Chapter Text
The leaves are already changing in Qinghe when Nie Huaisang comes home. Summer ends early in the Unclean Realm, nestled safe among the mountains. As he rides toward the massive gates he breathes in the familiar scent of home--of pine and woodsmoke, stone and steel. There’s a chill in the breeze that his friends from Yunmeng would shudder at, but Huaisang smiles. He’s always loved the cold.
He rides at the center of his envoy, atop a dapple-grey mare. This particular horse has always been his favorite, and Huaisang suspects a certain someone picked her specifically for him. He was disappointed when that certain someone didn’t come personally to pick him up from Qinghe, but that’s alright. This way, when he comes home, he’ll have his whole family back at once.
Before him, the impenetrable walls of the Unclean Realm tower over the surrounding landscape, the tallest pines dwarfed by its menacing height. At the top of the nearest wall, cultivators clad in green and grey stand watch, pacing with their sabers in hand.
It’s a breathtaking sight, one he’s painted many times. The leaves are turning in splashes along the path to the gates, some red while others are still a vivid summer green. The rest falling somewhere in between, a rich gold in the afternoon sun. Autumn is here, and Huaisang thinks he will never tire of it.
From atop the wall, a shout announces his arrival. A clamor goes up among the men and the huge gates begin to open for him, Qinghe welcoming its young master home.
“All the way open?” Huaisang turns to the cultivator riding at his side, fluttering his fan even though the weather is rather cool. “Last year it was halfway. Maybe even less. One would think I had won a battle in Gusu.”
“That was last year,” says the servant, and his smile is badly hidden. “This year, er-gongzi has passed .”
Huaisang laughs. “A battle won, indeed.”
As Huaisang and his envoy approach the gates, disciples wave from their posts, greeting their er-gongzi with wide smiles and familiar voices. His excitement has been building ever since he left the Cloud Recesses, but now his heart is bursting with it. With a grin, he speeds ahead of the servants, galloping for the gates, and goes careening over the threshold of his home. He glances behind him to see his baffled envoy racing to catch up with him. No use, of course. Huaisang is small, the fastest rider in Qinghe. On top of that, he likes to think, privately, that the horses like him just a little bit more than everyone else. Anyway, the horses have never told him otherwise.
And then he’s home, as easy as that. The front courtyard is bustling as always. It’s just as beautiful as he remembers--the intricate stonework, the unruly wayward branches of the trees that line the paths, the fallen leaves blanketing the ground and crunching softly under the dozens of passing feet. A group of attendants run to greet him as he dismounts. He lets them take his mare back to the stables, but not before he gives her a grateful pat on the nose and reminds her not to bite anyone while he’s gone.
“ Er-gongzi .”
The voice is clear and mellow, soft enough to hush a room of Nie disciples, steady enough to lull a man to sleep. To Huaisang, that voice is like the first dip into a hot spring, a warmth that spreads from his chest to the rest of his body. His smile grows wider as he turns to see a small, lithe figure approaching him.
Meng Yao is no shorter than he is, but he has none of the bulk that Nie children are born with, even one like Huaisang, who does nothing at all to maintain it. He is lean, his posture impeccable, his smile as patient and pleasant as the face of the moon. He’s certainly better dressed for the weather than Huaisang is--he wears rich, heavy robes, and his shoulders are draped with fur.
“Meng Yao!” Huaisang meets him halfway across the courtyard, bouncing on his toes like a dog looking for a treat. Meng Yao bows to him when he is still too far away to stop the gesture, and Huaisang would pout at his insistence on formality, but he can’t bring himself to even pretend to be angry. Deep green and soft grey, a bit of silver glinting in his hair--the sight of Meng Yao in his familiar habit is enough to put a smile right back on his face. “Meng Yao, I’m home!”
Meng Yao’s smile, as he straightens, is slipping dangerously from placid politeness to a more personal sort of pleasure. “I can clearly see that, er-gongzi . Has young master Nie anything less obvious to say?”
“Aiya, Meng Yao, must you always match me in wits? I’m tired of everyone being so smart, and I’ll have you know I was quite relieved to be returning to the land of saber-wielding brutes.”
Meng Yao lets out a soft sound that only Huaisang would recognize as a laugh. “Very well, er-gongzi . This servant will go easy on you for a while. Were classes in Gusu a little rigorous for master Nie’s taste?”
“Nonsense!” Huaisang snaps his fan shut with a triumphant gesture and puffs out his chest. “The beast has been defeated! The course has been passed! And this er-gongzi simply wishes to spend the next few months with little to no intellectual challenge.”
“Of course. I’m sure zongzhu will be amenable to that.”
Huaisang darts a look around the courtyard. “Where is da-ge , anyway? Ah, but one should not presume… the gates were already opened quite wide. I suppose passing on a second attempt warrants very little recognition after all.”
“Ah… This one apologizes. Zongzhu is quite occupied with a political matter at the moment. If it were not for that, I am sure your da-ge would have…”
“Ah, don’t bother, Meng Yao.” Huaisang will not allow his good mood to diminish. “At least this way I can make myself presentable before I see him. Maybe I’ll even remember my saber.” He winks and watches Meng Yao duck his head just in time to conceal a flash of an expression. “Will Yao-ge accompany me? I find myself in need of a second opinion.”
“Of course, er-gongzi .” Meng Yao turns aside to let Huaisang past him, toward his rooms, and Huaisang happily latches onto his arm as they set off.
--
Nie Mingjue, as it turns out, is justifiably occupied. Huaisang has never seen this particular dignitary before, but the red robes are unmistakable--it’s someone from the Wen sect, and even though Huaisang catches only a passing glimpse of the man as he approaches the main hall, he can almost feel the discontent that rolls off him in waves. Huaisang braces himself as he stands before the just-slammed door. If that guy was pissed off, his brother is going to be even worse.
There were days when Nie Mingjue would never lose his temper without a swift, if awkward, apology. But more and more, it seems like the anger is winning out, and the sect leader’s temper is far easier to provoke. Huaisang raises his head and takes in a deep breath.
He looks to his right and is met with a smile, the same as every one of Meng Yao’s smiles, but just like Xichen seems to always be able to read Lan Wangji’s expressions, Huaisang prides himself in his ability to read the curve of Meng Yao’s lips. This one in particular is laced with a bit of sympathetic dread.
They go in together. There’s that, at least.
Huaisang is well aware that the primary emotion, on seeing one’s brother after several months apart, should not be dread . And for the most part, it isn’t. When Huaisang sees his brother, sitting at the other end of the room with his posture rigidly straight and his expression sour, he can barely control the urge to fling himself across the room and hug him. But still, there’s an anxiety dripping, filling a little pool in his heart.
Nie Mingjue looks up, sees him, and looks him up and down appraisingly. “Huaisang,” he says simply, and just the sound of his name could make Huaisang burst into tears--but he won’t. He stands straight and proud for his da-ge , chin up high, unsure whether to offer a smile or attempt to look serious. “I heard you passed.”
Huaisang beams and bounces on his toes, but he keeps an eye on his brother. Is that pride? Is that relief? Huaisang can always read his expressions, but now, when he desperately wants to see something good there, he finds himself unable to decipher it. He resists the urge to snap open his fan, keeps it held tight in his hands.
“Now that you’re home, you can begin saber training again. I expect you’ll have some catching up to do--”
“ Da-ge! ” Huaisang’s good mood dissipates almost entirely with those few words. He conceals the real hurt, slides easily into pouting. “Is that really the first thing we’re going to talk about? No warm welcome? Oh, good job passing your classes, Huaisang, you’re not a disappointment to our ancestors-- ”
“Huaisang!” Da-ge ’s voice booms. Huiasang flinches and lowers his eyes. At his side, he sees Meng Yao move forward, hands already twitching as if about to make a placating gesture. He’s halfway to Mingjue’s side, halfway to Huaisang’s, and looks at neither of them, a perfect picture of an impartial mediator.
“ Zongzhu … Huaisang only meant to say that he’s happy to be home, and he hopes that you’re happy to have him back. Surely such good conduct in Gusu can merit him the indulgence of some time off of training? He’s traveled a long way, after all, and he’s only just come home.”
So much for impartial , Huaisang thinks. He suppresses his smile, just until Mingjue sighs, looking contrite, and mutters a “very well”.
“Thank you, da-ge! ” He punctuates it with a bow, just for good measure.
Then something passes between Mingjue and Meng Yao, silently, so that Huaisang can’t decipher it before the message has already been exchanged. With a huffed breath, Mingjue turns back to Huaisang.
“I… am sorry for not welcoming you, Huaisang. I am very happy to have you home. I would be more hospitable if that Wen bastard hadn’t stomped in here demanding--” Another sigh. “Nevermind. It’s no concern of yours.”
Huaisang hates that phrase, but he doesn’t let the grimace reach his lips. “Ah, it’s no big deal, da-ge , we can’t all be smiling all the time…”
“ Zongzhu-- ” Meng Yao approaches another step, no longer Huaisang’s advocate but a trusted lieutenant. “Should we not discuss the Wen sect’s demand with Huaisang? It is, after all, a family matter.”
“Discussion will not change my final decision.”
“Of course not. Zongzhu ’s decision is just. However, it would not do well to keep from Huaisang an issue that concerns…” A significant glance replaces the words here, and Mingjue visibly cracks under Meng Yao’s delicately applied pressure.
“Wen Ruohan wants Father’s saber.”
“What? Da-ge , why would they--”
Meng Yao dutifully translates. “The Wen emissary purported it to be a safety measure. It is my understanding that your father’s saber caused some reasonable damage after his… passing.” He bows after he finishes, as if that softens the memory of their father’s death.
“Wasn’t that just a problem with resentful energy? The Nie sect suppressed it. What does Wen Ruohan need with it now? It’s disrespectful to say the least, and--”
“I know , Huaisang, and we aren’t giving it to him. But they think that since Zhaoxue injured a Wen cultivator just after father’s death, they have a right to get their grimy hands all over it. They intend to hold it over us like… like a trophy.” His fist hits the table. “They’ll be lucky if it doesn’t kill them for trying, anyway.”
Huaisang smiles, but it’s a sad, sloping thing. He can’t summon much more whenever memories of their father are brought up. “He probably would have killed a man where he stood if he were asked to give up Zhaoxue .”
“That’s why we’re not giving them half a chance at stealing it. Meng Yao.” Mingjue gestures to him. His eyes are attentive--whatever Mingjue says next is news to him. “I want twenty men to accompany me to the family tomb. All inner disciples. We leave tomorrow at dawn.”
“Yes, zongzhu .”
“Twenty? Why do you need twenty men?”
“We’re bringing Zhaoxue to the Unclean Realm for safekeeping.”
“But twenty?”
The next glare from Mingjue tells Huaisang that his questioning has stepped out of bounds. He’s not sure which of them will lash out first when Meng Yao speaks up.
“From my personal experience, er-gongzi , the Wens are not above an ambush. If they have any spies among the Nie sect’s disciples, it’s possible that the saber could be taken while traveling to the Unclean Realm. It is best to be prepared.”
The tension in the room does not dissipate, but it stops rising. Huaisang has a creeping feeling that the real reason for all that manpower isn’t the hastily interjected excuse Meng Yao set forth, but for now he’s satisfied.
“Of course,” Huaisang relents. “Anyway, what would I know about it? I just barely passed the lecture in Gusu.” He smiles easily, and he sees his brother’s face soften from annoyance to a begrudging fondness. “If that’s all, da-ge , I have lots to unpack. May I beg Meng Yao’s company to assist me?”
He grins at Meng Yao, who is pointedly neither smiling nor frowning, and they both defer to Mingjue. He waves them away. “Once you have those men, Meng Yao, take the rest of the night off. Dismissed.”
Meng Yao only fully smiles when he and Huaisang are out the door, headed back to Huaisang’s rooms.
From there, the evening goes quick--after their brief digging into his things to find something to wear, Huaisang has decided that most of his old wardrobe will have to go. He rather fancies himself in lighter colors, and his time in all white in Gusu has just solidified that taste. Most of the darker robes are badly fitting anyway, a little too big around the shoulders. Even with Huaisang’s natural build, most of Mingjue’s old clothes could hardly be expected to fit anyone. Those that are slightly too small he pushes onto Meng Yao. He politely declines the first few sets, but there’s a lovely patterned robe later on that Huaisang teases him into accepting.
Meng Yao tries it on. He has a good eye--this one is a deep green, muted, with embroidered roses along the hems. It fits him perfectly. But Huaisang is not looking at the robe. He is looking at Meng Yao’s expression, the way he gazes at his reflection with something like awe. He fixes his hair over his shoulder, straightens the robe. Then he ducks his head, subservient as ever, and thanks Huaisang earnestly for the generous gift.
Huaisang wants to tell him he already has thanks enough. The sight of Meng Yao dressed in his clothes, his old hairpiece, the braids of his family--it makes him feel like his heart has been thrown from a high place. And more than that, his smile , the way he looks at himself as if he, too, is pleased to look like a Nie. Meng Yao, part of the family. Meng Yao, son of a prostitute, Mingjue’s right hand and Huaisang’s sometime-attendant. Meng Yao, dressed in green and silver, every inch of his appearance declaring that he belongs to Qinghe Nie.
He says none of this. Instead, he latches himself to Meng Yao’s arm and smiles at him in the mirror. “Oh, Meng Yao, you’re beautiful !” He does not mean the robe, but he lets Meng Yao believe he does.
Dinner is taken in his rooms, many things still scattered on the floor around them, nothing quite back where it belongs yet. Then Meng Yao helps Huaisang take down his hair and excuses himself for bed. He lets Meng Yao go only after a long minute of wheedling and pleading for him to stay just a while longer, and then he watches him go down the hall before blowing out the candle and lying in bed.
He knows Meng Yao does not go to bed at this hour. This is the time when he goes to da-ge ’s room, in the quiet dark, and coaxes him into taking some rest. Huaisang has heard plenty of rumors about their late-night visits, most of them so vulgar and disrespectful that Huaisang has reconsidered his identity as a pacifist. But they’re far from the truth--he saw them, once, without meaning to, on a night like this. He’d looked through the crack in the door and seen Meng Yao kneeling behind his brother, combing out his hair.
That used to be Huaisang’s job. Now Meng Yao tends to it diligently, attentively as he does everything, and with something else there--a depth of care that Meng Yao is sure never to show in the light of day. Huaisang almost felt like he was seeing something dirty when he saw them, something he shouldn’t be privy to. The way Meng Yao’s hands lingered in his brother’s hair, the way he unraveled the braids and did them up again with patience that bordered on indulgent.
Huaisang is happy. He’s happy that Meng Yao does that for his brother, that Meng Yao can make him look so relaxed and unguarded. Somewhere along the way, Huaisang lost the ability to do that, or the patience to keep trying, but now Meng Yao is here to fill the gaps. He rounds them out, smooths their harder edges. He turns their mismatched pair into a well-balanced trio.
It is good. But Huaisang does wonder how long it will last. Mingjue is under more pressure by the day, dealing with so much stress that Huaisang fears his own habits are less endearing and more exasperating than before. Meng Yao already has to steal time to spend it with Huaisang, with his duties as vice general expanding every day to suit the increased workload.
Huaisang can only hope the season doesn’t change too quickly. His family is already very small. As he drifts off to sleep, he hopes that it will never grow any smaller.
--
Twenty men leave Qinghe and twenty men return. They come home no worse for wear, carrying the previous sect leader’s saber with them. Well, not carrying. It is pulled on its own cart, wrapped in a cloth covered in talismans, bound with chains, and kept at a distance. But even under the cloth, even from the top of the wall, Huaisang knows his father’s saber. The way it is being handled pricks something at the back of his mind. Dangerous , he thinks, but why ? He bites the inside of his cheek, taps his fan against his open hand, and descends the wall to meet his da-ge .
At the bottom of the steps, he makes to intercept his brother, to place himself at his side as the envoy disbands. But before he can say or do anything, Mingjue brushes past him without so much as a word, or even a glance. His expression is hard as he practically storms into the Unclean Realm, already bellowing orders. Huaisang is given a respectful berth by the other cultivators entering, who all apologetically bow to him and sidestep a little. It’s Zonghui who sees his confusion and approaches him.
“ Er-gongzi . Forgive your brother, there was… some trouble at the tombs.”
“The Wens? Did they try to intercept you?”
“No. Just a few fierce corpses.”
“Corpses? How did they get into the tombs? Aren’t they sealed?”
“Well, yes…”
“Then they were already inside? But the Nie burn bodies, we don’t bury them…”
Zonghui shakes his head a little. “It’s better if you ask zongzhu .”
“Why? Zonghui?”
“I apologize, Er-gongzi .” Then he bows and goes with the others, following the clattering of the cart where Zhaoxue is chained. A cold wind sweeps through the doors of Qinghe in his wake, and the gates begin to close, noisy and cumbersome.
If he follows Mingjue now, he might learn something that he knows is being kept from him. But he could also be throwing himself right into another blowout fight. He watches twenty cultivators descend into the vault where all Qinghe Nie’s treasures are kept-- treasure being a slightly misleading name for the deadliest and most dangerous weapons the sect has collected over the years. But the vault is for things like poison knives and unstable amulets. It’s a place where resentful energy is suppressed. Why does his own father’s saber, many years removed from one accidental injury, have to be taken past three layers of wards?
He can almost hear Meng Yao’s voice hastily making up for this incongruity--surely it’s for protection against the Wens, so that if they should come to Qinghe, they won’t be able to get their hands on it. But Huaisang knows Meng Yao, and he knows that would be a quickly constructed lie, meant to cover the holes in Mingjue’s reasoning.
As much as Huaisang cares for Meng Yao, he knows Meng Yao helps his da-ge lie to him. It stings.
No, if it were for protection against the Wens, it would be put somewhere that people are prevented from getting in . The treasury, probably. It’s the best-guarded place in the Unclean Realm, especially since there’s been a few minor financial hiccups since Mingjue took over as sect leader. Having received his allowance from said treasury every month for several years, he’s familiar with just how much bureaucracy and menial paperwork goes into even entering the building that houses Qinghe Nie’s gold.
Even Mingjue’s personal rooms would be a good alternative. The saber would remain in the sight of the best cultivator in the clan, and the relative location of the household in the fortress would make it impossible for anyone to enter and leave undetected.
But the vault is not designed to keep people out. It’s designed to keep things in .
Then there’s the issue of whatever attacked Mingjue’s envoy in the tombs, which he’s certain was no ordinary horde of fierce corpses. The whole thing doesn’t sit right. But instead of putting up a fuss, Huaisang simply inquires with the guard at the door of the vault, then smiles affably when he’s answered with a shrug. He fans himself all the way to Mingjue’s quarters, the repetitive motion helping him plan out a script for the coming confrontation.
--
Mingjue doesn’t return to his room until nightfall, and by then Huaisang has worked himself into a state of agitation. “Da-ge!” He stands up from beside Mingjue’s desk as he walks in--He looks haggard, hair in disarray, dust on his robes and one of the hems torn.
“Huaisang,” he intones, and it’s more of a warning than a greeting.
“Why did you bring father’s saber to the vault?”
“It’s nothing that concerns you.”
“You said that the resentful energy was purged right after father died! Why would it need to be contained down there?”
Mingjue throws Baxia down into her stand and begins clearing off his desk, then glares up at Huaisang. He probably means to look angry, but he merely looks tired . Something in Huaisang wants nothing more than to sit down with him and comb his hair, sing him to sleep, tell him it’ll be okay in the morning. But the rest of him only flares with anger. These past few years, all Huaisang has been able to get from Mingjue is anger. Now even that is lost to him. Now he’s just dust under his brother’s feet, not even worthy of his rage.
“There’s something you’re not telling me about Zhaoxue , isn’t there? Did father really die on a night hunt, Da-ge ? Did the Wens--”
“ Huaisang! ”
Ah. There’s the anger.
“ Da-ge! ” He rushes forward to plead his case before Mingjue stops him.
“Get out. I have work to do.”
“...What--”
“Get. Out.”
“No! Not until you tell me what’s going on! Why do the Wen want Zhaoxue in the first place? What’s so special about a stupid saber ?”
“You would understand if you ever deigned to use one! ”
“I can’t fight, da-ge , you know it hurts me to--”
“It’ll hurt more when a puny fierce corpse rips you to pieces on a night hunt!”
“You mean like father? Whole load of good his saber did him !”
Mingjue’s expression has contorted into one of fury. Huaisang feels a vicious pride rising in his throat, choking him, forcing tears into his eyes. Da-ge ’s voice is cold when he begins again.
“Our father was a warrior and a sect leader.”
“And he died at forty, so forgive me if I don’t want to follow in his footsteps!”
“No, you would rather waste your time and make a mockery of our clan!”
“It’s better than being like you!”
Huaisang doesn’t allow himself to look up at his brother after he says it, even though he feels the shift in the energy of the room, feels the way his brother reels back from the punch. He doubles down, throws some more fuel on his fire, and continues.
“I would rather be a useless layabout my whole life than be anything like you! I would rather be a waste of space than a dense, stubborn brute who can’t solve a single problem without swinging a saber at it! I’ll never be like father, and I’ll never be like you, so just give up on trying to make me!”
“Huaisang--”
“If you think I’m too much of a useless child to handle the truth about whatever’s going on with father’s saber, fine! Then let me be a useless child and leave me alone ! Let me be lazy and weak and stupid and stop trying to change me !”
He ignores his brother’s voice, strained somewhere between rage and regret, calling after him as he storms away. He ignores everything but hiding his face from anyone he passes. As if they don’t know what’s happened. He’s sure everyone a mile away could hear them fighting. He’s sure they all pity him. Poor, helpless er-gongzi . Always sticking his nose in where he doesn’t belong, and always being punished for it.
The thought makes more tears well in his eyes, and he shifts his fan to further cover his face, picks up the pace as he goes back to his rooms. As soon as he reaches his own bedroom, he slams the door shut behind him, sinks down on his bed, and cries.
It’s hard to hold onto the anger he felt back in Mingjue’s room. It had come so easily then, when he was defending against his brother’s own. But now, in the safety of his own bed, it slips between his fingers, replaced by hiccuping sobs that he does his best to quiet. Half of him wants to keep crying, cry until there’s nothing left of him and he just melts away. The other half imagines his da-ge ’s disappointment and forces his heart into some semblance of wholeness. He wipes his eyes.
“ Er-gongzi ?” Behind the closed door, a steady, gentle voice calls for him. If it were any other time, Huaisang would be happy to hear it. But he feels the sharp reminder of his position when he breathes--Meng Yao serves his brother, not him. Meng Yao is not his servant, not his . It is clear, and has always been clear, that beyond a convenient friendship, Huaisang is not worth half as much to Meng Yao as Mingjue is.
They fought. Meng Yao can certainly tell. And Mingjue looked so worn, so tired when he came back from the vault. Meng Yao will go to him and comb his hair and mend his robes and be his . Huaisang quiets himself and waits silently until he hears careful footsteps retreating again down the hall. And then he’s alone.
Jealousy burns, ugly and painful, like a wildfire through his gut. The worst part is, he’s not even sure who he’s jealous of. Meng Yao, for replacing him at his brother’s side. His brother, for being first in Meng Yao’s heart. The both of them, for having each other while Huaisang loses each of them to each other, more and more every day.
It doesn’t matter, he supposes, because the end result is the same: Huaisang is the one left behind.
--
The tears only last so long, and before he even begins thinking of forgiving Mingjue, Huaisang is already planning. It’s easy enough to gather the information he needs: he flirts with one of the vault guards until he manages to find out when they change shifts, then follows them back to the guards’ quarters just long enough to figure out where the keys are kept. From there, it’s a quick trip in through his brother’s window during saber practice, rifling through his papers until he finds notes on the arrays that protect the vaults. Those are just perfunctory, since Huaisang won’t need to take anything out , just get himself in. But he’d rather be prepared in case any of the wards try to kill him for it anyway.
It only takes him a week to plan it out, but it’s another week before he’ll have a chance to go through with it. During that time, he doesn’t speak with his brother, but he also isn’t asked to come to saber practice at all, so he shoves down his unease and marks it as a victory. Anyway, everyone seems busy lately, so if he’s lucky his brother will probably just forget him entirely and he’ll get the next week off practice as well. Even Meng Yao is always at the sect leader’s side, making only a few short, apologetic visits when Huaisang requests his company, always ending prematurely with another summons and a hasty bow.
Maybe it’s Huaisang’s prolonged absence from training that makes the Fourth General feel a little too comfortable in his position. When Huaisang is around, nobody dares to pick on Mingjue’s right hand. But when Huaisang passes by the courtyard where the disciples are going through their sword forms, he sees trouble brewing. The Fourth General looms over Meng Yao by a whole head. Meng Yao does not meet his eyes--he never does--and keeps them instead fixed blankly ahead of him, making a small but respectful bow, as is fitting for someone around the same rank but senior in age.
Huaisang can’t hear what they’re talking about from his vantage point, but he sees the Fourth General raise his hand as if to strike Meng Yao. Meng Yao flinches violently. The pleasant blank expression slips momentarily as his eyes close and his whole body tenses. But then the Fourth General laughs and lowers his hand. He shoves past Meng Yao, intentionally hitting his shoulder as he goes. The disciples are looking in the other direction, conveniently positioned away from the scene.
Meng Yao stumbles just a little against the shove, then breathes deeply, sets his shoulders, and schools his face into the same pleasant, neutral expression as always. His stride is sure as he leaves the courtyard, but Huaisang knows him well enough to catch the haste in his retreat.
Logically, Huaisang knew Meng Yao was bullied. But when Meng Yao had risen from servant to Vice General, from a lowly attendant to a respected advisor, he’d thought the harassment would stop. Seeing it now, in person, is a shock to the system. He means to seek Meng Yao out that night, but it seems he doesn’t have to--he appears on Huaisang’s doorstep without being summoned at all.
“ Er-gongzi .” His smile is strained but genuine. It’s late enough that he’s probably already given up on getting Mingjue to leave his paperwork and go to sleep. There are circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t been resting either.
“Meng Yao.” Huaisang can barely summon up a smile in return, not when he thinks about where Meng Yao is coming from. He and his brother both have an extraordinary talent for staying angry with each other after they fight. Sometimes fights can easily go on for weeks at a time without either of them apologizing or even speaking to each other the whole time. And Huaisang doesn’t want to blame Meng Yao for any of this, but he’s well aware of whose side Meng Yao is on, and it’s not his . He knows full well that Meng Yao shares in the secrets he himself isn’t privy to, the things Mingjue thinks him too young or too silly or just too useless to understand.
“May I come in?”
Huaisang steps aside and pastes on a grin, taking Meng Yao by the arm to sit him down at the table. “Meng Yao is always welcome. Tea? I have some cookies left over from Xichen-ge.”
“ Er-gongzi …” He kneels with his hands placed primly in his lap, and does not move to accept the tea Huaisang pours for him. “I know you’ve been upset the past few weeks.”
Huaisang stills. His shoulders pull in a little as he digs his hands into his lap. He says nothing, but allows Meng Yao to continue.
“ Zongzhu has been very upset too. I’ve come here not as your brother’s advisor, but as… something resembling a friend . Although I do not mean to presume upon your kindness, er-gongzi .”
Presume ? Resembling?
“Your brother is a stubborn man. He is dedicated and diligent, but at times he can fail to see beyond his immediate focus. You know this better than anyone.”
“Are you here to apologize for him?” Huaisang can’t help the bitterness that seeps into the words.
“No, er-gongzi . That is something he must do himself. I only hope that you do not take what he says to heart. Often his true meaning is lost in anger. Your brother cares for you very much. His deepest wish is to protect you. If any harm were to come to you--”
“What if I don’t want him to protect me? I’m not a child! You’re only a year older than me, Meng Yao, and he tells you all his secrets! Why won’t he lie to protect you ?”
Meng Yao smiles, half conciliatory, half sad. “Because you’re his brother, er-gongzi .”
Once more, Huaisang is aware of the distance between them, the distance that Meng Yao makes impassable with his polite, pleasant grins and his insistence on formalities. With every bow he makes, every time he calls Huaisang er-gongzi , Huaisang wants more and more to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and say look, look at your clothes, at your braids, at all the things we’ve given you. Is this not enough for you to see you’re part of this family ?
Instead, Huaisang bites his lip and says nothing.
“I don’t agree with his keeping of secrets either,” Meng Yao continues. “But his secrets are not mine to tell. Just as his apology is not mine to deliver.”
Huaisang frowns. “And yet, he refuses to deliver it.”
Meng Yao’s smile is tight, and he says nothing. There is nothing, Huaisang supposes, to say.
--
It’s too easy to get into the vault. If Huaisang didn’t intend on keeping this whole adventure secret until he can confront his brother about it, he would double back and scold Mingjue for his subpar security this instant. But first, he has something to do.
The vault is an enigma of a place. A maze of pedestals and standing cases, labyrinthine and unending. The entrance leads down into the side of the mountain, lit by sickly green lights that glow in their tiny glass spheres, casting grim shadows over the walls, cut with images of beasts. Huaisang’s feet are quiet on the floor beneath him, but even the slightest sound echoes wildly in this space.
He finally reaches the lowest floor. It’s dim down here, and the space, while cavernous, is made claustrophobic by the strange patterned placement of tables and boxes, each containing some deadly poison or suppressed ghost. He doesn’t know how he knows that his father’s saber will be all the way down here--but he’s sure, somehow. Somewhere around here, if only he can find it.
For the first few minutes, Huaisang doesn’t even hear the clamor from above. It’s distant, the long staircase distorting and muffling the sound until he doesn’t even recognize the clash of steel and iron. But when the shouting starts, Huaisang finally pauses to listen.
He’s heard stories of war all his life, but he also grew up surrounded by the walls of an impenetrable fortress and told that war could never come to his home. There is no way this can be what he thinks it is.
Huaisang looks around the vault once, then twice, searching for any sign of the familiar blade he came to inspect. Then he thinks of his brother and Meng Yao, who are in the same place as the shouting and the noise of swords. Huaisang bites his tongue, grips his fan in a closed fist, and turns to run back up the stairs.
At the door, the sounds are still not very loud. Good, he thinks. If there’s fighting, it’s nowhere near here.
Fuck , he thinks. If it’s the Wens, this is exactly where they’re trying to get to .
Huaisang is about to open the door to run when he hears voices outside--both familiar, and one which makes his blood boil.
“If Shixiong will not defend it, then I will.” He can imagine the bow, and the brittle, pleasant smile. It’s Meng Yao. Shit . If Huaisang leaves now, his brother will most definitely find out that he was sneaking around.
“Meng Yao,” the other voice drawls. Drunk ? “Don’t you remember what happens when you don’t listen to your shixiong ?”
“Defending the vault is a direct order from Zongzhu .”
“Then why are you the one telling me?” It’s an ugly voice. The fourth general, then. Huaisang’s teeth grind at the sound of it.
“ Shixiong-- ”
“When did you graduate from being Zongzhu ’s whore?”
There’s no response, not that he can hear above the rushing of his own pulse. Suddenly, distantly, he hears a shout of his name.
Huaisang! It’s Mingjue. Far away, but it comes again, closer. Huaisang’s heart plummets. His brother is looking for him, is coming this way , and there’s no other way out of the vault. Only this door, outside of which Meng Yao is still standing--Huaisang remembers suddenly to be angry for him, for what the fourth general is implying. No, not implying, saying, straight out .
“Don’t forget where you came from. Ha. A son of a whore, a whore himself. You really think Zongzhu chose you for what’s up here? I think he cares more about what’s down--”
There’s a thud, and the great door of the vault jostles a bit.
“You little--” A sickening crack.
Huaisang!
The doors rattle. There’s a small noise of pain, sharp and quickly muffled. It echoes unnaturally in the cavernous space, in Huaisang’s pounding heart.
“Forgetting your place, are you? Well, let me remind you, then.” Huaisang makes up his mind in a split second as panic adds to the rage and boils over. He reaches for the handle of the door, ready to throw himself at the fourth general kicking and screaming, ready to cut off every one of his fingers for daring to touch Meng Yao, his Yao-ge--
Huaisang! Mingjue’s voice calls, so much closer.
He’s only cracked the door open when there’s a wet thunk , and a punched out noise, and through the narrow opening he sees a sword sunk into an armored chest.
Meng Yao’s sword.
The fourth general’s chest.
Meng Yao’s sword pulls out, bloody, and the fourth general’s body--his body --crumples in a heap on the stones in front of the door. He’s dead, Huaisang can tell, before he even hits the ground. Huaisang does not open the door any further, the sudden shock freezing him in place, and from here he cannot see what Meng Yao’s face looks like. The sword has begun shaking--are Meng Yao’s hands trembling like that? A man is dead. Huaisang would have killed him himself if Meng Yao hadn’t. Huaisang is paralyzed.
“MENG YAO!”
The sword clatters to the ground. Huaisang flinches painfully, knocking into the door. He stumbles through, lands on his knees. Meng Yao does not even see him. He only sees Mingjue, approaching rapidly, all righteous fury, with Baxia in his hand already dripping red. Huaisang scrambles to his feet.
“ Da-ge! Wait! Da-ge , he was--”
“ Zongzhu !”
Huaisang sees it a moment too late. Mingjue doesn’t see it at all. But Meng Yao is already throwing himself in front of the sword when it comes. The Wen soldier’s blade pierces Meng Yao’s chest.
“Meng Yao!” Both brothers shout in chorus. The sword rips away and Meng Yao collapses backward against Mingjue. Huaisang cannot move. He envisions himself, as clear as day, rushing to Meng Yao’s side, lowering him gently to the ground, protecting him from the Wens’ blades, holding him, kissing his hair--
But he does not move. Instead, his brother drops to his knees and lets Meng Yao, half-conscious and gasping in pain, lean against his chest. His anger seems forgotten for just a moment, until he seems to remember himself, and shoves Meng Yao away. Meng Yao catches himself on one arm, barely keeping his face from meeting stone. At that, Huaisang breaks free from his own fear and runs, sprints the few steps it takes to reach him.
He has never seen this expression on Meng Yao before. There is no smile that can be pasted over the pain and fear. There is a stubborn dignity, a man clinging to the scraps of his pride as he’s thrown from the very person he just took a sword to the chest for . Huaisang pulls him into his lap and looks up to where Mingjue is rising to his feet, murder in his eyes.
But not toward Meng Yao. He brings his blade down on the Wen soldier, brutal and quick, but there are more coming. No, not just more Wen soldiers. As Huaisang follows his brother’s gaze, he sees a luxurious red robe, too elegant for what it contains. A young man approaches, surrounded by his retainer.
“ Wen Chao, ” his brother spits, venomous and dangerous. Huaisang is inclined to agree.
“H-Huai-- er-gong...zi… ” Meng Yao is speaking under his breath, his eyes fluttering, unfocused, searching for him.
“Meng Yao?” Huaisang pulls him a little closer, rearranges him in his lap, puts more pressure on the wound even when Meng Yao winces in pain.
“G-go. Run, p-please--” He’s cut off by a bout of coughing, sending dark blood sliding down his chin. Huaisang grabs his wrist and focuses on everything Xichen has ever taught him about healing, about qi transfer, about the placement of organs and the danger Meng Yao might be in.
Huaisang grits his teeth and summons all of his power, weak as it is, to give to Meng Yao. “No,” he says. “I’m not going.”
“Nie- zongzhu .” Wen Chao’s voice cuts through the quiet. Even the distant clang of swords has petered out. He’s pretty sure that if the battle has ended, it’s not in their favor. Wen Chao certainly walks with enough swagger to suggest he thinks he’s already won.
Mingjue cries out in an awful roar and swings Baxia madly, but it’s blocked easily by one of Wen Chao’s retainers. What’s happening to him? He seems to have lost control, leans heavily on Baxia, thrust into the ground--
“I hate to have to meet you in this position, Nie- zongzhu , but unfortunately, you chose not to cooperate when you were given the chance.” Wen Chao snaps his fingers, and a few of his men leave his envoy and approach the vault. Huaisang can’t do anything--what could he do against all of them? Meng Yao’s condition is steady, but how much of that is his healing? He can’t leave his father’s saber to the Wens. He cannot leave Meng Yao to his brother’s righteous fury.
Righteous? Is it righteous?
Huaisang watches Wen Chao’s men descend into the vault. He does not know how much time passes like this, with his brother staring down Wen Chao, with Meng Yao in his arms, bleeding out, with ice in his gut freezing him in place. Time passes in a horrible stalemate.
He watches Wen Chao take his father’s saber in hand and look it over as if it was only a trinket. He watches as Wen Chao leaves, as the Wen soldiers turn and depart, as the gates close and are barred behind them. He watches his brother rise to his feet, eyes blazing, blade singing, and he holds his best friend tighter in his arms.
Huaisang has felt this dread before, this terrible icy thing lodged in his stomach. He has been to the depths of it and back. He has knelt at his father’s funeral, at his mother’s, at the grave of Mingjue’s mother too, he has seen his cousins slain by ghosts, slain by demons and monsters. And now, once more, he is watching his family crumble apart in his hands.
He grips Meng Yao in his weak, useless arms, and meets his brother’s glare.