises an arm and Xichen is almost hopeful before two disciples step ahead of him to keep him from interfering.

At twenty-six, Xichen thinks, if my brother dies here I will die here too .

At thirty, Xichen looks at Wangji and realizes he is not looking down, then realizes he has fallen to his knees too. 

At thirty-three, Xichen leaps to his feet, bursts through the disciples who stand between him and Wangji, snarls at the elder holding the whip to leave and runs to his brother. 

Wangji is unconscious. Xichen only has a moment to think I am kneeling in my brother’s blood before he grabs his wrists to find a pulse. It’s weak and fast but present, and Xichen immediately starts pouring his own energy into his brother, pulling him into his lap and stroking his hair with his free hand.  

He’s crying, he knows he is, but who here has the face to criticise him? These disciples who turned away their heads at Wangji’s pain? Let them try to speak a word against him. Let them try to take his brother from him. Xichen will die before he lets this happen again. 

He sits curled around Wangji’s unconscious form until the disciples from the medical pavilion arrive with their stretcher and herbs.  He lets them maneuver Wangji so they can apply a salve to his back that should stop the bleeding and encourage healing, but refuses to let go of his hand, continuing to feed him spiritual energy as they work. He releases him just long enough 

to allow the disciples to lift him onto the stretcher, then grabs his wrist again and walks briskly alongside them. 

Once they’re in the medicine hall and Wangji has been situated onto one of the beds, the two disciples leave quickly and Xichen is alone with his brother again.  Logically, he knows he is beginning to tire: his energy is hardly at its peak and he himself is injured. It doesn’t matter. He’ll stay here with his brother until Wangji wakes up or Xichen falls unconscious. He doesn’t know what more he can do, how he can fix this. The silence feels too much like a mockery of the comfortable quiet he and Wangji used to enjoy.  

Xichen starts to hum.  He doesn’t even know what he’s doing until he realizes it’s the song Wangji sang for him outside the Nightless City, the night before their final push began and they watched the sun set on the Wens.  Beside him, Wangji stirs a little, but doesn’t wake. His pulse is stronger, though, and slower, so Xichen keeps feeding him energy and humming. 

He doesn’t remember perfectly how the song goes, so he guesses at it, makes melodies up to fill the gaps. He doesn’t even realize when the door slides open and someone enters until she clears her throat and his head snaps up.

Lan Qizai is a first cousin, the daughter of Xichen’s grandfather’s younger brother. She is the head of medicine at the Cloud Recesses, an unparalleled genius when it comes to preventing qi damage, and the only person Xichen has ever seen his uncle afraid of. She sweeps into the room, medical bag in tow. 

She sighs. “Oh, Zhanzhan, what have you gotten yourself into now.” Kicking a chair into place, she grabs Wangji’s other wrist and checks his pulse. “Hmm. Now, he’s already back to semai, that’s good. He’ll need to keep having energy transfused for a few hours until he’ll be ready to be up and about.”  She presses the back of her hand to his forehead, then draws a blue sigil in the air and sends it whooshing through his torso. “That should stop whatever qi obstruction I was feeling and advance his healing abilities.” 

She turns her hawk eyes on Xichen. “Now to you. Lan Huan, what do you think you’re doing?” Xichen starts to tell her that it’s not against the rules to heal a disciple after a punishment when she continues. “I heal you from one concussion, you get another. I heal you from one stab wound, your brother gets thirty-three strikes of the discipline whip and here you are starving your own core to heal him. As if no one else in the Cloud Recesses has qi to spare, huh? I should take your sword and chase you with it! Foolish little cousin! You shouldn’t even be out of bed! I’d tell you to leave but I know the chances of that are slim. Sect Leader or not, though, I will chase you out of my ward and into bed the instant one of my disciples comes in to take over for you. No arguments! I won’t be having two patients today!”

Xichen knows better than to try and argue with her. He’s seen her chase someone with a fan before; he shivers to think what she could do with a sword. When one of her assistants arrives, bows, and takes over for him, he leans over and presses a kiss to the top of his brother’s head, bows to his cousin, and takes his leave. 

The dream Lan Xichen has that night, he will come to call the Red Dream. It is always slightly different, whether in setting or small details, but the core remains constant: his brother dies. He cannot make the blows stop coming. The world is dyed in perfect, wedding red.

For four years, the Red Dream will visit itself on him daily. After that, the frequency is difficult to predict — sometimes it stays away for months at a time, sometimes it bites at his heels like a rabid dog. (When a boy wearing Mo Xuanyu’s face arrives at the Cloud Recesses, the Red Dream, which Xichen will not have had in two years, will come to him nightly.  He will not know why until, all at once, he will.) 

The first night, he wakes in a cold sweat twenty minutes before five, breathing heavily, that awful feeling settling back in his stomach. As any good Lan should, he meditates until it is time to wake. When the bell rings, he rises, dresses, washes his face and steps out into the early morning light.

He stops by the kitchen, as he always does, but does not eat. He thinks if he eats he will not be able to keep it down, and his stomach is turned enough without adding to it. He walks down the winding staircase to the wall of rules and is met with exactly the sight he expected — exactly the sight he was hoping he wouldn’t see.

Wangji is dressed in flawless white robes. His posture, as always, is perfect. To an outsider, it would be impossible to tell that fewer than twenty-four hours ago, he was unconscious and clinging to life. Xichen walks up and kneels next to him, settling back onto his heels. 

They sit in silence together for a few minutes. It’s actually Wangji who breaks the silence first, saying “Is xiongzhang angry?”

His voice is clearly raw. From this close, Xichen can see that his shoulders are tight, sweat beading at his brow despite the cool weather, but his hands, folded neatly in his lap, are steady.  Xichen doesn’t know how to answer his question — he isn’t angry at Wangji, obviously; he doesn’t think he has it in him to be angry at his brother, but he’s starting to think “angry” might be the right word for the simmering snarl in his stomach — the truth is, Xichen has been trying very hard to ignore whatever way he’s feeling at the moment. He decides to answer with a question of his own: “How long has xiao didi been kneeling?”

“Since bedtime; eight hours.” Twenty-five left, then; a little over a day. Wangji doesn’t move his head, but his eyes flick to Xichen. “Sect Leader Lan is angry.”

“I didn’t say that. You’re looking right at the wall of rules; what’s the number for ‘one ought not to make assumptions?’”

“Sect Leader Lan only calls Wangji xiao didi when he’s upset.”

“Sect Leader Lan humbly requests Hanguang-jun speak with him normally and not with such formalities.” Xichen huffs. Maybe he is a little angry. “Hanguang-jun only calls Xichen Sect Leader Lan when he’s angry — is xiao didi angry with me?”

“You took me from him,” Wangji says, and Xichen isn’t looking at him but he can hear the set of his jaw. “Will you go with the others, to kill him? I won’t forgive you.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” Xichen says, and yes, it’s official, he is angry.  Has he ever been angry before? He’s not sure he can remember a time. “I’m sure you’ll be petulant and hissy about it, but you’ll be alive and petulant, so forgive this brother for sacrificing your forgiveness. ”

“Maybe I’ll commit suicide in front of you,” Wangji says, and even with his broken voice, even with the little note of truth, it really does sound petulant and hissy. They both hear it.  Xichen breaks first, trying to cover his laughter with coughing, but then he hears Wangji trying to hold back laughter behind tightly pressed lips and they both give up and laugh at each other like schoolboys. 

Wangji’s laughter quickly turns to coughing and a pained gasp, which halts Xichen’s laughter entirely. The silence then is a bit awkward; Xichen picks at grass for a moment before saying “... Was it worth it? Even you can’t deny that he has done things that are truly beyond morality — due to his actions both you and I almost died at Nightless City, for one; for another, little Jin Rulan is an orphan at less than a year old because of him. Standing by him, was it worth the pain, the damage to your reputation? Was it worth adding your mistakes to his?”

“Yes,” Wangji answers without hesitation. “Yes, it was worth it, every bit of it. I don’t know if he was right or wrong to do the things that he did, although I’m certain he had good reasons for all of them.  It doesn’t matter. Right or wrong, good or evil, righteous or wicked — I would stand by him through all of it. I will take the accolades and the blows — if it is for Wei Ying, it’s worth it.”

When Xichen speaks, he knows his voice is wet and choked. “Do you hear yourself? You really are just like Father.” If he killed me, or Uncle, would you bring him back here and lock yourselves in seclusion? he wants to ask, but thinks better of it; he isn’t sure he wants the answer. 

“You’re just like mother.  You think things are wrong but you keep your tongue and don’t complain until it’s too late,” Wangji says, voice a little too sharp. Then he softens and says, “I’m sorry. I hardly think you were suggesting I would kidnap someone and hold them prisoner. It’s just— we can’t help but learn their flaws. I would destroy myself for love, you would do it for peace. The curse of our family.”

“The curse of our family,” Xichen confirms. “I brought you some steamed buns. Eat them, I might not be able to make it back for the midday meal and you need to keep your strength up.” 

“Mn, I’m supposed to be fasting.”

“You’re badly injured. I’m Sect Leader and I’m commanding you to eat this bun, Lead Disciple Lan.” He puts it into his brother’s hand.

Wangji rolls his eyes, but eats it anyway. He doesn’t speak but Xichen knows from the slant of his mouth he’s grateful. 

They sit in silence a little bit longer. The sun starts stretching her rays across the treetops, and the wind ruffles through their hair. Xichen turns and looks at his brother, still beautiful even with dark circles and pallor, still someone he is so incredibly proud of even if he can’t understand why he makes his choices, and he says “I love you. You know that, right? I love you so much.”

Wangji doesn’t say anything. Xichen wasn’t sure he would.  He stares intently at the wall of rules, balls up his hands, and chews on his bottom lip for a few seconds and suddenly Xichen realizes he’s got tears in his eyes.  Wangji bows his head a little then looks up at the sky and closes his eyes, and he doesn’t have to say anything for Xichen to hear it loud and clear: I love you too.

Xichen would kneel with him the rest of the day, but he is Sect Leader, and there is the matter of Wei Wuxian and the Burial Mounds to answer to — he knows there’s a letter from a-Yao and a letter from Mingjue waiting for him — and beyond that, there is something he has realized he needs to do.  He rises and hugs Wangji around the shoulders, quickly, then takes his leave up the hill.

For the afternoon, Xichen works steadily through his clan leader duties.  He settles a few disputes, organizes his way through some requests for help from their banner clans, answers letters to some constituents — a usual day’s work.  The letters from his sworn brothers sit hot and unopened on his desk, burning in the periphery of his vision. They are still unopened when he rises, tells his uncle he will be taking the evening to cultivate alone, and goes toward the back hill. 

He passes through the living area for their clan, then through the temples area, continuing up the mountain. He climbs until the trees and air both thin and he’s standing at the highest point in the place where the clouds gather the place where he grew up, the place where his mother died and his father died and his brother nearly died.  Maybe he’s the master now, hidden up on the mountain, where the clouds are dense, unable to be found. 

He stares into the sun until he can’t look anymore. Then he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and screams.

Lan Xichen has never screamed before in his life, not like this. He’s shouted, to get people’s attention or to communicate in a loud setting.  He’s screamed quietly, under his breath, into his hands or a pillow or a pine tree when something truly infuriating was happening, but even that lasted for only a few seconds. 

Now, he is screaming at the top of his lungs, screaming until his throat aches.  He runs out of breath, gulps in another and keeps screaming. 

No words come out of his mouth, just this ungodly noise that he’s pouring all his anger and fear and sadness into, until he feels hollowed out like a summer melon. 

He screams until his voice is hoarse and then keeps screaming, after the noise of it has gone silent and all that can be heard is the hot scrape of air, after he’s collapsed to one knee and then both and then is laying on his back with his eyes screwed shut and his feet under his thighs and his hands covering his face. He screams until he physically cannot scream any longer, until he coughs and stains his perfect white robes with flecks of blood, until he is laid out on the highest peak of the Cloud Recesses completely empty.

If the world ended right now, Xichen cannot see himself caring enough to do anything about it. He has been in a war, has killed and injured more people than he cares to remember, and he has hated every second of the senseless violence despite its necessity. Now, there is some dark shadow of him that actually wants to see Wei Wuxian suffer for what he’s done to Wangji and it frightens and sickens Xichen in equal parts.  If he had his way he would never set eyes on Wei Wuxian again for as long as he lived, but he has two letters begging to be answered and a brother whose back will not heal for years, whose heart might not heal at all.  

He will have to go to Yiling and make an answer — but what answer? How can he strike at this boy knowing Wangji’s heart is carried inside his narrow, black-robed chest? How can he hold his hand back and not see the fine red spray from the whip in the space between?

He is truly angry for maybe the first time in his life. He feels like someone has lit a fire in his core and it is threatening to consume him, leaving nothing but ashes. It is awful, and by nightfall he will have to do something about it, but for now he will lay here on this hill with the wind whipping over his exhausted frame and his hands over his eyes and pretend that when he walks back down, everything will be right in his little world. 

The next morning, Xichen wakes, dresses, gathers his things, and tells two dozen of his most trusted seniors to wait for him by the gates.  He goes to the kitchen and chokes down a bit of congee. He takes three steamed buns to Wangji, who has about an hour left of his kneeling punishment before his seclusion begins, places them in his hands, bows to him, then walks back up the hill. 

By seven, he and his small complement of cultivators have departed for the war camp in Yunmeng. 

They arrive by nightfall. The Jiang sect has a small force that has gone ahead to secure a perimeter, so only a few remain at the base camp.  The Nie soldiers number in the low forties, with Mingjue spending the night working with his generals to ensure their blades will be protected against the ghostly notes played on Chenqing .  

The bulk of the army is thereby comprised of the hundreds, maybe thousands of Jin sect cultivators, led this time by Jin Guangyao.  Their camp is massive, reminiscent of the siege of Nightless City a few years ago: dozens and dozens of glistening gold tents set up outside Yunmeng with horses and soldiers bustling between them.  The Lan sect cultivators hadn’t brought accommodations for sleeping other than bedrolls, assuming they would sleep beneath the elements, but a-Yao insists they sleep in the camp tents LanlingJin has set up, inviting Xichen to stay in the command tent with him.  

That’s where a-Yao finds Xichen, bent over the map of the Burial Mounds, fingers drumming anxiously on the table. 

“Everything alright, Xichen- ge ?” a-Yao asks, coming to stand alongside him. “Have you found a weakness in our plans?”

“No, nothing like that.” Xichen sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I haven’t been at ease for some time. This whole thing sits badly with me.”

“Surely you agree that the Yiling Patriarch has done great evil, and must be punished?”

“Yes, well, maybe. Look, a-Yao, you know my heart better than most. Even during the Sunshot campaign, I never once wanted to hurt the people we were fighting.  Even Wen Ruohan — I took no pleasure in his death, even if it was deserved and necessary. My whole life, I have never felt the urge to strike out at someone, even an evil person who has done great wrong.” 

Xichen turns to face his sworn brother, who is nodding sympathetically although it does little to calm Xichen’s nerves. “Why now?” Xichen asks, not really expecting an answer. “I close my eyes and I think of plunging my sword between Wei Wuxian’s ribs, and I am satisfied, and I hate it. What is wrong with me? There’s no honor in taking joy from killing and hurting. Even da-ge finds his honor in victory, not pain.  Sometimes I think I hate young master Wei, and then I hate myself for feeling it.” 

A-Yao reaches out and places a placating hand over the one Xichen is stil resting on the desk. “ Er-ge, there’s nothing wrong with you. Our battle against the Wen-dogs was just, and your own sect suffered great losses, but it was impersonal. This Yiling Patriarch has hurt you in your deepest heart when he hurt your brother.” His voice is familiar, mild and kind, and it helps to center Xichen. “Who knows what vile sorceries he’s worked to make Wangji step so far off the bright and righteous path? You have every right to hate him, and want to see him hurt for what he’s done to the ones you love the most. It’s a natural thing, and the fact that you’re so conflicted in it shows how good your heart is.”

Xichen laughs joylessly and goes to sit on his bedroll.  “I appreciate it, a-Yao, I really do. I know you mean it in all truth. It just… hurts, no matter what I think. You’ve taken revenge before, right? When you hurt the person who hurt you… does it help? Does it take that pain away?”

His sworn brother comes to sit down next to him, quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, a different timbre than Xichen has ever heard him use. “Listen carefully.  Here’s the way you do it.” He turns so he and Xichen are facing one another, then reaches over and pulls Xichen’s right hand up so it is level with his shoulder, then his left hand in front of his mouth. “He’ll be playing his flute, without question. When you approach, he might try to run — say something to get him engaged. He loves talking, but make sure he doesn’t drop his arm too far or else you’ll have to think on your feet.” 

A-Yao picks up Shuoyue, keeping it sheathed, and presses the tip into Xichen’s right wrist. “Distract him,” he says. “Feint to the left, and when he turns his head — “ Suddenly, he shoves the sword forward, so Xichen’s hand is pinned to his shoulder and they are nearly chest-to-chest “-- drive your sword through his wrist and shoulder, up to the hilt. Make one ninety-degree turn with the blade, then draw it out in that position. He will lose the ability to play, and since you’ve injured two qi points and one great vessel, he will have to keep his arms close to his body or risk death. He’ll retreat for sure.”

Xichen knows his face must be odd, eyes wide, breath coming a little too quickly for his taste. He’s startled by the intense turn this conversation has taken.  He has to nearly dip his chin to look a-Yao in the eyes — they are still incredibly close to one another, his sworn brother leaning so far into his space he is practically in his lap. “How does a-Yao know of such a technique?” he says, unsure of what decorum dictates as the appropriate way to ask him to back up a little.

His sworn brother straightens, putting Shuoyue to the side and primly folding his hands in his lap. “Ah, er-ge .  This one has such a low cultivation level that I fear clever tricks are all I have to protect myself! Apologies if it crossed a line with a righteous one such as yourself.”

 “No, no, you’re alright.” Xichen awkwardly dusts off his robes. “Um, I appreciate the thought.  I think I might just have to… figure it out for myself.”

“Of course, of course!” A-Yao stands and bows before remembering himself and laughing. “Oh, and it’s past nine, so of course er-ge must be tired! Thank you for listening to me so politely, I’ll go blow the lamps out.”

Xichen doesn’t say anything, because there’s nothing to say. Two years ago, he would never have thought his sworn brother capable of the kind of violence he describes. Even hearing it now is shocking, but he supposes war changes everyone. He doesn’t know how to ask a-Yao about it, how to find the thing that makes him so sure that he can hurt another person, but he does, strangely, feel a little better. 

They attack at dawn. Because they make up the bulk of the army, the Jin sect takes the arduous task of combing the mountain from the bottom up.  The Jiang sect has mostly taken the edges of the mountain, but Jiang Wanyin has come up with the Nie and Lan cultivators who are headed right for Demon-Subdue Palace to face off with Wei Wuxian directly.

The battle is a mess from the start. The sounds of that cursed dizi are all around, but it’s three hours of brutal fighting before Xichen even gets a glimpse of the man. All Xichen sees is his red ribbon, violent and stark against the shambling mass, before he’s swallowed by the horde. Xichen must have cut down a hundred fierce corpses by the time he sees it, but the damned things keep coming without any regard for decency or battle formation. 

Within the few hours he’s been on the Burial Mounds, Xichen has taken two arrows to the back of his shoulder, a swipe of a bony hand that cut through his robes and left a bleeding gash on his left arm, and a full-body ram from a particularly angry one that sent him flying into a rock and broke a few ribs. He’s expended far too much spiritual energy to make repelling talismans and keep Shuoyue aloft, he can’t bother healing petty wounds like these if he wants to survive the day. 

Finally, he gets a clear look at Wei Wuxian, a clear path towards him. He thinks first, this is my chance! Then, when he doesn’t move, he thinks oh, no, I can’t do this. The boy looks unhinged, hair falling out of his ponytail and robes akimbo, cheeks gaunt, eyes hunted and hollow. He can’t look at this wraithlike figure without seeing his brother standing over him, ready to protect him with his life. How could he disrespect his brother so greatly as to go behind his back to do the exact thing he was willing to die to prevent? 

He starts to lower Shuoyue when Wei Wuxian sees him and smiles an empty, vicious smile. 

“Zewu-jun! So good of you Lan sect people to bless us with your presence.” His voice is little more than a raw snarl as he stalks toward Xichen. “So righteous and pure. Here to put the wicked Yiling Laozu in his place? Well, you’re welcome to try!”

“Wei Wuxian,” he starts, not sure what he’s going to say.  

“Willing to dirty your hands with the cursed soil of the Burial Mounds?” Wei Wuxian talks like he didn’t even hear Xichen, his corpses flurrying around them like a cyclone. “Why are you here? I already see blood on your perfect white sleeves — maybe Zewu-jun isn’t such a flawless jade after all!”

It’s all Xichen can do not to roll his eyes.  He’s seen an animal caught in a snare before. They snarl and bite at anyone coming near, hunter or rescuer; there’s no use taking such empty words to heart.

He’s just about figured out the path he’ll take to drag this angry little man out of his death pit when he hears Wei Wuxian say “And where’s that peerless brother of yours, huh? I haven’t seen him anywhere. After so many months of trying to take me prisoner, has he finally washed his hands of me? The beautiful and righteous Hanguang-jun couldn’t be here to sully his hands with the likes of the Yiling Patriarch?”

Like he has every night since his brother was nearly beaten to death, Xichen sees red. 

When he comes to his senses, his sword is already buried to the hilt through Wei Wuxian’s wrist and shoulder, just like a-Yao had showed him.  They are chest to chest, eye to eye — unlike him and his sworn brother, Wei Wuxian and Lan Xichen are about equal in height — and Wei Wuxian’s eyes are wide in shock.

Lan Xichen holds his gaze.  He twists his sword once, to the right, ninety degrees. “I think you know exactly why I’m here,” he says, pulling the sword out slowly but keeping their positions the same, “don’t you, Wei Ying? ”

Wei Wuxian shoves him backwards. For a split second Xichen sees the lotus summer boy he met five years ago, eyes wide, mouth open, before they are separated by too many corpses to count. 

It is the last time Lan Xichen sees the boy his brother loves, dead or alive. 

In the time it takes to burn a stick of incense, there is a sound like a crack of thunder, a frenzy of hands, and a broken scream. The fierce corpses collapse all at once.

Wei Wuxian is nowhere to be found.  

Jiang Wanyin takes the flute. Xichen takes the ribbon.

When a-Yao asks if Xichen will stay and celebrate their victory, he smiles the smile of a man on the steps of execution and says “Thank you, but I need to get home to my brother.”

To say that this is not a conversation Xichen is looking forward to is vastly overstating the point.  Before he left, he asked Lan Qizai to please ensure that once Wangji enters seclusion, he is kept asleep until Xichen returns. The last thing he needs is Wangji, heavily injured and roaming the countryside trying to get back to his beloved. It’s been a terrible enough week.

Still, Xichen owes it to his brother to tell him the truth.  It’s nearly eight PM by the time he makes it back to the Cloud Recesses on Shuoyue , alone, the rest of his complement remaining in Yiling for the celebration. He takes a moment to change out of his war-torn robes and into fresh ones and wash the dirt of the Burial Mounds off his face, then heads for the Jingshi with a red ribbon in hand and a heavy heart. 

Wangji stirs when he hears Xichen open the door. He props himself up, clearly exhausted despite sleeping for nearly three days, and mumbles “ Xiongzhang? ”

Xichen sits on the edge of his brother’s bed. “Wangji. I have… unpleasant news.”

“No,” Wangji says, squeezing his eyes closed like it can block the truth from coming. “No, no, please. Please, Xichen, tell me it’s not— tell me he’s not—”

“I’m so sorry,” Xichen says, and despite it all he really means it. “It was backlash from his own spells.  We think he tried to destroy the Stygian Tiger Amulet. When it shattered, his corpses turned on him. There was nothing anyone could do.”

The cry that rips its way out of Wangji’s throat is something primal, something from the center of his soul. It pierces through Xichen’s vital gate and into his deepest spirit. In that moment Xichen would give anything in the world to heal the wound that made his brother hurt that way.  If he could sacrifice himself to bring Wei Wuxian back and make his brother happy even for a second, in that moment, he would do it. 

Wangji falls back against the bed and throws a hand over his mouth to muffle the rapid breaths he is taking, the raw, sob-like cries that worm their way out. When Xichen sees his face, he realizes that despite it all, his eyes are dry. He feeds a little spiritual energy in through Wangji’s wrist, and when he’s calmed some, Xichen brings out the ribbon and presses it into his brother’s hand. 

Wangji looks at it and chews on his lip for a moment.  Xichen knows him, knows his expressions, knows he is asking is this it? Is this all that’s left of him?

Xichen nods, and Wangji squeezes his eyes shut and brings the ribbon to his lips.  He holds it there, still as a statue, for several long minutes before he has to bring it down to his chest.  The red ribbon stands stark against Wangji’s white robes, blooming out from his chest like blood on snow. It looks too much like death.  Xichen can’t bear it; he has to look away, so he moves to sit on the floor with his back against the edge of the bed.

The sun moves down in the sky, the hour approaching nine, and Xichen feels the familiar tiredness overtake him. He should return to the Hanshi, sleep properly, but his brother is grieving and he cannot leave him, so he just lays his head near Wangji’s and listens to the sound of his breathing until he falls asleep. 

When he wakes at five, the Jingshi is empty. 

There is a note on Wangji’s pillow.  It reads “Please do not chase after me. I will return.”

Xichen knows where he is. 

He drags himself to his feet, joints and injuries complaining (he really has been using his spiritual power for anything but healing, these days) as he hurries out of the Jingshi and toward the senior disciple quarters. He gives two disciples instructions on where they’ll find Wangji and to please be careful because he is still very badly injured. 

He walks toward his office and sees the door is open. A bad sign. 

Their uncle is already waiting for him by the desk. 

“Your brother has learned nothing!” he says the instant Xichen crosses the threshold. “Already he’s gallivanted off to Yiling after that damned boy!”

“I don’t think Wangji is in a state to be gallivanting anywhere, Uncle,” Xichen says sourly. “And I’ve already sent people after him. He’ll be back within the day. Can’t get up to much mischief, the way he is right now. I’m surprised he could balance on his sword to make it out.”

“He is supposed to be in seclusion!” As usual, Uncle looks like he’s about to burst a vein. “It has not even been a week since he’s felt the discipline whip, and already he yearns for it!”

Xichen’s blood turns to ice and before he can think better of it. The words shoot out of his mouth: “You will not punish him again.”

“He left seclusion to do the exact thing he was sent to seclusion for doing!” Uncle looks apoplectic. Somehow, Xichen cannot bring himself to care. 

“It was not a request.”  Xichen straightens his posture, tucks his arms behind his back. “The Lan disciple who raises a hand in punishment against Lan Wangji will find himself expelled from GusuLan sect. I don’t care if he murders every single person in the Cloud Recesses. The next time someone tries to beat my brother, for any reason, I will cut their hands off.”

“Xichen, please, I cannot suffer dramatics from you as well.” Lan Qiren puts a hand to his forehead. “You know this behavior is beyond the pale. I won’t stand here and argue with you over the precepts of our family that have literally been carved into stone since long before your birth. This is not a matter of interpretation.”

“Uncle,” Xichen says, and is shocked at how cold his words sound. “This clan leader would like to make himself very clear.  This clan leader is not being dramatic or making empty promises. If it comes to light that any Lan sect disciple, regardless of seniority, lays a hand on his brother again, this clan leader can promise that he will be expelled from the GusuLan sect. If this clan leader discovers the discipline whip has been used against his brother in even the gentlest fashion, this clan leader swears on the ninth heaven he will remove their hands himself.”

“Lan Huan!”

“Senior Disciple Lan.” Xichen sweeps past his uncle, ignoring the horrendous shade of red he is turning. “You are dismissed.”

His uncle storms out of the room without another word.  It is only when Lan Xichen sits and reaches out to take his pen he realizes he is shaking. 

Wangji is not one to break a promise, so Xichen fully expects that his brother will return.

What he does not expect is for him to return with a child.

As soon as he gets word that his brother is back, Xichen rushes to the gates to meet him, to be sure he’s alright and not any more worse for wear than can be expected. The sight that greets him is a bit of a shock: Wangji, Bichen clutched behind his back, with a sleeping toddler on his hip. 

They stand there looking at each other for a long moment before Xichen says, “... Wangji? Who is this?”

“A-Yuan,” Wangji answers, and Xichen knows he must be making a face because Wangji adds “A-Yuan is mine, and will be living here now.”

“I— wha— okay, why don’t we take this to the Jingshi, ” Xichen says, suddenly aware of the small crowd gathering around them. “You are meant to be in seclusion at the moment as it is.” 

Wangji does not move. 

“Wangji, if you stand here, Uncle will come and shout at you and the child.” 

“Can’t go. A-Yuan is ill.”

Xichen steps up closer and presses one hand to a-Yuan’s forehead, using the other to take his pulse; sure enough, the child is burning up, heartbeat rapid and shallow. This close, he can see the pallor and deep circles around his brother’s eyes as well, and hear how sharp his breaths come. He turns back to some of the disciples and asks them to run word to Lan Qizai before extending his arms out. “Give him to me.”

Wangji sets his jaw and looks at him.

“Wangji! You need to go back to the Jingshi and rest. Look at yourself, you’re barely upright; what good will you do this child if you collapse here? What do you think I’ll do to him, besides take him to elder cousin and have him treated? Do you truly think so little of me?”

Wangji purses his lips a little and flicks his eyes around, considering, before finally giving up and handing a-Yuan to Xichen. “I will return to seclusion now. I leave him in your care.”

“Thank you,” Xichen says, and Wangji stutters past him in an awkward approximation of his usual sweeping gait. 

True to his word, Xichen rests the toddler’s head on his shoulder and heads for the medical pavilion. It’s so familiar, the weight of a small body on his hip as he walks through the Cloud Recesses. The memories return to him clear as a mountain stream: wandering through the hills with Wangji balanced on his hip, pointing out a rabbit or a peculiar cloud, listening to the quiet sound of his brother’s breathing, his little gasps when he saw something interesting.  

Wangji used to press his face into Xichen’s hair whenever they met someone new, too shy to look them in the eyes, and Xichen would pat his head and bounce him until he’d worked up the courage to say hello. Now, he is confined to his Jingshi and Xichen has a feverish child of uncertain origin resting on his hip. How strange their lives have become. 

Lan Qizai stalks into the room with her bag in tow, as always, and motions for Xichen to sit with a-Yuan on his lap. “And who might this be, hmm?” she asks, setting up her exam equipment. 

“According to Wangji, this is his child,” Xichen says. “His name is Yuan.”

Lan Qizai snorts. “You’re telling me Zhanzhan came in with a child and attempted to tell you he had sex with a human woman?” 

“Not in so many words.” Xichen props a-Yuan up so Lan Qizai can start her exam. “I’m not certain where the child came from, to be honest. I hate to accuse Wangji of lying, but it’s just… not very likely that it’s his own blood. The child doesn’t look much like him at all.”

“That’s for certain. Look at those sweet round cheeks. You two were never this cute,” she says, drawing a sigil in the air and flicking it to a-Yuan’s forehead. 

“I’m worried the child is… his. ”  Xichen can’t bring himself to say the name. “Wangji had been to see him once before, in Yiling.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Lan Qizai finishes her examination and snaps her equipment closed. “If that boy had a wife or child, your vinegar jar of a brother would have made it very obvious by moping around the back hill for a week or two. My guess is this is one of those Wen remnants he was guarding.”

“Politically, that isn’t much better.”  Xichen sighs, rubbing his forehead, as Lan Qizai takes the child and lays him on the bed. “A Wen, any Wen, even a toddler, is at risk of being killed by LanlingJin. If Jin Guangshan discovers him here, we could see a second burning.”

“A toddler, at risk of death from Jin Guangshan.” Lan Qizai stands. “Well, for now, here is where he’ll have to stay.  The boy is in a bad way; he’s lucky Wangji found him when he did. I’ll need to treat him for a few weeks at least until he’s ready to go anywhere.”

Xichen stands and bows to his cousin. “Thank you for all your help, elder cousin. I will speak to my brother. Perhaps we can find a place for him in one of our banner sects or splinter families, where he’s likely to go unnoticed.”

Lan Qizai inclines her head slightly, as much of a dismissal as Xichen will get, and Xichen leaves and heads for the back hill. 

Wangji is not happy, of course, with the idea that a-Yuan shouldn’t stay with them. Lan Qiren is furious that Xichen is entertaining the idea of even placing him with one of the satellite Lan families.  Xichen, as always, is caught in the middle, incapable of pleasing them both but fully able to anger them. 

The stalemate goes on for about a week.  Xichen stops every day by the medical pavilion to check in on a-Yuan.  The boy has woken up but is groggy and disoriented; any attempts to ask him about his family or home are met with blank, confused stares.  To avoid getting shouted at by his uncle, Xichen takes to doing his work and meditating in the library, knowing even Lan Qiren won’t raise his voice there. 

He’s there in the late evening one night when he hears shouting outside. He’s on his feet and walking toward the noise when a harried younger disciple pulls the door open.

He bows frantically and manages to get out “Clan leader, it’s your brother—” before Xichen sees Wangji come stumbling down the path, listing a little to the left and clearly not well.

“ Dizi !” he’s shouting. Xichen steps over the threshold to grab his arms and steady him before he faceplants directly into the steps of the library. “I need dizi , where is it!”

His words are slurred slightly. From this close, Xichen can smell the sweet, acrid aroma of rice wine. He doesn’t have time to process the ideas of Wangji and drunk in the same sentence because his brother is still toppling toward the library and shouting about dizi . 

Xichen waves the other disciples off and helps his brother over the threshold, sliding the door closed behind them. Wangji, one arm thrown over Xichen’s shoulders, says (far too loudly and directly into Xichen’s ear) “ Gege ? You’re here? You have dizi ?”

“Yes, yes, I’m getting you a dizi , hold on.” He has to keep a tight grip on Wangji’s waist to keep him from wandering off and attempting to find the flute himself. Xichen knows there are some dizi among the various treasures the Lan sect keeps in their forbidden room, so he draws the sigil to open the door and helps him down the stairs. “How much did you drink?”

He wasn’t really expecting an answer, but nonetheless Wangji mumbles “One jar.”

Xichen resists the urge to groan.

He sits Wangji on one of their cushions and walks over to the instrument racks. From across the room he hears a clatter and sees that Wangji has laid his head on the table where he’s sitting and is mumbling into the wood. Worried that he’ll injure himself or worse while Xichen isn’t looking, he grabs the first transverse flute he sees, a jade thing carved with intricate cloud patterns that he’s 80% is a dizi , and hurries back to his brother.

“Here, Wangji, look.” Xichen hands the flute to his brother, who awkwardly picks his head up off the table, forehead ribbon akimbo. “I found you a dizi, alright?”

Wangji takes it with a reverent, wondering expression, lightly stroking over the cloud patterns, before his face darkens. Without a warning, he throws it, hard, the tassel whistling past Xichen’s ear. It cracks into a wood pillar and shatters on the ground.

“Wangji!” Xichen scrambles to his feet. 

“Not right! Need different dizi !” Wangji stumbles up, swaying for a second before walking into a pole and leaning on it. 

Xichen is starting to catch on, he thinks. He remembers a jet-black bamboo dizi with a blood-red tassel, and sighs. “ Chenqing ? Is that what you’re looking for?”

Wangji’s eyes light up. “You have it?”

“No, Wangji, it isn’t here.” Xichen walks toward his brother, taking his hands. “Is that why you went to Yiling? To look for Chenqing ?”

At the mention of Yiling, Wangji’s face clouds over. He yanks his hands out of Xichen’s and shoves him back. “Why did you go? Why did you go there?!”

“Oh, Wangji, we’ve been over this…” Xichen takes a deep breath. “I’ll talk about this with you when you’re sober, okay?”

“There were children there, ge !” Wangji says, and Xichen’s blood goes cold. “Little children, and elders, and people who had not even the spiritual power to use a talisman! You killed them! Why did you kill them!”

“No,” Xichen says, and it sounds empty even to him. “No, no, I was there, there weren’t , I—” but when have you ever known Wangji to lie, he thinks, and when have you ever known yourself to not see through it? “I saw only fierce corpses,” he finishes, weakly.

“And you went to just the place where Jin Guangshan told you to, right?” Wangji spits out the name like it’s poison on his tongue. His words still slur, but they’re hot as an iron left over a raging fire. “I was there. A-Yuan survived because Wei Ying hid him, but he wasn’t the only child there when I visited. Where were the others? Why did you kill them, gege, what did they do?” 

“No. No, no, no,” Xichen’s voice sounds like a whine, and he’s stumbling backwards until he hits a wall and slides down it, hands over his mouth. He feels like a black void has opened up inside his chest and is sucking him into it; there are ants crawling under his skin and burrowing into his veins. “I didn’t know, I didn’t see! I didn’t see any children or elders, please, Wangji… if you’d been there, why didn’t you tell me? Why?” A horrible thought creeps across Xichen’s mind, and he feels his throat tighten, his face grow cold. “Was it— was it to punish me for bringing you to Gusu?”

“Not to punish. Gege did not ask after them, and Wei Ying…” Wangji is swaying on his feet, but Xichen feels as if the weight of all his mistakes is pinning him to the ground and he cannot rise to help his brother. “Couldn’t think of anything but Wei Ying… didn’t remember the others until it was too late, until I went to Yiling and saw the burned villages. I— I should have— you should have— ”

Xichen can see the shining streaks of tears on Wangji’s cheeks. He wants to comfort him, but how can he, with these tainted hands? It’s all he can do to say, quietly, “... do you hate me, little brother?”

“Hate me,” Wangji repeats, then again, choked, one hand clutched at his own chest. “Hate me .” 

Wangji sets eyes on the Wen branding iron at the same moment Xichen does.  They look at each other and Xichen sees in his eyes what he’s about to do right as he launches himself for it, and somehow, from some deep well he had not known he possessed, he finds the strength to leap to his feet and lunge for his brother. 

Wangji grabs the iron with one hand and Xichen grabs his wrist.  Wangji tries, fruitlessly, to yank his arm free, succeeding only in knocking both of them back a few paces. He grabs the iron with his other hand, and Xichen smacks his knuckles to try and get him to let go.

The horror of Yiling is still settled into his bone marrow, leaking into his blood and poisoning him, but right now he’s pure adrenaline as he tries to wrench the iron from Wangji’s hands. They’re wrestling like children, almost, except they never wrestled even when they were boys. Wangji pulls Xichen’s hair and he yelps and yanks forward so Wangji loses his balance for a second. 

He’s so focused on this absurd task that when he hears shouting, he doesn’t even realize it’s his own voice for a moment: “Lan Zhan, Lan Wangji, stop it, stop, let go!” He wrests the iron out of his brother’s grip and goes to hold it above his head, but Wangji is taller than him now and just grabs it and pulls it back down. “A-Zhan, Lan Zhan, Zhanzhan! Stop! Please, stop it! Stop right now! Xiao Zhan, let go of it!” 

They wrestle over it for a few more minutes, knocking over a tower of scrolls, until Wangji manages to elbow Xichen in the gut, stumble back a few steps, and press the searing end into his own chest.  

Xichen screams. 

The iron clatters to the ground.  He is there to catch his brother as he falls, cradling him in his arms. The smell of burning flesh is grotesque and sweet and sickening.  He is sobbing, ugly and scraped raw, clutching Wangji to his chest as his brother gasps painfully for breath. 

With Wangji’s heaving form held close, Xichen is thrown back to that night in the Hanshi, when he held his shivering brother in his arms and they wept for their mother against the cold. Xichen wonders if he’s destined to outlive everyone he loves, to weep for them in this secluded place. 

He bends forward, barely hearing the rasping breaths over his own sobs, pressing his face into Wangji’s hair. Blood has stained the singed fabric around his wound, and Xichen doesn’t mean to say it out loud but he does: “How many times will I have to watch you bleed, didi ?”

Wangji doesn’t answer. His eyes are already screwed shut, but Xichen can see the tears bubbling from under his long lashes, can hear the way his already shaky breath hitches.

“I have buried our mother and our father. Would you leave me too?” Xichen holds him tighter to his chest, and Wangji buries his head in Xichen’s shoulder, tears soaking through the light fabric. “Me, who has no one else left in this world?”

Wangji mumbles something into his shoulder and Xichen pulls back a little so he can hear him say “Wanted a-Yuan here.”

Xichen chokes back his sobs a little more. He doesn’t know how to answer that, doesn’t know how to deal with anything except his brother, bleeding in his arms.

Wangji tries again. “Wanted a-Yuan here.   In the Cloud Recesses.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath; his words are still slurring. “Wanted him raised like me.”  Xichen goes to stop him, but is struck dumb with his last phrase: “Wanted you to raise him.”

“ What, ” Xichen coughs out between sobs.

Slowly, Wangji picks up a hand and uses his sleeve to pat at Xichen’s face. “Wangji is sorry,” he says, and Xichen can see his eyes slipping down, can hear his breathing, still ragged, slowing.

Xichen wails, and then there’s a commotion and two sets of footsteps and two voices arguing in that whisper-shout only Lans can do so well, and his uncle and cousin burst into the basement.

Uncle opens his mouth, and cousin Lan Qizai snaps her fan shut in front of him. “Lan Qiren! Don’t you dare ! I’m five years older than you, have you no respect for your senior? Here, here, use this talisman and get your younger nephew out and back to my pavilion! That boy, he’s just like his father, death wish and all — I’ve half a mind to put him under for the next three years, since he’s so hell-bent on leaving seclusion every two minutes!”

Shockingly, Uncle doesn’t argue, just presses what Xichen recognizes as a stabilizing talisman to Wangji’s chest. It bursts and surrounds him with a field of spiritual energy, and Uncle gently takes Wangji and carries him up the stairs, leaving Xichen a crying mess on the floor. 

Lan Qizai helps him to his feet. “Lan Huan, a-Huan, don’t cry,” she says, pulling him into a hug. He’s much taller than her, but he still leans his head on hers and tries to breathe slowly and control himself. “Zhanzhan is going to be alright.  Foolish cousins, why do you dance so close to oblivion? You make this doctor’s work so hard, aiya…”

With his brother’s weight gone, his arms feel cold and empty. Unbidden, Xichen thinks of the nine suns that were shot down, and the tenth, alone in the sky, who watched his brothers’ slow and agonizing descent. How lonely it must have been, bearing the day alone. Perhaps it was not mercy that Hou Yi left that single sun to hang above the earth, but an even slower death. 

Xichen has the blood of a thousand suns on his hands now, but like the legend, one still hangs on, hot and round-faced in their family halls. 

“We’re keeping the boy. A-Yuan, we’re keeping him here,” he says into her hair, and she laughs.

“Yes, I thought that might happen. He’s been given a forehead ribbon already, and a set of little blue robes like the other children.”  She pulls back and pats one of Xichen’s hands. “Now, you go get some rest, hmm? Tomorrow, I’ll need you to get the little one acquainted with the back hill.”

He nods, and blindly stumbles up the stairs and toward the Hanshi.  The sky is black, but tonight, the world will be red. 

“Look, Lan Yuan,” Xichen whispers softly, the first night after the child awakens.  The tiny white ribbon stands out stark against his new nephew’s black hair and soft grey eyes. “These are our rules and principles.  I know them already, and you’re going to learn them soon, so I wanted to give you a head start.”

A-Yuan buries his head in Xichen’s shoulder and tugs on his hair. “So many, bobo. ”

“Yes. And it’s good to learn them all, but you have to remember,” He looks his nephew in the eyes and smiles at him, tapping on his chest above his heart, “Righteousness comes from in here.”

Lan Yuan nods, very serious, and they start the walk back up toward the Hanshi , where Lan Yuan will live until Wangji is healed enough to take him home.

Overhead, the black velvet sky displays the diamond moon, full and impossibly bright.