themoosejthm | A Lonely Oath (Reply)

In response to a prompt by MathIsMagic in the mo_dao_zu_shi_kink_meme_2020
collection.

Prompt:

After Wei Ying's death, Lan Zhan plays inquiry for him. He never answers. But others do - Wei Wuxian's Yiling Wen remnants. Whether it's because LZ's pull for Yiling-area ghosts was so strong, because they were clung to their last surviving family member when he brought back Yuan, because they were interested in LZ specifically, idk.
But anyways, he asks for Wei Ying, and they're the closest thing that can answer. And so, they can at least explain that Wei Ying's missing, not ignoring him or destroyed. They have fond stories about wwx they can share. They're probably the only people LZ can speak to positively about wwx. And, they can thank him for and advise him on raising Yuan.
Just, give LZ some angsty ghost companions to help him out a little after he loses his beloved.
Bonus:
-Them hanging around eventually becoming spies for LZ, helping him find 'the chaos' that doesn't get reported or even unravelling some of the worst conspiracies from canon
-Them being able to share wen culture and/or healing techniques so SIzhui can be connected with his heritage
-One or two other Wen survivors who are less welcome. Specifically I'm imagining Wen Zhuliu informing LZ that wwx didn't have a golden core before he was thrown into the burial mounds (or I guess Wen Qing) and LZ posthumously mourning what wwx had to go through on his own, and why he couldn't 'return to the right path.'
DNW: Unhappy ending. Angst is delicious, but total despair is too much. Ideally this will be slightly less painful than canon, at least.

Lan Wangji would love to say that he remembers the first ghost who spoke to him via inquiry. That he remembers the wonder he felt when he realized that he could understand the things the dead were saying to him through music, that he could communicate in a way that made sense to him in a way that words and body language just plain didn't.

But lying is forbidden, especially to the self, and he doesn't. He learned the qin language at his mother's knee, long before his instructors started teaching them to his age group. He remembers her hands over his own, her fingers cold and still calloused, her voice repeating the sounds and notes as he learned. He remembers the way she laughed at his mistakes, kind and happy because what else is learning, but a series of mistakes that eventually solidify into the correct answers?

He wishes he remembered her voice a little better; thinks he misremembers her accent, knows he doesn't remember her smile. Did she smile like Wei Ying, with her whole body, her very soul brightening through her eyes, her golden core pulsing with happiness and contentment? Did she smile like Xichen, small and tucked away, his eyes dancing with mirth?

Did she smile like A-Yuan, wide and trusting? A giggle waiting just behind his teeth, ready to be unleashed at any moment?

Did she smile like Jiang Yanli, those last moments when she looked at her precious little brother who was finally holding her? She had looked so gentle and happy there, blood on her lips and on her hanfu, even as Wei Ying stared down at her with horrified denial. Did she look like that – defeated and content with it? Happy to know that at least she got to see, one last time –
- He doesn't remember her smile anymore, nor her accent or her voice; but he remembers her soft laughter whenever he made a mistake that was particularly inelegant.
  
  He holds his sleeping son – He's mine, you can't take him, Uncle! He's my son! - in his arms and his shoulders have gone numb from the pain of the movement. He's kneeling with A-Yuan on his lap, holding him close, and he wonders if Wei Ying did this at night too, in that cursed place the sects drove him to. Did he hold this boy in the night, when the resentful energy came to whisper in his ears, stroke his soft face and try to ignore the corruption slowly eating away at him? Did A-Yuan have nightmares in the Burial Mounds like he does now, where he screams and cries and wakes up gasping and sobbing but unable to say why?
  
  Or was that something that came later, after the cultivation world had laid siege to his home and slaughtered his family for a second time?
  
  What would be better? If the nightmares were new and he was happy in that cursed place? If he had nightmares for the whole of his little life, unsure of what they meant as his mind was so new, so small, that it couldn't understand any of the horrors happening to him, to his family, to the world?
  
  He can feel his robes cling to his back in a way that can only mean he's torn open some gaping wound there, but at least it doesn't hurt. Yet.
  
  He no longer remembers the first ghost he spoke to through inquiry. He only remembers the first time he could speak to his mother from the porch without the wards glowing, the first time he could wait outside her house and still speak to her, even though it wasn't the time for him to visit and if he was found, he would be punished.
  
  Be filial is a rule, but he had been punished many a time for just that. He used to think it was because he was doing something wrong, that he was being filial to the wrong parent, but now...now he understands, in a way he never could before Wei Ying, that the answer is so much more simple.
  
  Hypocrisy.
  
  He is to be filial, unless it was to the parent who was in disgrace. He was to be righteous, unless it went against the Lan Sect's political needs. He was to not befriend evil, unless it was easier and in accordance with Lan trade needs. He was to not kill in the Cloud Recesses, unless he was allowed or told. He was to respect the elderly and weak, unless they were named Wen.
  
  Marriage was to be respected, to be a protection, unless it was to be a prison. You were supposed to protect your spouse, unless you wanted something they could not or would not give. You were not to abuse your position or authority, unless you could get away with it.
  
  He hated it.
  
  He hated them. He hated them, his uncle, his brother, his people, he hated -
  
  A-Yuan shifted in his arms, cuddling closer to his chest with a sleepy sigh. His little fist curled around one of the trailing ends of his forehead ribbon and calmed his raging mind. His son – for what else could he be, this child that Wei Ying carried close to his heart and hid away behind wards so powerful that even after death they pulsed angry protection and cutting rage? His son, the son he and Wei Ying should be raising together, the child that should be with his own parents if there were any true justice in the world.
  
  But there wasn't and so A-Yuan was first Wei Ying's and now he's his. His son, a perfect little boy with a sweet smile and a readiness to meet new people. He was like that in the marketplace in Yiling back then as well, easy to cry but also easy to smile, to laugh, to share his food even when his little family was struggling to keep him fed.
  
  He wonders if his mother ever held him like this, alone in the dark, on the nights when he and his older brother were permitted to sleep with her. The one night every month where she was so graciously allowed to look upon her children, to hold them and speak with them, to smile at their stories and listen to their struggles.
  
  Uncle wanted to take A-Yuan from him. He wanted to lock him away in seclusion and put A-Yuan with the other children in the children's ward, alongside the other orphans. They were well looked after, he knew, because he used to help out in the children's ward – used to teach them their letters, their numbers, the proper way to wear ceremonial robes.
  
  (When the Cloud Recesses burned, the children's ward was not an exception. He wasn't near it when Wen Xu caught up with him and broke his leg to drag him to Qishan, but he remembered the smell when he was marched out of his home, remembered the bodies of Lan sect members around where the doors used to be, as if they were trying to bar entry. He hadn't seen any bodies then but he knew many of the children he had taught there had been killed in the space they should have been safe.)
  
  He would not let them take his son from him. His back was an obstacle, but he had flown all the way to the Burial Mounds and retrieved A-Yuan once already and his back was much healed since then. If need be, he could take his son and flee. It would hurt, but all he really needed to do was get out of Gusu as fast as he could before finding someplace to rest and recover. He had already hidden away some medicine, taken in small doses over time, and the pockets of money he had been squirreling away were still within his mind's eye. They would no longer go to a life for him and Wei Ying, but if necessary they could go a long way in keeping him and his son hidden from the Lan Clan. If he went towards Yunmeng, the Jiang Clan would be able to keep the Lan away – not to protect Lan Wangji himself, but more out of the territorial way Jiang Wanyin circled his lands to keep the other sects out of it.
  
  Which, upon reflection, wasn't that much of a shock considering how isolated they were since the Sunshot Campaign ended.
  
  He may hate Jiang Wanyin but he also knew the other man and knew he could count on him keeping the Lans out of his lands, doubly so if they were actively hunting for someone in his territory.
  
  He held A-Yuan in his arms and breathed through the tears rolling down his face. His back ached, his heart wept in his chest, and he never wished to understand his mother less. He bent down to press a kiss to his son's little face and his robes ripped at his open wounds, the fabric sticking and dragging not unlike a bone through skin.
  
  He had rolled his ankle, once, during the Sunshot Campaign. The fighting raged on around him and he had swirled and hacked through enemies and it hurt like walking on a broken leg, right up until he felt something pop and then it was a new kind of pain. Something sharper and slower than the dull throb, if he moved too much the pain stole colors from his eyes and narrowed the world around him in a way that was very dangerous.
  
  Someone tackled him from the side and he crashed down, his sword flying away, and then there was a knife in his arm as he raised it to shield his head.
  
  “Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying roared from nearby and like the tide a wave of resentful energy slammed into the Wen soldier atop him, leaving blood and the hand still clenched around the knife in his upper arm. He broke the handle of the knife off, flinging the hand and handle away, and left the blade as his Golden Core wasn't up to healing such a small wound right now and stumbled to his feet.
  
  Around them, the shrill notes of Chenqing rose around them and a cry of victory rose from their allies – for whenever Chenqing played in a battle, it was like hearing the first notes of a victory song.
  
  He would not let them make him into his mother. He refused.
  
  XXX
  
  He teaches his son the qin language the way it was taught to him. His son sits in his lap and puts his little hands over his own as he plucks out simple words. He teaches A-Yuan first how to listen to the notes, to understand the different sounds and then make them himself. A-Yuan is a quick learner and he is very musically inclined. His little fingers are still soft and gentle; the day he plucks out his own name is a very special day indeed.
  
  It isn't until he has tucked A-Yuan into his bed, sang him a lullaby he wrote for him the first year of his seclusion, and finished rolling the little forehead ribbon up to be put with the rest of the clean robes that he lets himself think about Wei Ying again.
  
  What would Wei Ying be teaching A-Yuan if he were still alive? He thinks he remembers Wei Ying saying that all the children in Lotus Pier learned to swim young, so maybe that? A-Yuan seems so little still, but if he were in Yunmeng then he would surly need to know how to swim early, just as a safety measure. Would A-Yuan be just starting to learn how to swim? Or would he already know? When do they start that in Yunmung?
  
  What about other things? A-Yuan is learning lots of things daily, if he were in Yunmeng with Wei Ying what would they teach their children, other than how to swim?
  
  He settles himself down at his work table, reaching for Wangji, as he starts the process of checking the instrument over for wear and tear. He goes over every conversation, every memory he has of Wei Ying talking about his childhood. There were many stories of youthful mischief that he got up to with his various shidi and shixongs, tales of marketplace pranks, of summer festivals, of Jinag Yanli's food, of sneaking lotus juice and seeds into and out of Lotus Pier.
  
  It's a nice night, all things considered. There are still fires lit in Nightless City, piers still burning, and he has mostly been able to forget the scent of burning hair. It was always the burnt hair that bothered him the most, not the cloth or flesh.
  
  “Aiya, Lan Zhan, what are you doing all the way out here, huh?” Wei Ying asked as he came up from the shadow of a building that might have once been a shop, perhaps. It seemed too big to be a residence, but then again the Wen were known for excess and grandeur.
  
  “The air was thick and the area crowded.” He replied and his gaze caught on a small item tucked next to Chenqing upon Wei Ying's waist. It seemed to be a doll, blackened with ash. Most dolls he saw had hair, but this one didn't – perhaps it had once or maybe it wasn't finished?
  
  “Yeah, the dogs really came out to feast, didn't they?” Wei Ying said darkly. His right hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach for his sword perhaps, and Wangji gripped Bichen in response, not sure what to say. Wei Ying breathed out harshly, a grim slash taking over his face, and he seemed almost ready to leave when he seemed to notice what Lan Wangji was looking at.
  
  “I found it in one of the houses back there – we were pulling out dead cultivators from the whole residential block. This was under a bed.” Wei Ying said and he took the doll from his sash and held it up between them. Lan Wangji reached out and took it from him.
  
  The fabric was rough to the touch, which made sense – children were often messy and rough with their play – and upon closer inspection the paint on the face of the doll was mostly faded. Half of the mouth was still painted on, a half curve never to be a full smile ever again, but the rest of the face seemed to be missing. He could see where the eyes used to be, small holes where thread used to hold something down still present.
  
  His stomach churned as he thought of the Cloud Recesses burning, of the children's hall on fire, of the burnt toys and little robes charred and blackened.
  
  “Jiang Cheng made one of those for our shimei every summer, you know? We'd go out and gather river grass and all the old scraps from our laundry stores and go out to find cute pebbles to put in for their eyes. I never could stand still long enough to finish making one without his help.” Wei Ying said and –
  
  a string snapped as he pressed down against it. He stared down at it and swallowed around the hollow feeling of loss that came with every memory of Wei Ying.
  
  Did all his memories have to come back to the war? Can't he think of Wei Ying outside of the pain and suffering? Did all of his memories have to come back to him colored in blood and smelling of burnt flesh?
  
  XXX
  
  He tries not to play inquiry too much. During night hunts it is sometimes unavoidable, but he knows himself enough to know that he falls into habits too easily and too much. If he lets himself, he will call for Wei Ying every night and as much as he would like to do that sometimes, he knows it would not be healthy. He cannot tie himself to Wei Ying at the expense of their son.
  
  A-Yuan is staying at Lan Quenyue's residence tonight as he gets along well with the man's four children. Lan Wangji has been dispatched to speak with a village official about their overdue taxes and see if they need a new tax deal or any assistance. He had found, upon getting to the village in question, that it was filled with elders; all the young couples having already left to seek their fortunes elsewhere. He had sat with the village head, an old man with a bad left eye, and listened to him speak of his youth and his children. His eldest son had been accepted into the Moling Su sect; his eldest daughter died of illness with no children, and his youngest son had died in the war.
  
  He had decided to waive the overdue taxes and would speak with the other residents tomorrow about if they wanted to stay here or follow their children, if any of them still lived. He would also think about other options if needed during the discussions, but that is for tomorrow.
  
  Tonight, he sits under a tree on a hill and plays for anyone to listen. He lets his spiritual power flow through the notes as he plays the opening notes to inquiry.
  
  Greetings to any who may listen, can you hear me?
  
  The opening notes are steady and to the unknowing, soothing and sweet. A-Yuan knows how to play his name on the guqin and recognizes it when played on the xiao. He knows how to recognize simple words – hello, danger, sad, goodbye – and Lan Wangji is filled with pride every time the little boy beams up at him with the knowledge of something new.
  
  I am listening.
  
  A soul responds and brings him back to the present.
  
  Hello, unquiet soul.
  
  I am a very quiet soul, little Lan.
  
  So, this soul knows of him. Or at least, of his clan.
  
  Apologizes, I did not mean any offense. Is there some reason you are lingering here?
  
  Wangji goes quiet and the wind rustles the grass around him, gentle and cooling.
  
  A Lan, apologizing? I've seen it all now! Why shouldn't I be here? My husband is here.
  
  Wangji's notes are sharp with indignation and the sharp tang of resentment makes the notes echo across the trees.
  
  Your husband?
  
  You spoke with him today.
  
  The village head's wife, then.
  
  What is your name?
  
  Wangji goes quiet again and he prepares himself for using a little more force to ask the question again.
  
  My name is Wen Ju.
  
  He takes a breath, holds it, and forces himself to not remember burnt hair and hallow eyes. The use of the current tense is also interesting, not just the identity of the soul. Present tense, not past. Perhaps that is a way for her to hold onto enough of herself to stay here, with the living.
  
  Greetings, Wen Ju. Be welcome and I hope you go in peace.
  
  His fingers do not fall off, the notes do not strangle him, and no elders come to beat him to death for being unfillial. A Wen soul, a Wen, but didn't Wei Ying prove that not all of them were evil?
  
  Isn't his son a Wen, too? Does he think his son is evil, due to the blood inside him?
  
  No, never.
  
  You're a good boy, little Lan.
  
  Is he though?
  
  XXX
  
  It is Autumn in Gusu and his son is getting taller. He is a gifted swimmer, a talented reader, and is showing promise for sword training. He is too young to practice with live steal, but he carries his wooden sword around dutifully and has carved a name for it into the hilt. He can do the first forms with it and the edges are already lined with black ash from his rudimentary attempts at pushing his own spiritual energy through it. His core is coming along smoothly.
  
  “Wangji, does that sound agreeable?” His older brother asks and he inclines his head. What else can he do – his sect leader has spoken and even if he cared enough to have a different opinion, he knows he wouldn't be listened to. He uses what little power he retains for his son and cannot waste it on anything else.
  
  He watches as a cluster of Lan disciples go with the men from Lanling Jin, armed for battle. They will descend on the Jin's enemies and leave them empty. He thinks about what he would do if someone had murdered his son and the very thought makes his throat close up. His older brother looks grieved by his side and he turns as if to speak to him, but the thought of his son dead turns him away.
  
  He needs to see A-Yuan, lay eyes on him to know he is well and whole. He leaves his older brother at the entry and goes to where he knows his son will be at this time of day.
  
  He finds his son in the middle of an exercise, as he knew he would. A-Yuan is in the middle of a formation pyramid, his face serious as he holds his hands in the correct position and he only waivers a little when a classmate climbs up him to continue it. The boy on his shoulders is lanky and thin, easily towering over a few of the others, which would be the reason he was chosen to be the pillar for this exercise.
  
  The boys start to pass a ball between them and around the pyramid. He remembers doing this when he was around their age – he wasn't very good at it, for he was small at that age and thus was often on the bottom or middle of the pyramid. He wasn't very good at teamwork at that age and whenever the ball was passed to him, he was slow to pass it on or sometimes to catch it. He dropped the ball a lot or would sometimes pass it up or sideways with too much force – after a few times of this, the rest of his class got in the habit of passing him the ball only near the end.
  
  A-Yuan is better than he was, thankfully – when the ball comes to him, he catches it easily and flicks it up before putting his hands back into position – and he can feel himself calm at the sight of it. His son is alive and safe.
  
  “Lan-er-gonzi, is there something we can help you with?” The instructor – Lan Quixi, if memory serves – asks as he comes over. Lan Quixi was a peer, of sorts, he remembers night hunting with him before the war and also remembers a few shared battlefields during it.
  
  He hums a negative, keeping his eyes on the class. The ball is being passed around a little faster now.
  
  “I figured you would have been sent with the group to help out with dealing out justice to the Tingshan He clan. Though, I supposed that might not be something you would be trusted with anymore, come to think of it.” Lan Quixi says, reaching up to tap at his chin. He wonders if the other man thinks the gesture makes him look like Wangji's uncle or if perhaps it was just a habit he picked up from overexposure.
  
  “Sect Leader asked me if I wanted to go but I declined.” He answers and keeps watching his son – alive, healthy, smiling – and hopes that somehow Wei Ying knows that their son is doing well.
  
  Lan Quixi hums and his face does...something. Wangji isn't sure how to read it, as its not one of the more common contortions that he has been taught to read. His mouth has twisted up, but it's not a smile – the curves aren't deep enough and ever since he saw Wei Ying's smile it's been the one to measure with. His eyebrows have moved too, in what he's sure is supposed to mean something but the strange line of Lan Quixi's mouth is making the meaning hard to read.
  
  Wangji knows what a few common facial expressions are meant to convey, he studied the diagrams he was given diligently as a junior. Lan Quixi's nose is wrinkled, not unlike the rabbits that populate the back hills, and the meaning is completely lost to Wangji.
  
  “Well, at least you admit to not wanting to follow the sect leader's wants. Any progress is progress, I guess, but the first step to overcome disobedience is always acknowledging that it exists within you. What a good example you set, Lan-er-gonzi.” Lan Quixi says and he's changed the speed at which he speaks as well. It's clearly meant to mean something but he doesn't have the ability to read what.
  
  He waits for Lan Quixi to either continue or remember his difficulty and explain his facial expressions – it was something Nie Huaisang used to do when they were younger, when their brothers would get together and try to encourage them to make friends. By the time they were teenagers, it was apparent that while they didn't dislike each other, they didn't particularly like spending time together either. Nie Huaisang liked art and music, much like Wangji himself did, but they liked different art and music than the other. And Nie Huaisang liked noise and chattering, which made him a better friend for someone like Wei Ying than Wangji himself. But, probably since they'd been exposed to each other so much as children, Nie Huaisang often stopped in the middle of a sentiment to explain his facial expressions. Much of what he learned about reading body language and facial ques came from Nie Huaisang's explanations.
  
  When Lan Quixi turns from him, the strange line across his mouth that is not-quite-a-smile still on his face, Wangji takes it as permission to end the conversation.
  
  His son is alive, safe, and thriving. He has seen him and tonight his son will come to the jingshi after dinner, the way he always does.
  
  When he gets to the jingshi, he leaves the door open as the day is nice and with his older brother away, the sect should know he is available if there is a minor issue he can assist with. He goes to put Bichen in its stand and turns to start a pot of tea.
  
  XXX
  
  Wangji is gentle as he picks apart strands of A-Yuan's hair, maneuvering hair away from the sticky mess of mud and paste tangled in it. A-Yuan is not sobbing anymore, but he is sniffling in a way that tells Wangji that he is still crying.
  
  He dips the comb into the bowl nearby and moves more hair out of the way. By the time the majority of A-Yuan's hair is gathered out of the way, the comb is free of the gunk that was coating it and ready to be put back to use.
  
  A-Yuan hiccups, still distressed, and Wangji puts the comb back to the small knot in his son's hair. He doesn't think he'll have to cut any of it, which is good, but A-Yuan is still upset and Wangji doesn't know how to help. He doesn't know what to say to make him feel better.
  
  “I – I'm sorry, father. I don't mean to be...I don't mean to emote excessively.” A-Yuan says, his words slow as he struggled with the more complicated words that make up one of the Lan principles.
  
  He remembers being told, as a young child himself, that crying for his mother was displaying excessive emotion. He remembers his uncle scolding him for sitting outside of her door, even after it closed forever, as an excessive display of emotion. His older brother has even told him to watch his emotions, to keep things contained in his grief for Wei Ying.
  
  He thought of Wei Ying's laughter on a street, a child clinging to his leg; A-Yuan's laughter as he was buried under rabbits.
  
  “You are sad. You are allowed to be sad, here with your family.” He says to his son, to Wei Ying's son. The comb moved through the sticky mess, some mud caking off and releasing more strands of hair.
  
  A-Yuan sniffs and his arm moves in the obvious way of any child wiping their tears away with their sleeves.
  
  “Are – Does my hair have to be cut?” A-Yuan asks, voice small and trembling. Wangji picks at the ever shrinking knot of hair, paste, some sticks, and mud and marvels at the cunning of children.
  
  “No.” Wangji says and moves more hair out of the way. He thinks the paste is mostly dry now, the water from the comb only wetting it enough for it to release the hair holding it together.
  
  They are quiet as he picks apart the messy knot. He wonders what it would have been like if this had happened to him when he was this age – would anyone had dared to do this to the second heir of the Lan? If they had, what would the punishment be?
  
  Who would have spent this much time coaxing the mess out of his hair? His uncle? His older brother?
  
  At this age, his mother was already gone and he doubts anything would have gotten his father out of seclusion – the Wens barely got him out of his cottage and they invaded. His older brother might have had the patience to try to get the tangles out, the mud and mess unstuck, but he doesn't think he would have had the skill needed to know what oils to mix into a bowl of warm water to soften the paste or the careful way of picking apart strands of hair before running the comb through it.
  
  It had taken the Sunshot Campaign for them to learn how to get blood and other fluids out of hair.
  
  His uncle had only ever touched his hair to cut the ends for maintenance until Wangji's cultivation got to a point where the strands no longer split at the end due to weather or time.
  
  “I am finished.” Wangji says and puts the comb down. A-Yuan immediately moves to touch his hair, his little hands reaching and touching the back of his head, pulling the hair over to look at the ends.
  
  “Thank you, father!” A-Yuan says and throws himself around to hug Wangji. His knees smack against him uncomfortably and his son is getting bigger. Wangji wraps his arms around the boy and wonders when his son will deem himself too old for hugs. He had, by this age, already been lectured out of the habit of hugging his Uncle in greeting and soon after that he also deemed it unseemly to hold his older brother's hand in public.
  
  He rubs his son's back and remembers Wei Ying slinging his arm around the shoulders of many of his friends, his sect brothers, even Wangji himself. The Jiang were a very affectionate sect, it wasn't just a quirk of Wei Ying; he remembered many a campfire, both during and after the war, of Jiang disciples clustered together and jostling each other.
  
  He will cherish this affection for as long as his son is willing to give it out.
  
  XXX
  
  Wangji is dreaming.
  
  He's not sure what gives it away, exactly, but between one moment and the next he is aware that he is in a dream. He's still holding the ball of string for the older woman in front of him, still watching her hands weave the strings into some kind of shape with thin, hollowed out bamboo needles. He looks more closely at her, trying to place her face, and as he stares her left eye pops out of the socket to hang like some deranged painting.
  
  The woman pauses in her actions and calmly reaches up to push the eye back in place. He wonders if it hurts.
  
  As soon as the eye is back in place, she picks up her needles and continues to make...something.
  
  “You're doing very well with him, you know?” The woman says, voice gentle. He's sure he's heard it before but he can't seem to place it. “I know you worry, sometimes, about not being enough but that just means you're doing a good job. Heavens knows that when I was raising my children I never seemed to know what I was doing and I like to think I did pretty okay with my boys. They died before I did, but they died with their honor intact and I'm so proud of them for it. Madder than a pig in winter about it as well, but proud.” She continues.
  
  “Your sons?” He asks because something about that phrase – madder than a pig in winter – is familiar in its uniqueness. It's not a Gusu phrase but he's sure he's heard it somewhere...
  
  “Oh yes, my two boys. My eldest was a general, you know? My youngest was a mediocre cultivator but he was a very gifted teacher. They were born almost exactly two years apart, which I'd love to take credit for but that was all up to the heavens, really – who are we to decide when a child will come into the world?” She speaks with joy and easy cheer – the pride of a mother bragging about her sons.
  
  “My youngest died first, you know. Sect Leader Wen ordered him to send one of his students to the Fire Palace and he helped her run away instead. Gave her rations, a map and money, and marched into Nightless City to inform the sect leader that he had disobeyed him to his face. I've never been more proud of him.”
  
  Dread crashes down on Wangji as he looks at the woman – the dead Wen woman – and wonders for the first time if he shouldn't be worried about his dreaming of her. And then her story catches up with him and he remembers where he knows this woman. He's met her once, or at the very least he had her pointed out to him by Wei Ying as he shared little tidbits about the people he was sheltering that one time he came to visit.
  
  He looks at the ball of string – it's soft and thin, not like yarn but not as brittle as any kind of string Wangji knows of – and wonders if he should do something.
  
  “I had to act like I was ashamed of him in public, you understand. My husband and I had to disown him publicly and it hurt. I was so angry and so hurt about it all. My Zheng-er wept and raged about it, he and his younger brother had always been so close, and then he was sent off to a distant barracks. He was commanded to march with Wen Xu on the Cloud Recesses and he said no. He said no and was killed for it, right there, and I found out about it when my husband was dragged out of his archives to be beheaded in the center of our small town. I was thrown into a prison and only freed when the village burned. I was in prison for the entire war and still when the Jin found me, I was dragged into yet another prison.”
  
  She said of all of this as if it was perfectly normal. Today, the sun rose and I with it; my sons were murdered by our own sect for being righteous; when water is put to flame, it boils. His hands had closed around the string, impeding her craft, but she did not seem to mind the interruption.
  
  “I walked out into the Burial Mounds, once, did you know that?” She asks and reachs out to pat his hand. Her touch was rough and warm. “Young Master Wei came after me and walked with me for such a long time, twirling that flute of his, and I thought he would scold me or something. He was young enough to be my grandson, if my eldest had gone on to marry and immediately have children instead of concentrating on his cultivation, of course. There were things in there that he kept away from us and on that walk I felt them and saw some of them from the corner of my eye, always just out of reach, and eventually we passed some trees and we were back at the little settlement. It was like I hadn't just spent the better part of the day deliberately walking away from it, making sure it was always at my back.” She laughs but it didn't sound happy.
  
  She sounded a little like Xichen did when they were much younger and they were trying to learn the Erhu – Wangji had a little talent with it, from his natural talent with the qin, but Xichen had snapped the first one he had seriously tried practicing with. The neck had splintered with such a loud noise, right in the middle of the lesson, and Xichen had been left with pieces in both of his hands and had laughed just like this woman did. Lan Yue, the instructor in charge of their early musical education, had reached up to cover her mouth in what Wangji knew, now, to have been amusement.
  
  They both knew enough to get by in a night hunt if the only instrument was one but neither of them would choose it as their main.
  
  “I'm sorry.” Wangji says after a time, not sure what else to offer. The woman has untangled the string from his grip and gone back to moving the needles to manipulate it into the larger shape – its long, whatever it is, and cylindrical.
  
  “Thank you, Second Master Lan.” The woman's eye falls out of the socket again, but nothing holds it this time and it falls to the ground, rolling out of reach. She sighs as if it's a minor inconvenience and not a missing body part. “As we walked back, Young Master Wei turned to me and said don't be so eager to join the mounds, its hard enough to bargain for you lot without you undermining the price. And then he smiled as A-Yuan called out to us, turning to sweep the boy up in his grip as he came running up, and I realized that for all that the Young Master was gentle, kind, and loyal he also had more in common with the things in the Burial Mounds than with me.”
  
  She turns to look at him and he can see right through her empty eye socket.
  
  “He was a good man, Wei Wuxian. He bargained for us, even though it was our sect that broke promises first, our sect that burned his to the ground. He did that for us, took on the weight of those broken covenants, the backlash of the forgotten and angered, and all he asked for in return was the last years of our lives. Our stories, our histories, our laughter and tears both. He didn't even ask for loyalty or affection. We gave it, of course, but he didn't ask for it.” She says sadly.
  
  “You're doing so well with our A-Yuan. It's more than we expected, which in hindsight is a little ridiculous – Young Master Wei loved that child so much and loved you so much, how could you be anything other than good for him?” She ties off the string with a snap. The needles she stows away in one of her sleeves and when she lifts the thing she has been working on, he sees that it has taken the shape of a sword, not unlike a sword sheath cover.
  
  When she hands it to him, it's solid as if there's already a sword in it, waiting for him. It's not Bichen – its too small for that and too thin – but he feels like he would know it if he took the covering off.
  
  “You're so good for him, Second Master Lan, and so polite to listen to an old woman's rambling. But it's time for you to go, now.” She says gently and when he goes to look up, to ask for her name so he can know who to burn at least something for -
  
  His eyes open to the clear night sky and his entire back aches in a way that he's unfortunately familiar with. His gums tingle in the way that suppression magic makes them and his ears are still ringing. The smell of blood and viscera is familiar in a way that he hates and as he rolls to his side to ease himself up, he can feel that his hair is matted down with blood.
  
  The world seems to spin as he sits up on his knees and remembers the nigh hunt he had been on – the reports, the bodies, the miasma of resentful energy, the empty village, the creature – and he lets himself sit and breathe. He does not think he could get to his feet just yet, but that is okay because he remembers setting off a flare before the suppression array had blown up in his face. A healer will be here soon.
  
  He curls his fingers in the dirt, feeling the warm soil, and lets himself be thankful that he did not find Wei Ying tonight.
  
  He was a good man, Wei Wuxian.
  
  “Yes...Wei Ying is good.” He croaks out to no one.
  
  XXX
  
  It is winter and A-Yuan will have a courtesy name by this time next year. He already has it picked out and he thinks it is a good way to honor all of his past – the Wen that bore him, Wei Ying who rescued and sheltered them, and all the Lan of his new clan who came before him. His uncle seemed to approve of it, but his older brother had frowned when he told him of his plans.
  
  But then, A-Yuan was not his to worry about naming. He was Wangji's son, according to all the records, and in the end that was what mattered the most. He had the final say in his son's courtesy name, even above his sect leader.
  
  It is winter and his son is spending the night in the children's hall with his age mates, having almost run up to their little cottage to ask for permission right after his classes let him out for the season. He had been so excited, three little boys lingering up the path as A-Yuan near bounced on his toes as he stood and waited for Wangji's response.
  
  Wangji had wanted to say no, at first. A-Yuan was still young enough to live at home full time, still young enough to sometimes want bedtime lullabies or stories. Surely he was too young to spend an entire night alone with only a few adults nearby, none of which were himself, along with a bunch of other children? What would happen if he got a nightmare or couldn't sleep without a bedtime lullaby? What if he woke up in the night and wanted Wangji?
  
  And then he took a breath and asked A-Yuan if he was sure that was what he wanted. A-Yuan had been delighted as he answered, nodding so hard he almost fell over, and it was such a heartwarming sight that Wangji knew he could not say no. Was it really any different than when he went on a night hunt and left A-Yuan with his older brother or Lan Quenyue?
  
  So, he had let him go. He had helped him pack a little bag with all the things he would need for a single night out and fastened the winter coat around A-Yuan's little shoulders. He had stood at the door and watched as A-Yuan met up with his friends and they all cheered before shushing each other and turning back to bow in apology to Wangji for the excessive noise.
  
  He had watched as A-Yuan's figure got smaller, before he turned a bend and could not be seen anymore.
  
  It is late, now, far past the hour for sleep and yet Wangji is awake. He runs his fingers across his guqin, plucking a few notes here and there, listless and feeling strangely bereft. His rooms are too quiet and they feel too large without A-Yuan's breathing in his side room, long since converted to a children's bedroom. He had picked up a few stray items in the room – a few stray books, a toy, some robes – and when the room was clean, he had stood by the little bed and felt, for the first time in a long time, the echo of Wei Ying's loss.
  
  He feels it now, seated behind his guqin, in his empty rooms. One day, A-Yuan will be old enough to move into the Junior dorms on a more permanent basis, to better encourage independence and responsibility. One day, A-Yuan will grow up and become a proper adult.
  
  One day, he will be Wei Ying's age.
  
  And after that, he will be older than Wei Ying.
  
  Wangji hunches over his guqin, weeping, at the very thought. It hurts, just as much as the realization that his mother was not just gone, not just hidden from him somehow, but dead. One day, he will forget the shape of Wei Ying's smile, like he has forgotten his mother's; one day, he will forget his laugh, his voice, his smell. He will remember the shape of Wei Ying but not any of the details, just like his memories of his mother, while beloved and treasured, are hazy about the edges.
  
  His fingers close over the strings, their sharpness cutting into the skin, and this isn't that different than those horrible months during the opening of the Sunshot Campain. Him, in pain and missing Wei Ying, blood on his guqin from his fingers. Only this time it's for sure that Wei Ying is dead, is gone, is lost to him. He chokes on a sob, a string slicing out of place from his grip, slicing deep enough that his fingers hurt almost as much as his heart does.
  
  Almost, but not quite.
  
  “Oh, child, I'm sorry to see you in such pain – such is the natural way of life, I'm afraid.” A man says, voice kind and gentle. It should be alarming, hearing a voice he does no know in the sanctity of his own home, but it is comforting not be be alone; to have someone see him weep, to hear him fail to muffle his cries, and not tell him his sorrow is wrong.
  
  The man takes his hand and Wangji grips it like the lifeline it is. The man's hand is rough, calloused and cracked from age and hard work, and his skin is leathery in a way that suggests long days in the sun.
  
  “Let it out, child, you're feel better, I promise.” The man says kindly. Wangji weeps, gasping with the pain, and he is clutching at the hand in his with so much strength that he would be worried about breaking bones if not for the fact that he can't seem to think past the unfairness of the world and how empty it is now that Wei Ying isn't in it.
  
  "I thought my world would end when my Ming-er was killed in the war. The Wen didn't allow for us to get married, but we were. He was mine and I was his and then...he was gone. We worked as medics, staying to our honor, and at the end of everything, he was killed in a battle. I don't know who killed him or how he died, I just stumbled upon him during a lull as I was tending to others. I wanted to die, right there. But I couldn't." The man says and Wangji lets himself curl over their hands. His blood is flowing slower, his useless golden core already healing the wound. How dare it take from him the only outward sign of his pain?
  
  "We had an apprentice, you see. He was the closest thing we had to a child and he was still with me, always nearby even though he wasn't in training anymore. I couldn't leave him. It was the hardest thing, every day, waking up in a world without Lao Ming in it. Having to force myself to function, to exist, to live, for Wen Tu. When we were caught by the Jin and in that camp, it would have been so simple to let myself die there. I wanted to, more than ever, but I couldn't. I couldn't leave A-Tu there, alone - it didn't matter that he was a full grown man by that point, that he wasn't my actual son, that he didn't actually need any protecting. I was the closest thing he had to a father left and I couldn't leave him - I refused to leave him."
  
  Wangji clenches his teeth against the wounded sounds that wanted to come out, swallows the pain down. He held this man - this ghost's - hand and tried to breathe around the pain in his chest - it was overwhelming to have someone who understood, who didn't try to tell him things would get better, or that his feelings were wrong and needed to be purged.
  
  "You're doing so well, child. We're so proud of you, for persevering for our A-Yuan. I know you miss Young Master Wei, I know what that feels like. I know that sometimes you wake up and want to just lay in bed, forever, let your golden core burn itself out trying to keep you alive until it finally fails. I know that it hurts every time you see a couple arm in arm or read a line of poetry that makes you think of him; I know that sometimes you forget, for a moment, that you are supposed to be sad and then you remember that he is gone and it's so much worse because you feel like a traitor. Those feelings are real and heavy, but you are a strong man and can endure. You are the light in dark spaces, Hanguang-Jun, and you can do this. Weep for him, mourn for him, love him still, and in the morning, get up even though you don't want to."
  
  The man put his other hand on the top of his head, like he was a child, and it didn't bother him.
  
  "What's your name?" Wangji asks, tears on his face and clutching at the man's hand still.
  
  "Wen Chen courtesy Shinghui, not that it matters anymore." Wen Shinghui says and it is a kindness unasked for, that an old Wen would come to offer him comfort after everything his sect had done (and not done) for Wen Shinghui and his family.
  
  "Why doesn't he come to me like this?" Wangji finally lets himself ask, crying even as he speaks. He knows he has slipped into a dream, for that is the only way he would be able to touch Wen Shinghui like this, as he did for the old Wen woman from that night hunt - but still Wei Ying has not come to him.
  
  Does he hate Wangji? Is he angry at him? Is he not able to communicate like this, as there is no connection between them but tattered wishes and missed opportunities? Is he gone?
  
  "I don't know what Young Master Wei did to get us those precious few years, to save A-Yuan's life and future, but whatever it was...we haven't seen him. I don't know where he is, child, but I feel that wherever it it, he is safe. I'm not sure what comfort that is, but I know it like I know my name." Wen Shinghui says and he squeezes Wangji's hand in a gentle reassurance.
  
  When Wangji wakes in the morning in his own bed, pillow wet with tears, he lets himself lay in bed for a few moments. He wallows in the pain, the loss, and then he sits up and goes about his day.
  
  One day, A-Yuan will be an adult. He will grow into a man, proud and true, and one day he will be older than Wei Ying got to be. Wangji will tell A-Yuan about him, the man who saved him from death, and he will hope it is enough.