Day Six

“Lan Zhan.”

The tone of Wei Ying’s voice gives away how sick he is. Lan Wangji immediately snaps out of his meditative state and checks his temperature, palm to cheek, and finds Wei Ying’s skin unbearably hot.

“Feels good, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying slurs, leaning into his hand. He’s shivering. “Light a fire?”

The fire is lit, it’s been burning brighter than is prudent with their limited access to firewood.

Wei Ying needs medicine. Or barring that, food.

Lan Wangji might as well wish for winged horses to bear them back to their homes.

“Lan Zhan.”

“Mn?”

“Sit closer?”

He has one vague memory of Wei Ying saying that they have to huddle together for warmth, and another one, so hard to grasp that it seems like a dream, of Wei Ying’s bony shoulder being surprisingly comfortable to sleep on. “Okay.”

He expects Wei Ying to huddle up against him shoulder to shoulder and leg to leg, like they did in his memory, but Wei Ying lifts his arm out of the way and nestles against him in a way that catches him completely off-guard. He lets his arm fall around Wei Ying’s shoulder – the only other option being to hold it up in the air – and tries to calm the sudden racing of his heart.

No one has ever touched him like this.

It’s not unpleasant.

Liar, he chides himself. ‘Not unpleasant’ is an understatement. This is better than petting rabbits, better than nights on the watchtower when the world is quiet and restful, better than sweet jasmine tea; better than any pleasure that Lan Wangji has ever allowed himself. He already knows he’ll carry the craving for this touch in his skin and bones for a long time.

Pessimist. If Wei Ying returns your feelings, we can do this again.

If we live.

“You’re cold.”

“You have a fever.”

“Keep you warm,” Wei Ying mumbles, seeming not to register his answer, and nuzzles right into his neck. Lan Wangji startles, just a little, and hopes that the thrumming of his pulse doesn’t give him away.

“Lan Zhan, you’re so quiet.”

“What should I say?”

For some reason, that makes Wei Ying laugh, which in turn makes him cough. In the position they’re in, Lan Wangji can feel every shudder of his body and every heaving breath he takes as he tries to quell the fit.

“It’ll be a peaceful world.” That’s what Wei Ying says when the cough subsides, when he’s settled back into place. It would sound like a non-sequitur to anyone else, but Lan Wangji understands what he’s trying to say; that the world would be a more peaceful place if everyone only spoke when they had something to say.

“It would be boring.”

I have changed.

‘I actually feel good about Wei-gongzi, even though he does some excessive things, ’, his brother had once said. Lan Wangji had thought then that it was typical of his brother to find such a courteous way to describe Wei Wuxian’s non-existent morals.

‘Once Wei-gongzi leaves, Yunshen Buzhichu will return to tranquillity once more’, his brother had once said. The prospect of tranquillity hadn’t filled him with the joy that he had assumed it would.

If only his brother could see him now, he thinks.

“Should we eat the Xuanwu?”

“HAHHH?” Wei Ying’s bewilderment is loud; his voice echoes in their chamber of the cave. “Lan Zhan, are you joking?”

Is he? Now that the words have left his mouth, they’re not as ridiculous as they sounded in his head. They need food, don’t they?

“Oi, Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying sounds a little more alert now. “It’s… it’s so disgusting, I don’t have words to tell you how bad it is, inside the shell it’s like a cauldron of rotting liquid meat-”

Lan Wangji had forgotten about the corpses inside the shell, the ones with their spiritual cognition stolen, and his once-absurd-now-plausible idea becomes absurd once more; its flesh is probably poisonous to them. Still, just to needle Wei Ying a little more, he says “What about the tail?”

That gets him an elbow to the ribs. “Shut up. If this is your idea of conversation, keep it to yourself.”

“The person who throws a stone at a sleeping dog shouldn’t complain when it starts barking.”

“So wise, Lan Er Gongzi.” Wei Ying loses interest in the conversation, his burst of energy seems to have come to its end. “At least you tried.”

*

“Lan Zhan, it’s cold.”

Tell me what to do, Lan Wangji wants to say, but he knows that Wei Ying isn’t asking him to do anything; he’s barely conscious, talking in his sleep because it’s in his nature to express himself as much as it is in Lan Wangji’s nature to express as little as he possibly can. And even if he were to ask, what answer could Wei Ying possibly give him?

He’s lost track of the passage of time.

The rescue that Wei Ying had been so certain of now seems like a pipe dream.

This is how it ends for them.

Lan Wangji pulls Wei Ying into his arms and wraps his entire body around him; he’s given him a fire and his robes, and the only thing he has left to give is the warmth of his own body and, he hopes, whatever small comfort Wei Ying might derive from being held. Though Wei Ying is boneless as he’s moved, his grasp on that sword doesn’t lessen, and though the resentful energy from that sword troubled Lan Wangji before, he doesn’t care anymore. Let Wei Ying keep his trophy, he’s paid for it in blood.

Wei Ying tucks his head under his chin and sighs – which Lan Wangji selfishly wants to attribute to contentment, not pain or sadness or resignation – and releases his two-handed grip on the sword to wrap an arm around his midriff.

The only time Lan Wangji has been so desperately embraced was the night before his mother had disappeared.

*

Brew a pot of the happiness and sadness of life and death to mourn a young man; the moon still shines brightly, so there’s no need to despair.

Lan Wangji writes – figuratively, since he has neither brush nor paper – these lines about himself on the fifth night of his captivity in Qishan. He’s been left unmolested since Wen Chao claimed him from Wen Zhu, but he’s also fully aware that his convenience as a political prisoner is racing towards its end; once Wen Ruohan gets his hands on the fourth shard of the Yin Tian, the question would no longer be whether they’d allow him to live; it would be whether his death would be swift or drawn out.

If he could be allowed one last conversation with Wei Ying, these are the words he would say.

*

Lan Wangji is still a dead man walking. That the indoctrination has begun, and all of the clan heirs are in Qishan, changes nothing about his situation. Wen Chao is out for his blood and will have it, by some device or another. His clan is still scattered, his family shattered, he’s a little splintered thing held together in the shape of a human by pure spite, and now he’s lost Bichen too.

And yet, loneliness no longer wraps its icy fingers around his throat.

Lan Zhan, Wei Ying had called, over and over despite his silence, and never before had Lan Wangji thought that his name could be turned into music, and it is this thought that inspires him to add another line to Wangxian.

Why not face all of the storms of this world with an open heart, and share a song wherever we are?

*

I wish I could have played Wangxian on the qin just once.

He hums the song again, though he’s not sure whether he’s trying to comfort Wei Ying or himself. Wei Ying is unconscious, Lan Wangji is fighting to stay awake. Sleep clouds his eyes and mind, but he dares not give in. He’ll wait with Wei Ying until the end, and then he’ll meet his own death without fear or regret.

He thinks of his brother, of the words he would say to him if he could.

Xiong-zhang, I wasn’t alone. I was with someone I cared for, who cared for me too.

It is a kinder ending than I ever dreamt for myself.

*

“Wei Wuxian!”

Lan Wangji surfaces from the depths of an involuntary somnolence. Something must have triggered his awakening, but he can’t figure it out nor can he muster the strength to care. Wei Ying’s exhalations are still warm and steady against his skin, his heart beats steadily in rhythm with his own where their chests are pressed together and his fingers have yet to loosen their grip on that sword.

They’re both alive.

“Wei Wuxian!”

Have I started hallucinating, Lan Wangji wonders. The fire casts only a dim light, but he can see that they’re alone. Where could that shaky, distant voice be coming from?

“Wei Wuxian!”

Is it a spectre? A puppet? The ghost of one of the Xuanwu’s victims?

No. Lan Wangji finds the answer to his question as soon as he asks himself; he’s dealt with spectres, puppets and ghosts before, and this voice bears no similarity to any of those things.

“Lan Wangji!”

How strange, Lan Wangji thinks. There’s something about the way the speaker spits his name out, as if he hates having to say it, that’s familiar.

“Wei Wuxian!”

And then it clicks. That tone, that voice – it belongs to Jiang Cheng.

Could it be?

“Wei Wuxian!”

“Here!” Instead of the roar Lan Wangji intended, what comes out is a pathetic croak. He swallows, trying to revive his dry mouth and throat, and calls out once more. “In here!”

Now he hears it; the clattering of rocks disturbed by human feet, the ever-so-subtle change in the air wrought by human presence. A silhouette appears at the mouth of their crevice, carrying a small lamp that sheds light on his sideswept hair. Jiang Cheng has finally arrived to rescue them.

"Here!" Lan Wangji calls out again, freeing an arm from its important work of cradling Wei Ying to wave at Jiang Cheng just in case he misses them despite the combined light from the fire and the lamp.

Jiang Cheng leaps over. "Be quiet!" he admonishes, and he looks like he's about to say more when he suddenly drops to a crouch next to Lan Wangji, and his expressions - like Wei Ying's often does - flicker so quickly from one to another that Lan Wangji can't figure out what any of them mean.

Be quiet?

Could he be worried about the Xuanwu?

"It's dead," Lan Wangji explains.

"What?" All of the blood drains out of Jiang Cheng's face and he puts his fingers against Wei Ying's throat to search for a pulse, and Lan Wangji feels the sharp prick of annoyance. Surely Jiang Cheng has enough sense to figure out that 'it' means the Xuanwu? Surely Jiang Cheng doesn't think that he would ever refer to Wei Ying as 'it'?

More people flood into the crevice. They're dressed in the colours of the Jiang clan, carrying the same small lamps as Jiang Cheng. Their eyes widen at the sight before them - and what a sight it must be, Lan Wangji realises, two clan heirs covered in dirt and blood and coiled together like snakes in a den - but they keep a respectful distance and glanc about nervously as if they expect to be attacked at any moment.

"The Xuanwu is dead," he clarifies, for their sake, and for Jiang Cheng's sake, in case he's too incompetent to find a pulse, he adds "Wei Ying has a fever."

"Dead? How?"

Old age, Lan Wangji grumps to himself. To Jiang Cheng he says "We killed it."

A susurrus of murmurs rushes through the disciples. One takes tentative steps out into the Xuanwu's cave, probably to check on the truth of his statement. Jiang Cheng eyes are wide with surprise. "The two of you... killed it? Is that how Wei Wuxian got injured?"

"He's not injured," Lan Wangji explains. "Only from the hot iron."

"And you?" Jiang Cheng glances at his bloodied robe.

"My leg."

The disciple returns, but not alone. The man with him is dressed in gold; Lan Wangji, somewhat taken aback, recognises him as Jin Zixuan. Unlike Wei Ying, he has no burning hatred of Jin Zixuan, but he would not have expected him to be a part of the rescue; the Jin clan is famous for being wealthy, not chivalrous, and he remembers Wen Chao's statement about the Jin clan being co-operative with the Wen clan.

Have things changed since then?

Just how long have they been stuck here?

"Lan Er Gongzi, Wei-gongzi," Jin Zixuan says by way of greeting. "You are alive."

"Jiang-gongzi, the monster is dead!"

The remaining disciples burst into chatter, which Jiang Cheng silences with a barked command.

"We killed it," Lan Wangji repeats. Glory and credit are meaningless to him, but Wei Ying deserves both. His clan should celebrate his heroics, and as far as Jin Zixuan is concerned, it might make him less inclined to look down his nose at Wei Ying.

"Nonetheless, we should leave quickly," Jiang Cheng says. It’s the first sensible thing to come out of his mouth.

“Jiang-gongzi is right,” Jin Zixuan adds. “My people are waiting outside with food and medicine.”

"I'll carry Wei Wuxian," Jiang Cheng says then, not sparing even a moment before pulling Wei Ying off him; Wei Ying is completely limp, neither fighting Jiang Cheng's grip nor holding on to Lan Wangji, and Lan Wangji watches helplessly as Jiang Cheng hauls him away. He's in no shape to carry Wei Ying himself, but he still feels like a mother whose infant has been snatched out of her arms.

He doesn’t belong to you.

*

“Wei-gongzi really has talent for causing trouble,” Jin Zixuan mutters, his umpteenth complaint of the day since taking over Jiang Cheng’s task of carrying Wei Ying. “He’s heavy enough without adding the weight of this dull, useless sword-”

Lan Wangji has heard enough. “If you aren’t strong enough, give him to me. I’ll carry him.”

Jiang Cheng, who is helping him walk, raises an eyebrow at him.

Jin Zixuan, deprived of the ability to flap his sleeves, huffs and takes a few steps forward. It’s an empty threat – there’s no way Lan Wangji can carry Wei Ying on his back without crumpling like a paper doll – but effective nonetheless; Jin Zixuan cannot hand his burden over to an injured man without losing face, nor can he complain without coming across as weak.

Jiang Cheng flashes him the briefest of smiles. Jiang Cheng has never vocalised his dislike of Jin Zixuan, not in public at least, but this smile gives it away. He’s never smiled at Lan Wangji, not since that first introduction at the gates of Yunshen Buzhichu, and Lan Wangji has always assumed, from Jiang Cheng’s behaviour, that he was far more disliked than Jin Zixuan.

Not that it any of it matters.

“We will rest here,” Jin Zixuan suddenly says.

The dynamics change yet again. Jiang Cheng rushes to take Wei Ying. Jin Zixuan, relieved of his burden, coordinates the Jin and Jiang clan disciples in setting up a discreet camp. Lan Wangji does nothing other than lean against a tree. The most he can do is not be a nuisance and, for the moment, he's content with that.

*

Night has fallen.

The disciples have broken out of their clans into smaller groups of twos and threes; some keeping guard, some sleeping and yet others chatting.

Lan Wangji had drunk some broth and had his leg re-splinted by one of the Jin clan disciples who is also a doctor – it is thoughtful of Jin Zixuan to have anticipated their needs and to have provided for them; if he keeps this up, he’ll be a better clan leader than his father – now, he sits against a tree and keeps an eye on Wei Ying despite the distance he’s placed between himself and everyone in the camp, including the Yunmeng siblings.

Wei Ying hasn’t regained consciousness despite being given medicine to bring his fever down. Jiang Cheng has laid him close to the fire and is dabbing at his face and neck with a damp cloth with surprising tenderness.

The Yunmeng siblings are like onions, Lan Wangji remarks to himself. The tempestuous nature of their relationship, the ease with which they’re physically affectionate with each other, these things are new to him.

If I am ill, will xiong-zhang sit by my side and mop my brow for me?

He supposes that the answer is yes, and that small, selfish part of him that’s become more and more unruly since he met Wei Ying wishes for it to happen. What would it feel like, having a cool hand against his heated skin? Is a loving touch as soothing as it seems, or is he being overly sentimental?

Jin Zixuan comes to sit by his side. He glances around and, with a lowered voice, says “Zewu Jun is in Lanling.”

And that knot in Lan Wangji’s chest uncoils and he breathes an unhindered breath for the first time since he returned to Yunshen Buzhichu to find it under attack.

“There are only a few people who know. Not even my father.”

“You have my gratitude,” Lan Wangji replies. The words do not adequately convey the depth of his emotions, but they will have to do for now.

“They’ll go to Yunmeng,” Jin Zixuan continues, tipping his head in the direction of Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying. “I will return to Lanling. Our paths will split tomorrow. You’ll come with me?”

Where else would he go?

Lan Wangji’s affirmative answer is on the tip of his tongue.

He thinks of Yunshen Buzhichu; of the Jingshi, tranquil in the mornings and cosy in the evenings, of the bamboo forest and the rabbits that have become the favourite part of his morning patrol and of the Library Pavilion that is always shrouded in mist. Freed from Qishan, the clan heirs and disciples all have a home they desperately want to return to, but not him.

Is that really true?

His brother, the clan heir, is safe.

Lan Wangji is the spare. There’s little point ensconcing himself in the relative safety of Lanling as long as his brother is safe. The remnants of the Lan clan will be in various hideouts and safehouses in and around Gusu; they’ll be waiting for someone to gather them, to lead them.

With Shufu injured and his brother in hiding, that role should fall to him.

“I will return to Gusu.”

Jin Zixuan looks like he wants to argue with him, but for whatever reason, decides against it. “I am convincing my father to unite the clans against Wen Ruohan. Will you ally with us?”

“Yes.”

*

‘Just… wait here with me? It scares to death me every time you disappear somewhere.’

That’s one of the last things Wei Ying had said to him.

Wake up, then. Let me say goodbye properly this time.

But Lan Wangji knows that it’s better if he doesn’t. Wei Ying will insist that he come to Yunmeng to recuperate, loudly and repeatedly, not taking no for an answer and entirely capable of coming up with an argument that might just persuade him to change course. And if he remains unswayed, Wei Ying is entirely capable of following him to Gusu.

A tempting thought, but selfish though Lan Wangji has become, he is not that selfish yet.

In Yunmeng lies home, family and safety.

In Gusu lies hardship, austerity and danger.

It’s obvious where Wei Ying belongs.

Resolved, Lan Wangji bids his sleeping zhiji farewell.

May we be fated to meet again.