The path leading to the house is orderly, neat – not a single stone dirty or out of place. White boots often tread upon them, followed by the swish of Lan-xiansheng's robe or the faintest of clinks from a red-tasseled yaopei pendant tied to Hanguang-jun's belt.
Junior disciples often gather up their white sleeves with an equally-white cord and sweep dried leaves from the path, working in small, quiet groups. None of them speak; all of them shoot furtive glances at the house and its dim window screens and its door that never, never opens.
It continues on like so, for many, many years. The jianghu thrives and bustles; new names crop up, young cultivators seeking fame and glory and sometimes even wisdom. The jianghu thrives; yet shadows creep along the path to the house, slowly encroaching on the land around it.
Lan-xiansheng ceases to make the journey to the house; his bones ache, and his qi flows just a smidge too slow for it to be healthy. He starts a habit of sending letters, instead – picking out an unoccupied disciple, or requesting Hanguang-jun to do so. The disciples keep at a distance from Lan-xiansheng's quarters– but they still see the faintest downward twitch of Hanguang-jun's lips, the slightly too-tense grip of his wrinkling the paper of the letters.
Some more time later, there is a parting ceremony for Lan-xiansheng, in the utmost proper Lan custom – silent and respectful. Just before the ceremony, a disciple sees Hanguang-jun walk to the house and kneel before the door, pausing before saying something in the quietest of tones. After that, Hanguang-jun waits for a while before rising to his feet and shooting an indecipherable glance at the door. He leaves without saying a word; doesn't acknowledge the disciple with a broom awkwardly clutched in his hands.
Lan-er-furen visits the house, his red ribbon contrasting the blue outer robe that billows with the rising wind. He sits down with a jar of Emperor's Smile – the disciple polishing the path's stones studiously looks away from that sight – and pours a small amount into two drinking cups, setting them down next to the porch. Lan-er-furen says something to that closed door, hushed but inquisitive; brings one of the cups to his lips before standing up and picking up the untouched one. The disciple catches a strange, pondering look in Lan-er-furen's gaze, so dissimilar to the other's usual cheerful nature.
Seasons change; disciples grow up, maturing into seasoned cultivators and wearing their courtesy names and titles with pride. Clan elders flock to Lan healing wards as healers hand them bottles of medicine and satchets of dried herbs. Hanguang-jun grows older, together with his Lan-er-furen – they quietly retire from the most immediate cultivation politics and instead travel the jianghu together, qin and flute weaving together melodies of light and peace and safety.
The burgeoning sunrise colors the path's stones a surprisingly-vivid red; the disciple on morning cleaning duty glances at that same red glinting on Hanguang-jun's ornate silver guan. Lan-er-furen is waiting for his husband at a distance from the house, something soft and a little sad within his eyes. When Hanguang-jun turns from the still-shut door, he silently entwines his hand with Lan-er-furen's, hesitating for a short moment. His face – his entire figure – looks to be carved from jade, embodying that old name of Jade of Gusu; frozen in stillness, absent of much emotion. Hanguang-jun looks down at his and his husband's intertwined hands – and some of the frost melts from his countenance. Their boots thump against the path, and there is something quietly decisive about that sound.
That same day, a disciple passes by. Faintly surprised, he notes that the house and the path are submerged in a patch of shade completely devoid of any sunlight.
No-one really has the time to think of the house, afterwards. There's no-one to sweep the dried leaves from the path, or to polish the already-clean stones, because the jianghu is shaken up by yet another political turmoil, and every clan takes most of their members to Yunmeng to participate in arduous negotiations lasting for half a year. Something goes wrong, there; some nefarious scheme is hatched, and resentful energy thrums through Yunmeng's soil and waters alike. Another half a year is spent mitigating the damage – cultivators of the four major clans work together, differently-colored robes rustling side-by-side.
When the Lan delegation returns to Gusu, they find that a large part of a towering mountain peak has been dislodged, crashing down. The house and the path have been buried under rock – there isn't even a single roof shingle visible beneath the collapse. When Hanguang-jun – now a proper elder with white in his hair – gets asked about the house, he says to leave it like so; there is nothing there to dig out, only ill-fortuned memories.
(There is still, however, a small stone slate placed next to the rocks, and an orderly memorial tablet added to the Lan main family ancestral shrine. A disciple catches the end of Lan-er-furen's question about playing Inquiry– Hanguang-jun shakes his head, and Lan-er-furen pauses before nodding at that).
So, there's no path to attend to anymore; that general area of the Cloud Recesses receives less and less visitors. Bamboo shoots up beside the stone ruins, its vivid leaves shielding the rocks from view. A creek winds itself along the path's stones – there's overgrown grass between their gaps.
The story of Hanguang-jun and his Lan-er-furen gets shuffled into historical records, written out in neat calligraphy by a disciple with an outstanding handwriting. That same disciple pauses at a section about Hanguang-jun's youth– he does not know the characters for Hanguang-jun's older brother's title, the Lan-da-gongzi of their time. It's a bit absurd, given that said elder brother had occupied the Lan-zongzhu position for a number of years, but – there's almost nothing about the man anywhere in the Lan library.
And, well– ultimately, the Lan clan lives on. Years flow by, smooth and unhurried, the jianghu experiencing a rare respite from any inter-clan tension.
Somewhere up high in the mountains, away from any prominent clan, stands a small building of an ancient make – a relic from foreign missionaries, maybe, or an abandoned stopover point for Baoshan-sanren's former disciples. Inside, there is an even smaller shrine – atop it, a small Guanyin figurine, and a portrait of a man with fine features and light-colored eyes and the corners of his mouth raised in an almost-smile. The shrine's keeper sweeps the floor, not moving very quickly; his robe is made of some dark fabric, sometimes shimmering with an odd translucent tinge. In these moments, the man doesn't look fully corporeal; instead, he's something between a mortal and a ghost.
He sets the broom down against a wall and puts away a scroll with miscellaneous talismans inscribed on it – prototypes, mostly; nothing that would actually work. His joints ache, so he settles down on the uneven stone of the porch and stares out at the sunset– and sighs so very softly.
