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Wú Huāqí, Wēn-fūrén, grew up as Wú-dà-gūniáng in a minor sect near Qíshān specializing in bow cultivation. An accomplished poet and pípá player, she caught the attention of Wēn-zōngzhǔ while accompanying her father to a discussion conference. Her marriage to a man older than her father was not a source of great joy among her family, but it brought not insignificant wealth and status for the clan with it and she was determined to make it work. His cultivation keeping his appearance youthful and not unattractive helped, though he doesn’t really seem to see her as a whole person. Then again, he’s not especially in touch with humanity or ethics. She recites moral poetry in her evenings with him but he pays more attention to the sound of her voice than her words, and finds her attempts to engage him in intellectual discussion amusing but unworthy of real attention.
Her children are her light and joy. Xù’er looks closely at everything, ready to pick it apart to make sense of it. He listens to her poetry, and asks questions, and listens to the answers. Huāqí reminds him of his manners, over and over again, explaining the difference between kneeling before his father and bowing to another sect leader and nodding to a disciple in passing. Encouraging him to name his own feelings, and to guess at the feelings of others. He’s not very good at either, but he has time. And one day, when her little boy is almost four and she is weeks away from welcoming his dìdì into the world, he comes into her room with a dead dove.
The poor thing has been mutilated, its wing at a horrid angle and its head entirely severed. Xù’er holds it in his bare hands, dirt and blood on his fingers and his sleeves. Huāqí’s stomach rolls. He asks if they can fix it.
“Oh, no, sweetheart. It’s dead. Here, let’s put it down -” Huāqí spreads her least favorite handkerchief on a side table, and has Xù’er place the bird on it, wiping his fingers off. As she fusses over him, she asks, “Was it alive when you found it, little love?”
“It was!” Oh dear. “It was in the grass and breathing funny, and I watched it for a while. Then it stopped. It was so so so weird. I wanted to see how it worked so I started messing with it and then - and then - it broke. Can we really not put it back? Can’t we try?”
At least he hadn’t killed the bird himself? Though it sounds like it may have died of an illness, which means it should definitely not be in Huāqí’s bedroom anymore. She shakes her head firmly. “Dead things are dead forever, Xù’er. And even if we could put the head back on, it’s not respectful to mess around with corpses. Not to mention how dirty it is; playing with it could make you sick. Come on, wrap it up and we’ll take it outside.”
They wrap the bird in the handkerchief and bring it into the garden, having a servant help Xù’er dig a little grave for it. Huāqí sits heavily on a bench nearby and supervises, talking about how a real funeral works and what it means to respect the dead. That leads to a discussion of the spiritual differences between animals and humans, which is important stuff, but exhausting for both incipient mother and young child. They both retreat for an afternoon nap afterward. Not, however, before everyone washes their hands very thoroughly.
Xù’er doesn’t like his dìdì. He did, at the beginning; he thought the newborn Wēn Cháo was cute and funny, and loved to hold him (supervised, of course) and to play with him. The problem, of course, is that infants require a lot of attention. Xù’er isn’t used to sharing his a-niáng’s attention with anyone but his diē. Eventually, the novelty wears off and he starts acting up. Unfortunately, Xù’er “acting up” means live snakes places they shouldn’t be.
Once Huāqí has removed her baby from the situation - luckily a harmless garden snake, but it might not have been - and given him to a nursemaid, she goes in search of her five-year-old. He’s hiding in a tree, and refuses to meet her eyes even after she’s coaxed him down. He heard her scream, then.
“Did you put a snake in your dìdì’s bed, Xù’er?” She asks, as gently as she can. The problem with teaching her son to recognize facial expressions is that now he notices when she’s distressed. He’s well aware that his father’s love is conditional; he will not believe the same about his mother, not if Huāqí has anything to say about it.
He scuffs his feet, stares at his shoes, and admits it.
“Why did you put a snake in Cháo’er’s bed?”
It takes a bit more work, but she gets out of him in a rush: “‘Cause I’m mad at him ‘cause he made you miss dinner three times this week and nobody even punished him for it.”
“Oh, baby, come here. Come sit with your māmā,” Huāqí says, drawing Xù’er away to their Important Discussion bench. It’s warded against eavesdroppers and probably used for important political purposes, but it's also useful for not frightening nearby servants with the turns of Xù’er’s mind. They ought to talk this out properly.
“Let’s start with this: I missed eating dinner with you because Cháo’er hasn’t been feeling well, and he needs me to be there for him and make sure he’s eating enough. Is it his fault he’s sick?”
Xù’er frowns, settling into Huāqí’s arms to think. “...No. But if he weren’t so cute then you would just leave him with a nurse! That’s his fault.”
Oh, the sweet boy. “Is it? Has he decided that I should love him, just to spite you?”
“I dunno. Maybe.”
She rocks him back and forth on the bench. “Xù’er, you know better than most that once I decide to love someone there’s no changing it. Perhaps he doesn’t even want the attention, but he’s my son and I’ll take care of him no matter what.”
He pushes himself up (oof, elbows), “But I am too!”
“You are! And when you were that small and fragile I skipped meals and meetings to care for you, too.”
That gives him pause. “I was never that small.”
“You were!” Huāqí cries, squishing Wen Xù’s round little face between her hands. “My little tiny Xùxù, you were even smaller than Cháo’er when you were born. And you were born in the fall, so that first winter I never ever left your side. Right now, Cháo’er needs me more than you do. But I have room in my heart for you both, and I always will.”
He valiantly frees himself from her arms, then changes his mind and climbs back into her lap. “...Always?”
“Forever, my darling,” Huāqí says, and kisses his forehead.
Xù’er thinks for a few more moments, then says, “Okay,” and starts to get up.
Huāqí makes him sit back down, because “We’re not done yet, little rascal. You have more to account for. Where did you get the snake?”
“In the meadow past the training field. There’s lots of pretty snakes.”
“Do you know which snakes will make someone sick if they get bit and which won’t?”
That gets his attention. “Snake bites can make you sick?”
“Yes, Xù’er. They can even kill people. The snake you found is harmless, but you didn’t know that for sure. Cháo’er could have gotten seriously hurt. You could have gotten hurt picking it up, too.” Xù’er makes a small noise, digesting that information. “Plus, you picked that snake up from its home and dropped it into a baby’s bed. It had never been there before, and wouldn’t know its way back. And someone could hurt or kill a snake if they see it indoors, because many people are frightened of snakes.”
“Are you scared of snakes?”
“I can’t say I’m fond of them, darling. That’s one of the reasons I screamed when I saw it.”
“I didn’t know you were scared of things!”
That gets a laugh out of Huāqí. She’s so scared, all the time. She’s scared of her husband and many of his disciples. She’s scared of her children turning out like their father. She’s scared of snakes and spiders and house fires. An uncle of hers once told her a story about a type of guĭ that only eats children with flower names that she’s pretty sure was complete bullshit but she still has nightmares about it when she’s especially stressed. But her little boy had thought her fearless.
“Everyone is scared of some things. Some more than others.”
“Even a-diē?”
“I don’t think he’ll ever admit it, but yes. I’m not going to tell you what it is, though. You’ll figure it out eventually.”
Niè Míngjué is finally old enough to go to a foreign cultivation conference, and he should be having a reasonably good time - he’d found time to run off and explore Búyètiān, knowing there are enough people everywhere nothing too bad will happen. Of course, there are people everywhere, and some bad things are normal enough no one will stop them.
Like Wēn-dà-gōngzĭ, to whom etiquette demands Míngjué sit and listen, even as he monologues about the correct techniques for flaying a man alive. He’s very… excited, about all the different layers skin apparently has, and their names, and which kinds of knives to use for minimal (or maximal) blood spillage. It’s been almost ten minutes of this before a tall woman in sumptuous clothing floats over with a gently concerned look on her face. For a moment Míngjué thinks he’s saved, but -
It stops being a bad time, for the most part.
Now it’s just really, really weird.
She sits down next to Wēn Xù and he stops mid sentence to greet her as “A-niáng!” and hug her tight, as though he’s not older than Míngjué and with personal experience carving people’s skin off. This woman must be Wēn-fūrén, then. Niè Míngjué knows basically nothing about her, which makes trying to interact with her just that much scarier. She sets her son back down, makes eye contact with Míngjué, and her face drops further.
“Who’s this, Xu’er?”
Wēn Xù points, and really, he’s twelve. Can’t he act like it? “It’s Niè-dà-gōngzĭ! I’m making friends, like you said.” Excuse Míngjué, but no he is not.
Wēn-fūrén looks between them doubtfully, asking, “Really? Did you remember to look at his face while you were conversing?”
Wēn Xù fidgets. “I did! But he’s doing something weird and I can't tell what it means.” What?
“Did you ask?”
“No…”
She turns him gently towards Míngjué. “Then ask, little love.”
Wēn Xù screws up his face and asks, like someone reciting a lesson, “I dunno what you're thinking, can you tell me how I made you feel?”
Míngjué stares helplessly at Wēn-fūrén. She only smiles softly and says, “We’re practicing, Niè-dà-gōngzĭ, please indulge us?”
It takes a few moments to gather his shattered composure, but Míngjué manages to respond, “I was not… expecting a conversation so… bloody.”
Wēn-fūrén gasps with exaggerated understanding. “Xu’er, is it polite to discuss violence if you’re not sure the other person wants to?”
Wēn Xù shakes his head.
Then he apologizes. “Sorry, I forgot that wasn’t polite conversation. Um, what, what do you want to talk about?”
This is the weirdest fucking conversation Niè Míngjué has ever been a part of. And Huáisāng’s been breaking that record near-daily since he started talking three years ago. Whatever! This is Míngjué’s life now!
“Uh, what’s your least favorite saber - or, I guess, sword - stance and why?”
Wēn Xù’s eyes light up and they have an animated conversation about cultivation and annoying instructors, without any more mention of grievous injuries. Wēn-fūrén watches and listens, occasionally coaching Wēn Xù on his manners or facial expressions.
Diē is surprised to hear that Míngjué’s made cautious friends with a Wēn, but it’s not like he has any room to talk. He addresses Wēn-zōngzhǔ with a diminutive.