At some point, people congratulate Jin Ling for avenging his parents.
“It’s destiny,” the adults declare, like Jin Ling was born for the sole purpose of plunging a sword through Wei Wuxian’s body. For a while, he had thought that too.
“I’m proud of you,” his great uncle says. Or is that his grandfather’s brother? His father’s second cousin twice removed?
“I thought you were just a spoiled brat, but you’ve got balls,” a boy says, one of Jin Chan's goons. Some other guys follow and pile up the praise like they hadn’t all just ganged up on him earlier at the banquet.
There’s alcohol passed around because the kids aren't allowed to join the search parties and they have nothing better to do. They toast him for his great conquest and righteous retribution, parroting back whatever they heard the adults spouting before. The wine tastes worse than muddy lake water, but it doesn’t really matter. They’re always celebrating something here.
The mistress of Koi Tower lies dead in the treasure room, her husband in tears, but people are more concerned about making sure the Yiling Laozu stays dead.
Jin Ling is a mess, sore from getting thrown on his ass just hours ago, from learning how to throw other people on their asses with a shift of his weight. It was worth the pain. The withering joy of someone fighting by his side still flutters, spastically, in the pit of his stomach like butterflies doused in cold rain.
Wei Wuxian's blood is still drying on his robes. He had been so surprised that Jin Ling would attack him.
But what did he expect? He killed Jin Ling’s parents. He was a traitor. He lied and he had it coming and Jin Ling can't take it back. Won't take it back. He deserved it and Jin Ling was only doing the right thing so he's got no right to resent him. He's got no right to be mad, isn't allowed to be mad can't be mad please don't be mad—
Wei Wuxian must hate him now. Jin Ling might as well have stabbed him in the back.
His little uncle would be disappointed that he didn't finish the job.
His uncle would be enraged that he dared to regret it.
His parents would be disgusted that he hopes their murderer survives.
There’s an apology pressing hard against his lungs, bloated with the tears Wei Wuxian said he would shed one day. He doesn’t know who it’s supposed to go to. Wei Wuxian never told him what he should do about it.
His uncle would tell him to figure it out on his own because he's not a little brat anymore. He should get started on that.
A servant places a tray of snacks in front of him and he nods without looking up, hiding in the squirming dance of lights in his lake water wine, waiting for them to settle. He doesn’t see himself in the reflection.
There was no righteous triumph that came with the revenge, but she did not regret it. There were things that needed to be done whether they were righteous or not.
What she did regret was the look on Qingheng-jun’s face when he had pleaded for her to explain. To tell him that it was all a misunderstanding and that there was some unspeakable reason why she was standing over his master’s corpse, a streak of his blood drying on her cheek. There was none. It was revenge and there was nothing more to explain. And perhaps she might have hurt a little telling him exactly that.
She did not regret the life she could have lived. The debt of murder must be paid back in blood after all and she had accepted the consequences from the beginning. But she might have regretted the cold snow on her skin and the open skies above her head. At first she dreamt of the birds singing, of flying with them to who-knows-where so she can see the treetops and the meandering streams. Eventually, the dreams faded with the drifting clouds and she found an interest in the sway of gentians beyond her window.
She did not regret her children. They looked just like Qingheng-jun and she didn’t regret that either, but she couldn’t deny the sadness in her heart when A-Huan had greeted her so formally, or when A-Zhan had tried to bring her a handful of snow, only to realize it had melted on the way to her cottage. The month after that A-Zhan was sick from practicing in the snow, as A-Huan had put it, and had thrown out his medicine when no one was looking. She had given him a dried plum to have with his medicine then, just to ease the bitterness a little. It was trivial, but it was all she could do. With time, her sons grew, and there was nothing she could do for them at all.
So when Qingheng-jun opened the door one winter night, his figure bathed in cold moonshine, she did not regret walking out of that cottage for the first and last time.
But she did spare one last glance back into the Cloud Recesses. Her children did not need her, they had been fine all this time without her and that was for the best. Still, she hoped they would miss her for a little while, perhaps until the gentians bloom again.
*
The seasons pass and she leaves the cultivation world behind. Her hands had grown soft over the years and she had made peace with that. She discovers love again in the weight of a mortar and pestle, the aroma of herbs, and they bring her to a sleepy town by a cliff where the seagulls flock.
She enjoys decades of peaceful solitude until the wine-maker’s home become haunted by a vengeful concubine. It was nothing serious and she expected the problem to resolve itself.
She did not expect the Bearer of Light to appear in this little town hidden from the world.
He is a stranger, she convinces herself, but she hurries through her tasks for the night to catch a glimpse of him and his companions anyway.
*
The morning after, a black-clad figure sweeps into her quaint little shop.
“Do you have anything for a hangover?” He asks, smiling sweetly as if he were courting a young maiden.
“It’s called restraint, young man,” she says easily.
The laugh he releases is open and buoyant, unabashed. “You’re right, you’re right. My fault, I got carried away last night, but my partner really needs to be up soon.”
She shuffles through her drawers, picking out some roots and flowers and wrapping them in paper, “Brew this as a tea, it should help a little.”
She hands the package to the man, who takes a sniff and shakes his head, “Ah, maybe it’ll shock him awake.” He pauses as if remembering something, and she sees the laugh in his eyes before it bubbles from his mouth, “I’m kidding, he’s great with this kind of stuff.”
He fishes around in a delicate pouch that contrasts with his dark attire and she takes the moment to examine him. She wonders if he’s ever tried to hold snow in his hands before. As he reaches out to pay her, she hands him a second package.
“What’s this?” he asks, although he’s already taken the parcel and peeled the paper back to see for himself. “Dried plums?”
Despite reaching an uneasy truce during the war, Jiang Cheng never quite saw Jin Zixuan as a friend, so it comes as a surprise when said not-friend pulls him aside after a banquet as he was about to escape.
"What?" He demands after Jin Zixuan's tried and failed to form words for the third time.
After a pause, Jin Zixuan asks, "How do you...tolerate Wei Wuxian?"
"What?" Jiang Cheng growls, a million retorts ready to fire.
"I meant—" Jin Zixuan clarifies, "how can you accept him when he...and your father...didn't he create discord in your family?"
The thing is, Jiang Cheng doesn't know how it works, just as he doesn't know about his father's romantic history nor his mother's decision to settle for a political marriage. But what right does Jin Zixuan have to pry into his life? Can't he worry about his own family? His own terrifying mother and unfaithful father and new war hero bro—
And then it clicks. This was never about him and Wei Wuxian.
"You want to talk about Meng Yao," he says.
Jin Zixuan freezes like he’s been caught sneaking around at night, but then he heaves a sigh and nods.
“You’re a god, aren’t you?” isn’t the kind of question Xie Lian expects to be asked by a passerby in Yiling just as he’s about to eat his week-old bun, especially not someone he just saw so shamelessly bargaining over potatoes across the street.
“What makes you think that?” he asks.
“A hunch.”
Xie Lian doubts a regular mortal can reach this conclusion on just a hunch, but even after he truly looks, this person is nothing more than mortal. Too mortal perhaps.
The young man relaxes against the wall beside him like he’s spent a lifetime in back alleys. “So, are you here to vanquish evil?” he asks.
Vanquish evil! That may have sounded nice in the past, but Xie Lian only hears a child’s words now.
“No? Do you take prayers then?”
It’s been ages since someone's prayed to him. What’s worse is even if he had a few believers, he wouldn’t have enough power to grant their wishes. “I’m afraid my abilities are limited,” he admits.
The young man chuckles in a way that sounds more like a sigh, “That’s fine”. He fiddles around with a piece of what can only be called junk and Xie Lian enjoys the not-quite companionship while it lasts.
Finally, he stands to dust off his clothes, reaching into his basket of potatoes from earlier and giving one to Xie Lian. “I don’t have any nice offerings, but it’s probably better than that bun you have.”
He leaves before Xie Lian can offer some trivial favors in thanks. There isn’t much he can do, but there are things he can perceive beyond a mortal's capabilities. Perhaps, however, that’s for the best because Xie Lian doesn’t have the heart to tell the young man he only has a few weeks left to live.
"Just use Chenqing," Wei Wuxian offers when Lan Jingyi forgets to bring his flute. A bet between them had resulted in Jingyi’s genuine interest to learn the instrument and Wei Wuxian had been more than pleased to indulge him .
Lan Wangji had approved too, so it’s a surprise when he suddenly intercepts and plucks Chenqing from his hands. Did he find it improper for someone to play the Yiling Laozu’s ghost flute? he wonders. It’s quite harmless without his guidance, but Lan Wangji should know that already.
“Go retrieve your flute,” Lan Wanji instructs Lan Jingyi, and Wei Wuxian watches as he and Lan Sizhui go and disappear behind the trees.
When he turns back around, he catches Lan Wangji holding Chenqing like a treasure, regarding the flute thoughtfully before pressing his lips to the blowhole.
The gesture sends heat searing across his face. He’s torn between running around in circles screaming cute cute cute! and tackling Lan Wangji right here in the woods behind the Cloud Recesses.
"Lan Zhan, Lan Zhaaaan, what are you doing? My heart can't take this!" he wails, snatching Chenqing back. “Kiss me instead!”
With more dignity than Wei Wuxian can muster, Lan Wangi obliges.
When Lan Xichen gifts him a copy of Righteousness, Wei Wuxian takes it as a not-so-subtle reminder in propriety for him and Lan Wangji. Upon opening it, however, he realizes it’s a copy written as punishment and not an official volume for reference. The inside cover where disciples usually write their names is left oddly empty.
The main script isn’t particularly elegant, although he can appreciate the careless beauty of the swift strokes and the slant of the characters that danced across the pages. He catches small birds inked into the margins, gentians in full bloom, a mountain touching wispy clouds. A tall woman and some round little children chase each other along the paper’s edges.
A signature is stamped onto the last page, messy, as if the disciple had finally remembered to include their name but can’t be bothered to return to the front cover. Smiling, Wei Wuxian wraps the book in cloth before tucking it into a drawer.
He thanks Lan Xichen the next day, who beams back at him and responds, “It was Cangse Sanren’s notebook, so naturally it belongs to you now. But if you really want to thank me, you can stop calling me Zewu-jun.”
Jin Ling doesn’t understand how it works. Jiujiu lives across the hall from him, scrubs at his mouth a little too harshly when he’s eating snacks, slaps his back when he slouches, just like everyone else’s fathers, but for some reason he is still not “Father”.
He isn’t even anyone else’s father, like Shushu is.
His father is a stranger in a painting, or at least that’s what Jiujiu tells him. Jiujiu says he’s somewhere far away but Jin Ling doesn’t know if people can be fathers if they’re gone.
The other kids say it’s because his father doesn’t want him. Jin Ling’s certain his father is closer than they think.
So he tests it out one time when he’s hot and sore and Jiujiu is sitting by his bedside. Jiujiu is always nice to him when he’s sick, so he tries it. Tries calling him “Father” in his tiniest voice as he kicks his blankets off.
Jiujiu pulls the covers back over him and keeps stroking his sweaty hair, but he doesn’t respond. Jin Ling’s vision is hazy, but he knows Jiujiu is angry.
He decides never to say the word again until he knows what he did wrong.
In this dream, he is back in the dewy cold of the Cloud Recesses and Wei Wuxian's arms are draped around his neck.
His voice is loud in their proximity, “Jiang Cheng, that’s enough. Let me down."
“No,” Jiang Cheng says flatly.
“I was just joking earlier. They didn’t beat me that harshly,” Wei Wuxian insists, swinging his legs to prove he’s not injured.
Jiang Cheng wobbles from the momentum but recovers quickly and tightens his grip. It's an awkward position with Wei Wuxian being taller and heavier than him, but he manages somehow.
“And Lan Zhan was fine too,” Wei Wuxian rambles, “he got up like it was nothing!”
Jiang Cheng shakes him once and scolds, “I don't care, stop struggling!”
As always, Wei Wuxian tests his patience, “But aren’t I getting heavy? I broke a lot of rules.”
“Yes, and I only have two arms so you better hold on tight."
In this dream, Jiang Cheng carries his brother down the seemingly endless path, ignoring Wei Wuxian’s protests even as he grows heavy as a mountain of rules. It gets dark and they miss dinner, but Wei Wuxian finally stops squirming and rests his head on his shoulder.
