Chapter Text
The world folded in on itself like a paper fan, and Lan Wangji opened his eyes to darkness.
It was difficult, for a moment, to tell where he was. A moment passed and he still did not know. The habitual sharp pain was not where he expected to feel it, but rather, in his shin, familiar in a hazy sort of way. His back, bizarrely, felt fine. Breathing was a laborious process.
He could not tell where he was, but he knew immediately where he wasn’t: this was not the Cold Pond cave, nowhere in the Cloud Recesses. With a jolt he realised his spiritual energy was sealed. Captivity. This was worse than he could currently grasp.
If someone managed to extract him from the cave, they would have had to raze the Cloud Recesses to the ground; Xiongzhang would never let that happen if he were—Lan Wangji blinked back the lump in his throat. No need to catastrophise. He would remain calm, and collect evidence before surrendering to panic.
There was no moon or candlelight to throw the shapes around him into relief. Lan Wangji focused on his senses, and tried, very hard, to process what they conveyed.
It was absolute mayhem.
From a distance he could hear the jingle of metal, possibly moving in the foul draft that filled his lungs. Somewhere to his left, a constant dripping noise tested his resolve, kept him jaggedly on edge with every plop. His wrists struggled against something cold—chains. He was in a cell underground. And his leg was broken.
There was no one around to demand answers of, and so Lan Wangji sought his memory. The day had been like any other in his seclusion. He applied the cream Xiongzhang insisted upon and—even managed to comb his hair; yes, he was expecting A-Yuan. What happened after that? He could not remember. Only waking up in this place, and an odd feeling inside him, a paper fan folded closed.
Strange, not to be incapacitated by pain. Lan Wangji did not remember the last time he woke up and was able to move immediately. Now his movement was impeded by chains, but he could still sit, or half-way to it, turn his neck without spasms, breathe without having to concentrate. More than a relief, it was alarming. Implausible. The pain radiating from his shin was almost a comfort in that sense, and a concern in others.
It was only that this leg had been broken before. In a similar place, if not the same one. It stood to reason that a bone that broke once would be weaker in its fracture point; not, unfortunately, enough to soothe his mind. For he had once been chained in an underground cell, with his core sealed, and his leg broken. A lifetime ago. And that niggling prickling under his skin, that odd sensation, inexplicable.
Lan Wangji tamed his breathing until it no longer tore at his chest. Then tamed it further until it allowed him to think. He needed to find a way out without alerting anyone of his escape. First, he needed light.
A sudden, piercing thought: where was Bichen? Wangji had been left in the Jingshi during his seclusion, but his blade never left his side. Uselessly, he tried to call for it; he did not know where it was. Possibly hundreds of li away. Cease, he told his racing heart, closed his eyes against the pressure. Calm, calm yourself. It would do no good to panic. Focus on the task. Diligence is the root.
Carefully, Lan Wangji sent his hands outwards, groping in the dark until his fingers closed around something. A stone. That could do. When he found one more, and nothing else, he gathered both and leveraged himself on one elbow.
Moving his arms so easily was still odd, but now was not the time to contemplate it. Whatever joy that could cause was diluted by worry. He had to work fast. He picked up the stone, and struck it hard against the metal cuff on his wrist.
It took several attempts. Good, that he found another stone, for the first was brittle and broke. With some effort, and a slight change of his angle, Lan Wangji struck until—
A spark.
It only lasted a heartbeat, and the shock of sudden light near-blinded him. But Lan Wangji had been prepared, and he was looking away in any case. For something to burn. And within crawling distance he found a stack of fabric, possibly another cultivator’s robes.
The length of the chain allowed him the journey, but only just. When he finally stumbled onto the robes they were damp, tacky with something that smelled familiar. Lan Wangji ventured an uncomfortable guess that blood was not flammable, but there was nothing else to use. Apart from his own robes. Perhaps his hair. His flesh, if need be. No, he will try the bloody robes first; further injury would not aid his escape.
The first spark did not catch. Neither did the second. The third scorched his fingers—no matter. The pain was insignificant. He was more careful not to break the stone. The fourth and fifth sparks touched the fabric, but did nothing to light it. The sixth died too soon.
The seventh worked.
Lan Wangji held himself firm; his instinct, to balk away from the stench, had to be contained as to not extinguish the vulnerable flame. The fire built slowly. Venturing, as if it were curious, crackling where the fabric had dried, and hissing where it was wet. Not knowing how long he had with the light, Lan Wangji took as much of the cell as he could.
The parameters: not large. A door he would not be able to reach while chained. Metal bars he could reach, too thick to bend without access to his core. Outside the cell was a dark corridor—all empty; Lan Wangji listened for heartbeats, the sound of breathing, and found none. If any other cell was occupied, its resident was dead.
Next he turned to inspect the chains. Some protective array was etched into the metal; he might not be able to break them with ease. His wrists were affixed to the same point on the floor, and his ankles to another. Suppose this could be used as a torture device, if they tightened the chains, then pulled.
They. Who was his captor? No hint of identity on the floor, on the walls. Dark rock formed the cave-like structure—basalt? The foul smell in the air was familiar. Lan Wangji could not shake the feeling he had been here before. As though in sympathy, his leg throbbed and throbbed.
With the precious moment of light close to gone, Lan Wangji looked at the wound. It took a moment to recognise his clothes—not the style he usually wore, in seclusion—and to gently peel away the fabric where it clung to the skin. Yes, a break, and in… exactly the same spot in the bone; a stroke of luck for his subduers, or a purposeful attack? Who knew this weakness to use it against him? And why did he not remember gaining it? The last time someone broke his leg, the agony was impossible to ignore even unconscious.
He missed the soothing rhythm of his spiritual energy. Allowing one moment of longing, Lan Wangji finally blinked, and then wrestled his eyes open again. The flame was already sputtering around an unpleasant pool of dark liquid in the robes; the poor cultivator who used to own them must have been tortured to death. It did not bide well for Lan Wangji. Suppose none of this bode well.
Back to his tasks, the shackles took utmost precedence. He could not read the array in the low light, but he did recognise guān, to close, and focused his efforts there. He used the edge of his flint stone to dig into the character, try and cancel it somehow. If he managed, he might be able to break free. There was no point in considering what would happen if he couldn’t.
The light gave out. Lan Wangji did not attempt at it again. He had the shape of the character under his fingers, and enough concentration to drive the stone correctly. When he felt like he made enough of a difference, he would try to unlock the chains, and if necessary he would relight the robes.
Something around a shichen passed before he heard the first new sounds. With a sharp tug, Lan Wangji tried the shackles; they did not open. Well. He took care to push the robes back to approximately where they had been before, and to hide the stone in his sleeve. By the time the torchlight was visible, he was back to lying unthreateningly on the floor, and waited.
Three people, he concluded, listening hard. Cultivators. He could sense the restless spirits of their swords—he made them nervous. Good. When they finally reached his cell, Lan Wangji turned his most piercing glare at the pool of light, and was gratified to hear metal shake. Then his eyes adjusted, and he looked.
And could not comprehend the image before him.
“Lan Wangji,” said a man who was five years dead, “good to see you awake at last.”
All three were disciples of—wore the robes of—were in Qishan Wen colours. The one speaking was even familiar to Lan Wangji, through many battles. That was Wen Jiali, a nephew to Wen Ruohan and second in command to Wen Xu.
Lan Wangji was the one who killed him.
“Cat got your tongue?” smirked the dead Wen Jiali.
“Don’t,” said another man in Qishan Wen robes. “You know he’s always like that.”
“Are you scared, Wang Zimo? Think Lan Wangji will bite? I mean, he might. Xu-ge says he’s half feral.”
Xu-ge? All he could do was blink. This was either a very strange act, or an incredibly vivid hallucination. Lan Wangji leaned towards the latter: it made little sense to imagine someone would bother with Wen Jiali. He was a good fighter, but not exactly note-worthy.
“Can he walk?” asked the third man. “Wen er-gongzi said all the way up.”
“Oh, he’ll walk,” the smirk became sharper on deceased Wen Jiali’s lips. He was very distinctly not a fierce corpse; markless, breathing, flushed-warm. Alive. In this surreal experience, Lan Wangji could barely react when the door to his cell was opened, and when hands came to unlock the chains. Their closeness was stifling, suffocating, and beyond that was an urgent throb in his leg, and beyond even that, the delirious, spinning lack of thoughts in his head. He felt entirely numb. Hollowed empty. The sensation of folding paper returned, acid-strong and thunder-loud, crashing through his system. Weak on the onslaught, Lan Wangji leaned on the hands carrying him, unable to find his legs.
“Fuck, he’s heavy,” said the man they called Wang Zimo. The one wearing Wen Jiali’s face muttered something, not quite words. The third assisted in pushing until Lan Wangji remembered his body, and stood, too plied with shock to do much more.
“Well?” asked the dead Wen Jiali. He said it as if to convey, are you going to fight?
But Lan Wangji could not even—think. Blinking took conscious effort. Swallowing was an ordeal he would not attempt for dear life. None of this made sense.
And so they started pushing him along, and he, went, along, dazed eyes tracing the shapes around him only in fragments, tongue heavy and useless in his mouth. They ascended on a heavy stone staircase; Lan Wangji noted the ache in his leg in a very distant manner. It hurt. He walked. He… walked.
They ventured outside at some point. Sunlight was hard to bear. Heavy eyelids tried to shield him, and failed. He had to take in his surroundings. He had to try and understand. He could not understand. Outside the prison structure, the scenery was of dark volcanic earth and large, marble-white stairs looming in the distance. It looked like the Wen indoctrination pavilion. But why?
That it was a hallucination still seemed the most logical assumption, but he had already spent hours within it, and could not tell. It felt real enough. Hands on his shoulders, tight; the flinch-worthy creak of bone-on-bone; the air in his nose filled with ash. It felt real. It made no sense.
“Oh,” said the nameless man, “here, Wen er-gongzi said—” he held Bichen. Lan Wangji’s mouth opened on a soundless scream. Bichen was similarly seething.
Taking it required no thought; Lan Wangji moved and then it was in his hands. Even without his spiritual energy, the relief was staggering. It also illustrated just how bafflingly real the whole thing felt. They were coming closer to the steps; Lan Wangji kept waiting to wake up.
They took the first step. He did not wake up.
Not entirely on purpose, Lan Wangji arranged his body in the way it was used to, now complete with Bichen. A hand behind his back, his legs straight, albeit slower than usual. Proper posture was an instinct. None of it felt right.
They took another step.
“Hurry up,” murmured a dead man in Lan Wangji’s ear. “They’re all waiting for you.”
They? Other… ghosts? Had Lan Wangji died, and the heavens sentenced him to—this? Surely as a punishment it was not enough, but neither was the whip, and that had been intolerable. If he was taken to meet every man he killed… well. That would be worse. And longer.
But up on the platform were—
Lan Wangji blinked, slowly. Turned his head to the right. To the left. That was Nie Haoyu. He died in Heijan. And a few rows further, Jin Siyu. She was deeply wounded in Jingling; Lan Wangji did not hear if—and there, so many Jiang disciples he recognised from the Cloud Recesses. None of them survived Lotus pier, but Lan Wangji was not the one who killed them. These were Nie, Jin, Jiang, Ouyang, Yao, Cong, Tang, Wu. Lan Wangji never killed any of those, unless they came back as a fierce corpse.
And in the very front row—his breath stalled. Of the five people, two were dead. One of those was Wei Ying.
Wei Ying, who was looking at Lan Wangji with heavy, wide eyes. Wei Ying, whom he had not seen in two long years. Wei Ying, dead Wei Ying, beautiful Wei Ying, his Wei Ying. Standing there. Frowning.
In light of this revelation, even the appearance of Wen Chao could not garner a reaction from him.
“Lan Wangji is finally here,” said someone, a distance away. “Good, good. Now we can begin.”
Wei Ying was there. An arm’s length away. If Lan Wangji remembered how to move it, he would—conceivably—be able to touch him. Wei Ying was there.
Whispering, “Lan Zhan?” with the frown still. Lan Wangji was choking on his dry mouth. This was Wei Ying. Dead Wei Ying. There Wei Ying. Looking, sounding, smelling so much like himself. Like he were real. The world tilted, threatening to sway; something warm and right seized his elbow. “Lan Zhan,” that was Wei Ying’s voice. “Are you okay?”
Was he okay? He could sing. He was hallucinating Wei Ying, much more vivid than any dream he ever had. Whatever this punishment was, it was worth it. Wei Ying was there. He could not breathe.
“Lan Zhan,” said the only voice that mattered, as another droned on in the immeasurable distance. “Are you in pain? Is it your leg? What’s wrong?”
He kept blinking and blinking, unable to clear his eyes, bizarrely wet. Wei Ying was touching him. Looking at him. Speaking to him. Wei Ying had—asked him a question. What was it, again? Lan Wangji would never leave him waiting. But he could not fathom what Wei Ying wanted to know. Anything; he would tell him anything.
Instead, what came out of his mouth, croaky and uneven, was, “Wei Ying.”
Everything inside him collapsed. He was filled with light. He was swooning, only kept in place by Wei Ying’s unrelenting grasp. Had he died, was this truly death, and if so, why did he not do this sooner?
“Wei Wuxian,” growled another familiar voice, and—Lan Wangji finally managed a complete thought. If both he and Wei Ying were dead, did that mean Jiang Wanyin and Nie Huaisang also were? That was quite concerning. Two sect heirs and one sect leader dead simultaneously?
But Wei Ying was there. It was so difficult to concentrate on anything else. Wei Ying, who was still eying him strangely, but mercifully, horribly, let go of his elbow.
“Lan Zhan,” he whispered, softly. “You’re crying.”
Was he? Hastily blinking away the obtrusion from Wei Ying’s beautiful face. He seemed so different to how Lan Wangji last saw him. He was glowing. The gaunt, hunted look he wore ever since the Burial Mound had washed off him wholesale; there were no dark circles around his eyes, no rattling sound to his heartbeat, no residual resentment peaking through. He looked so much younger like this. He looked like he had when he was a visiting student in the Cloud Recesses.
More tears. He could barely bring himself to care.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying said, somewhat shaky, and then stopped. The reason for that did not become immediately clear. Then a brusque voice made the hand in front of Lan Wangji’s face slightly more noticeable.
“Your sword,” said a man in Qishan Wen colours, and an echo of an old anger rose in the back of Lan Wangji’s mind, you only returned it to me for this humiliation—but he could not access the emotion that stirred it. Blearily he surrendered his sword. It was an exchange he was willing to make for Wei Ying’s company.
It was all a hallucination in any case. Was it not? There was no harm in basking in as much of his presence as Lan Wangji could get. Was there?
The lack of Bichen did put some strain on his floaty, weightless thoughts. He forgot how wrong it felt not to have it. To have it, and then give it away, was ripping something deep inside him, already rough-edged and cold. But Wei Ying was there, so everything was acceptable. What was a little bit of pain. Wei Ying was there.
The next time he paid attention to anything else was when someone came to hand him—Bichen? No, a book. Right. He remembered something like that happening in a place like this. No: he remembered exactly this, happening exactly here. It… made no sense.
Was there a way to dive into a memory that Lan Wangji was not aware of? Surely, if people knew of it, they would use it constantly. To find misplaced items and settle arguments, petty things. To see something lost to them forever. Who would want to live outside of a memory?
But his leg hurt not in a memory of pain, but in real one. What felt like real pain. What felt precisely like the pain of a broken leg.
Voices were speaking, indiscernible, until Wei Ying: “Lan Zhan.”
He looked, startled, at the most beautiful face. Wei Ying was gesturing with a frantic eyebrow to the front. And then nearer.
“Are you deaf, Lan Wangji?” the dead Wen Chao came to stand far too close. “Are you too busy crying about your Cloud Recesses that you can’t even hear me when I’m talking to you?”
“You are not qualified to talk to me,” Lan Wangji said, blankly. He could feel a reaction go through Wei Ying, but lacked the focus to parse it. Wen Chao was too close. He needed him further away.
“What?” to the rippling of possibly-laughter behind him. “What was that? What did you say?” with his sword drawn and his face purple with rage. Lan Wangji could only blink in response. He had no more words for this insignificant dead man.
Wen Chao took the silence as further insult. “What,” he gritted out, the tip of his sword now pointing at Lan Wangji’s neck, nicking the skin, “did you say?”
“Hey,” said the one person who did matter, “hey, now, that’s not necessary, is it? Surely the brave scion of Qishan Wen won’t attack an unarmed man.”
Wen Chao scowled, probably wondering if he was just insulted further. Lan Wangji could almost laugh, but he was too close.
“You,” he said, to Lan Wangji, “should remember your place.” He was shaking with rage. Was he always so brittle? Lan Wangji could not remember. He never paid much attention to Wen Chao when he was still alive. “This would be fifty strikes, Lan Wangji.”
Fifty was nothing. A shame, perhaps, that he will not be by Wei Ying’s side during punishment, but it was certainly not more than he could take. Although he will admit it was pleasant not to have his back constantly burning.
“Wen Chao—” why was Wei Ying upset?
“No,” Wen Chao said, staring at his face and probably misjudging his reaction, “I have a better idea. There’s a friend I’d really like you to meet.”
Wei Ying was apparently very uncomfortable with the thought of Lan Wangji being punished. “No—no, is that really necessary? C’mon, what’s a little joke between friends, hmm? Wen Chao, you don’t want to—”
He stopped when Wen Chao’s sword moved to his own chest. No; he stopped because Jiang Wanyin was pulling his sleeve and begging in his ear.
Wen Chao said, “Shut up. This doesn’t concern you. Are all Yunmeng Jiang disciples so nosy?”
“Most of them,” Nie Huaisang piped up from Lan Wangji’s right. “It’s a curse, really.”
Wen Chao did not like this attempt to make light at things, but his ire did recede somewhat, and he—finally—went back to the stairs, putting some long-awaited distance between him and Lan Wangji, who took the opportunity to inhale. He was getting rather light-headed.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispered, “what has got into you?” but Jiang Cheng was still speaking to him and Wen Chao was back to saying something and the incredulous smile on Wei Ying’s face melted into an expression much more sombre. It did not suit him.
Hours passed, if the movement of the sun was to be believed. Lan Wangji was aware of nothing but Wei Ying by his side. He could not tear his eyes away no matter how hard he tried, which was not at all. Every once in a while, Wei Ying would look back, something sweet and a little sad in his eyes, and be ridiculous, for example start winking. Lan Wangji had missed him so terribly. It was beyond anything he could imagine, being here with him.
Then there were hands again, and—“Hey!” that was Wei Ying, but they were many, and they had swords, and Lan Wangji did not fight them. Very hard. He fought a little, not out of intention, simply because they were trying to take him from Wei Ying’s side and he did not want to leave. Shamefully, with the broken leg, and the shock, he did not make much of an opponent.
“Scared now, are you?” Wen Chao asked, nonsensically. They were taking him somewhere familiar. Back to the cell? Was this meant to be his punishment, another night in chains, like so many he had endured before? But apart from Wei Ying. Perhaps it was a decent punishment after all.
“No, not there, further down the hall. The last cell. Yes, that one. Come on, Wang Zimo, don’t be a scaredy-cat, it won’t hurt you. Come on!”
When the door opened into a boarded room, Wen Chao turned to him with a victorious smirk. “Let’s see how brave you are now,” he jeered, and shut the door behind him. A lock snicked shut. Lan Wangji blinked, still dazed.
For a cell it was not even bad; there was light. Lan Wangji turned, staring the largest wolf he had ever seen right in the eye.
“Ah,” Lan Wangji said, despite himself. This was certainly new. His memory of the Wen indoctrination did not contain a wild beast. It was growling.
Instinct took charge; he kept very still, and kept his eyes sharp. His heart tamed. His breathing tempered. Wondered, somewhat distantly, if he had any fear left. If there was any sense in fearing a hallucination. Decided there was not. Stood his ground.
The wolf’s eyes were red. It could be a failed heavenly beast, or some legendary thing. Frankly, Lan Wangji was too tired. His leg was in screaming pain after who-knew how many hours of standing, he had Wei Ying, he had lost Wei Ying, again, and what if this was his last opportunity? What if, the moment he closed his eyes, the paper fan would unfold and he would be back in Gusu?
The wolf made a louder noise. It moved, as if to get up. Lan Wangji gave it a stern look, trying to convey, I will deal with you when I have the strength for it, and was gratified when he met no resistance. “Thank you,” Lan Wangji said, out loud, in case it was needed. The wolf blinked in response. Unlike Wen Chao, Lan Wangji found it telling enough.
He took himself to the other side of the room, not really far enough away. Managed, somehow, to sit. Worked on his breathing.
And so they sat, man and wolf. A fleeting thought toyed with the edges of Lan Wangji’s consciousness; Wei Ying disliked dogs, didn’t he? He said something about that, once. Lan Wangji was not always wise enough to treasure every word from Wei Ying’s mouth. He was arrogant, when he was young. And careless enough to think the source was infinite.
But everything has an end. Much wiser, if not that much older, Lan Wangji knew that now. And he would take whatever he could get, any slip of Wei Ying he could grab, and keep. He would, in this, allow himself some greed. Heartache taught him that at least.
He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but no words would come. What good was it to say, I missed him? There was no colour to a world that lacked Wei Ying. What good would words do. For a bright, bright day, he had him again.
This was all an odd hallucination. It would end, and Lan Wangji would open his eyes back in the Cold Pond Cave. And he would mourn. And he would smile for A-Yuan and for Xiongzhang, when they came to visit him. Soon, he would be let out of seclusion, and return to his duties in Gusu Lan. It was not that the world without Wei Ying lacked meaning.
It only lacked its heart.
“Good night,” Lan Wangji told the wolf, eyes sliding helplessly shut. It must be close to hai shi. Or the end of this strange, strange dream. To the Wei Ying out there, possibly, he said again, “Good night.”
The wolf made a noise as though in response.