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Prologue
During the third night in the Xuanwu cave, Wei Wuxian starts coughing and doesn’t stop. Lan Wangji, injured himself, is helpless to do anything but watch. He has tried channelling some cultivation energy into Wei Wuxian’s core instead, but found that he was too weak to do so. He has attempted once more to find an exit, but found once more that there was none. Wei Wuxian is dying right in front of him, and Lan Wangji is letting it happen.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian mutters. When Lan Wangji looks at him, Wei Wuxian doesn’t say anything more. He has fallen asleep, or perhaps he was asleep all along.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says again, an undeterminable amount of time later. “Entertain me.” His words are slurred, his eyes keep falling shut, and when Lan Wangji presses two fingers to his wrist to check for his qi, he finds it weak, barely there. “Come on,” Wei Wuxian demands, this time managing to be somewhat more forceful. “Dying is boring.”
“You’re not dying,” Lan Wangji says immediately. It’s the first lie he has ever told in his life. Wei Wuxian must sense this too, because he laughs; Lan Wangji winces at the way this makes him cough up blood again.
“Please,” Wei Wuxian says, once his coughing fit has passed for now. “Lan Zhan, please. Don’t let me die in silence.”
Lan Wangji urges to tell him again that he is not dying, he is not going to, Lan Wangji won’t let him. Instead, he averts his eyes, and starts humming. Wei Wuxian smiles, pleased, and so Lan Wangji keeps going. If he cannot save Wei Ying, he can do this, at least.
“Interesting,” someone says after a few seconds, a few minutes, an eternity. It’s not Wei Wuxian who has spoken. When Lan Wangji turns around – reluctantly, because it means he has to tear his gaze from Wei Wuxian –, he sees at once that no rescue party has arrived. A blurry shape has risen from the water, not quite a person, but also not unlike one. It comes closer, bringing with it a gust of wind that smells like the sea. A spirit, Lan Wangji thinks. “Got yourselves trapped?”
Lan Wangji inclines his head. The spirit makes a noise that could be a huff or a laugh. “This is my cave, you know,” they say conversationally. “It was mine long before the tortoise of slaughter ever thought to enter it. Humans forget easily.”
“I’m sorry,” Lan Wangji says, because he is. He has long since suspected how fickle human memory is; it seems unfair that some things, some people, should just be erased from history.
“Thank you,” the spirit says. “Who’s that?”
Lan Wangji glances back at Wei Wuxian, who looks pale and sick and still so beautiful. “A friend,” he says.
“He’s dying.”
“Yes,” Lan Wangji says, and doesn’t say anything more. He does not protest as the spirit comes closer, forcing himself not to move protectively in front of Wei Wuxian. It would do no good, he knows.
The spirit looks at Wei Wuxian for a long time. Eventually, they say, “Would you like to save him?”
Lan Wangji does not hesitate. “Yes.”
“And what will you give me for it?”
“Anything.”
Strangely, the spirit, though faceless, still manages to give off the impression of a smile. They say, “I heard your humming earlier. You’ve got a good voice.”
*
Wei Wuxian wakes up in Lotus Pier. He spends a moment or so being surprised that he is alive, before Jiang Cheng punches him in the arm and reminds him that there are people in the room with him. People, but not-
“Where’s Lan Zhan?”
Jiang Cheng frowns. “Took off as soon as we got you out. What were you thinking, anyway? I had to ask the peacock to-“
As Jiang Cheng launches into a rant, Wei Wuxian’s mind, still exhausted, drifts off. His last thought before he succumbs to sleep is that he would have liked to say goodbye to Lan Zhan, at least.
*
After Lotus Pier burns to the ground, Wei Wuxian forces himself not to think about Lan Zhan at all.
By the time he returns from the Burial Mounds – without a core; with rage in his heart –, not thinking about Lan Zhan has become easy.
When he defeats Wen Ruohan single-handedly and wins the war, and when he founds a new sect to protect the innocent members of Qishan Wen, and when the other sects settle into an uneasy peace with him and his people – when he truly becomes the Yiling Patriarch, Wei Wuxian has almost managed to forget Lan Zhan altogether.
Humans forget easily, after all.
And then, one day, Wen Ning wakes up in the Demon-Slaughtering Cave, tears off the talisman array surrounding him, and almost kills Wen Qing. He would have, if Wei Wuxian had not found his flute in time.
But Wei Wuxian’s music, for all its proficiency in murdering people and raising them from the dead, was never meant to be calming.
The day after they have subdued Wen Ning once again, Wei Wuxian sends a letter to Lan Zhan.
*
Six months earlier
Music is the only way of communication that’s left to Lan Wangji now. He finds that this makes him less rather than more intent to play his guqin. Now that every melody is precious, he does not wish to share it with others. He still practices sword forms every day, he starts resorting the library, he purchases a book on how to build a lotus pond.
He does not play music.
“He may as well be in seclusion,” he overhears Uncle say to Lan Xichen one evening. They’re in Uncle’s office, and Lan Wangji had been about to walk past it on his way to the Jingshi. “This is ridiculous. He’s still a cultivator.”
“Give him time,” Lan Xichen pleads. “The war has been hard on all of us. Wangji has lost more than most.”
Uncle huffs. “People lose their senses every day. He should be glad he only lost his voice.”
There is a delicate pause. Then Lan Xichen says, “I was not talking about his voice.”
Lan Wangji does not stay to hear Uncle’s response. Eavesdropping is forbidden, and besides, he has heard enough.
The next morning, just before dawn, he packs a small bag with only the most important necessities, takes his sword and, after only a brief hesitation, his guqin, and leaves Cloud Recesses without looking back.
He travels without a destination in mind, taking care to avoid big cities but otherwise going wherever help is needed. Sometimes he flies on his sword, but more and more often he finds himself travelling by foot. People are more likely to approach him like this, anyway.
One day, he has just exorcised a spirit at the stroke of midnight and declined the villagers’ invitation to spend the night at an inn, when someone behind him says, “Looks like we came too late.”
Two cultivators enter the abandoned shrine that he performed the exorcism in, one clad in white Daoist robes, the other wearing black. Lan Wangji has met these men once before. He has not forgotten.
He bows, watching them do the same. “It’s good to see you again, Hanguang-jun,” Xiao Xingchen says, only to smile at his own joke. Lan Wangji frowns, understanding setting in a second later: Xiao Xingchen’s eyes are covered with a bandage, as white as his robes. A temporary injury, or permanent? “Song Lan and I heard reports of a demon roaming these lands. We have also,” he says, amusement colouring his voice, “heard reports of a lonely cultivator roaming these lands, going wherever the chaos is. Am I to take it that was you?”
Lan Wangji nods, realises at once that Xiao Xingchen cannot see, and throws a helpless look at Song Lan, who has yet to join their conversation. Now that their eyes meet, Song Lan frowns, touches Xiao Xingchen’s arm, and says something that’s too quiet for Lan Wangji to understand.
“Some of the reports,” Xiao Xingchen continues smoothly, as though no interruption has occurred, “said that this esteemed cultivator cannot speak, nor answer questions, nor ask for help. Hanguang-jun is known for his introverted nature, of course. But not even one sound?”
Lan Wangji, in lieu of having anything better to offer them, bows again. When he rises, Song Lan is watching him somewhat more intently than before.
“Join us tonight,” Song Lan says, surprising not just Lan Wangji but, from the looks of it, Xiao Xingchen as well. “We planned to make camp outside this shrine. There is room for one more.”
Xiao Xingchen has recovered fast. His smile is open and welcoming. “We would be honoured.”
Room for one more, but not enough tasks to satisfy all three of them, it seems like. While Song Lan builds the fire and prepares some sort of soup, Xiao Xingchen prepares makeshift beds and draws a ward around them. Their routine is so fast and efficient that any extra help is neither needed nor wanted, and so Lan Wangji cannot do anything but watch, feeling useless.
After a few minutes of doing nothing, he takes out his guqin. It has been weeks since he last used it for anything but night-hunting. Now, he plays a slow, melancholy song that he has heard near Baixue Temple once, during a visit there as a child. He does not remember the words, but the melody has stuck; besides, it is not like he could sing.
When he finishes, the camp is ready, and Song Lan has tears in his eyes.
Xiao Xingchen lays a comforting hand on his arm and says, “When Baixue Temple was destroyed, so were many of its records on literature, poetry, and music. This song will only exist in people’s memory now.”
Lan Wangji hesitates, then plucks the first chords of Song of Remembrance. I won’t forget. Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan are not from Gusu Lan, have never learned how to use musical cultivation techniques, will not recognise this song as anything but a pleasant tune. Still, it seems important that he assures Song Lan of this in the only way left to him. I won’t forget.
After dinner, he plays some more, gamely accepting their suggestions of popular folk songs. The mood has shifted to something more relaxed, and after being so protective of his music for so long, this feels like a relief. He goes to bed that night with his heart light, knowing that even though it will grow heavy again come morning, he will bear it a little better this time.
They part ways amicably the next day. Song Lan nods at him, Lan Wangji nods back, and then Xiao Xingchen smiles and says, “If you’re ever in trouble, come find us. No words need be spoken.”
Lan Wangji watches them leave – one in white, one in black, on their way to the next night hunt, on their way to paradise. For one terrible second, he is so envious of them that it makes him nauseous.
Then, the second passes, and Lan Wangji moves on.
The first time Lan Wangji hears one of the stories, he does not realise it’s about him. He has not been asked for perform a night hunt in a couple of days and so he takes his time travelling through the series of villages that surround a large lake, content to do nothing but observe for now. There is something very peaceful about this community and Lan Wangji, in turn, feels at peace himself.
He is having a quiet breakfast at an inn when he overhears a child at another table telling her siblings of the light-bearing guardian. His lips twitching, Lan Wangji listens to the tale of a guardian spirit who brings light, assuming that it’s part of the local folklore.
It happens again, though, at a village dozens of miles away from the lake community. And again, in a remote farmhouse in a forest that’s dozens more miles away still. It’s at that house that Lan Wangji learns the origin of these stories, namely: himself.
“You must forgive her,” the farmer’s wife says, as her daughter hides in the folds of her robes and refuses to so much as look at Lan Wangji. “It’s quite exciting, meeting the man of fairy tales.”
Lan Wangji frowns, and the child, curiosity apparently overcoming shyness, peaks out from behind her mother to ask if he knows any other guardian spirits.
This is when Lan Wangji realises that he is the light-bearing guardian. His title should have made this obvious earlier, but he had failed to make the connection – had, in truth, not been prepared that his accomplishments would even be noticed at all. Xiao Xingchen had warned him that people were talking, he thinks now. He shouldn’t have dismissed it.
Now that he knows, his travels sometimes lead to rather mortifying scenarios. Following reports of an elemental spirit, Lan Wangji enters a small city near the border of Lanling and spots someone painting a mural on a restaurant. When he takes a closer look, he sees that the mural is a likeliness of him. Embarrassed, Lan Wangji moves on before he can be spotted.
Another time, he attempts to pay for his hot beverage and is told that since he saved the mayor’s nephew some months ago, he need not pay for any of his purchases in this town. Accepting this, Lan Wangji bows to the street vendor and, as he turns around, is faced with a group of teenagers asking if he can sign his name to a napkin for them.
His newfound fame may be cause for humiliation at times, but it certainly is beneficial in one regard: word gets around that he cannot speak, and so people in need of help are increasingly volunteering any useful information without being prompted. His muteness, in turn, is cause for even more speculation about him. Lan Wangji, knowing that people will gossip about almost anything, tells himself not to be resentful of this fact.
He wonders if any of these stories ever reach the cultivation world.
He wonders if they ever reach Wei Wuxian.
He never runs into another cultivator after Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan. He never runs into another cultivator, until he does.
The golden robes of Lanling Jin almost make him turn back around when he sees them through the thick of the forest. If Lan Wangji wished to spend time with cultivators from one of the main sects, he would have simply elected to stay with Gusu Lan.
Even though night hunts are commonly viewed as fair game and following the basic principle of first come, first served, there seems to be little reason for the Jins to bother with something as simple as a forest spirit. They’re hours away from Lanling, anyway. Maybe it’s training for the junior disciples, Lan Wangji thinks, until he hears Jin Zixuan order someone else to “stay away, stand back.”
Lan Wangji, who does not have a good track record of staying away from things, and who was not being addressed in any case, steps out onto a clearing and sees a small group of disciples from Lanling Jin, stood in a half-circle around Jin Zixuan, who is facing not a forest spirit, but a forest demon.
Lan Wangji has not seen Jin Zixuan since the war. He does not much care to see him now. And yet, see him he must, if he is to help. He uses his guqin to attack at the same time as Jin Zixuan launches his sword at the demon. Together, they push it further into the forest.
“Lan Wangji?” Jin Zixuan asks, throwing him an incredulous look. Lan Wangji ignores him and plucks a number of chords again. The demon screeches as it’s sliced by dozens of daggers. “Taking a little vacation from Cloud Recesses?”
This, Lan Wangji thinks while he ducks to avoid the demon’s poisonous tail, answers the question of whether his family has told anyone about his disappearance. It appears they elected not to. Lan Wangji has no intentions of clearing up the truth.
“You didn’t need to come,” Jin Zixuan says, after firing another arrow. “We were handling it. We-“
In that moment, the demon lets out another screech and, as though making one last desperate attempt, launches itself in the direction of Jin Zixuan. Lan Wangji opens his mouth, tries to tell him to get out of the way. No sound comes out. Cursing himself, Lan Wangji does not stop to consider his next actions. He shoves Jin Zixuan away with all his might.
He succeeds. But there is not enough time to save himself.
The demon descends upon him with a roar that nearly shatters Lan Wangji’s eardrums.
A swipe from its claws break bone.
Another swipe tears his skin to shreds.
Lan Wangji is not conscious for the next one.
Much later, he wakes up very briefly, to a lot of pain and a flash of black robes before him. He smiles, and falls back asleep.
*
Interlude
No one who leaves her sect can ever return. And yet, Xiao Xingchen has returned not once, but twice. The first time, he came with an injured cultivator and asked her to take his eyes.
This time, he came with another injured cultivator, and Baoshan Sanren does not know what to expect next.
They are standing at the man’s bedside, Xiao Xingchen next to her, his young man a bit behind. The man on the bed is pale, his torso wrapped in bandages. Even with his injuries, she recognises a direct descendant of Lan Yi.
“I have done all that I can,” Baoshan Sanren tells Xiao Xingchen. “The rest is up to him.”
“Thank you.”
“Tell me something. I find myself distinctly surprised that you have yet to ask me to take your voice.”
Xiao Xingchen smiles ruefully. “It’s not my sacrifice to make, I’m afraid.”
She purses her lips and says nothing. She has long since stopped paying attention to what goes on in the mortal world. If this man, who is blood of Lan Yi’s blood, has things – people – tying him down, that is no concern of hers.
From the other end of the room, Xiao Xingchen’s young man suddenly speaks up. “It wouldn’t do any good anyway, I believe.”
Xiao Xingchen’s frown is evident even despite the bandage around his eyes. “That is not a theory you’ve shared with me, Zichen.” His tone is scolding, though fond.
Song Lan shrugs. “Barely a theory. One cannot exchange a sacrifice for a sacrifice. If his voice was willingly given, it needs to be willingly returned.”
She looks from Xiao Xingchen’s covered eyes, to Song Lan’s seeing ones, and back down at the second non-sect member who has ever been brought to this mountain. She asks, “What’s his name?”
*
Hanguang-jun.
Wangji.
Lan Zhan!
“Lan Wangji,” someone says, and Lan Wangji wakes with a start. Everything hurts, he thinks, and then: he’s not dead. Why is he not dead?
He inspects his surroundings, surprised to see that the lavishness of Koi Tower is missing entirely. The room he has woken in is sparsely decorated, in a style not dissimilar to Cloud Recesses. He might almost be fooled into thinking that he is home, were it not for the view out the window, which shows a mountain chain engulfed in fog. Mountains, certainly, but not the ones from Gusu.
His sword is propped up against a wall, his guqin next to it. Lan Wangji relaxes at the sight of them. He relaxes more once he realises that his forehead ribbon is still in place, though its presence fails to offer the feeling of utter safety it once held.
Even turning his head hurts, but staying in bed is not an option, not if he still does not know where he is or who brought him here. He will-
“Move and you will tear your wounds,” a stern, female voice says. The woman who enters the room looks to be in her fifties, though that does not mean anything, with cultivators. Her robes are pale blue, devoid of any pattern or decoration, and nothing about her gives him an indication as to which sect she belongs to.
She unwraps the bandages around his torso steadily, but lacking the grace of a healer. It is clear that while she has done this before, taking care of patients is not her usual area of expertise.
Then, what is?
“You have a high level of cultivation,” she tells him. “Your wounds were severe, but your body has already started the healing process. One more day of bedrest, one week of light activity, and you will be fine.”
Lan Wangji accepts this information. He looks down at himself, thinking that with how gruesome his injuries are even now, they must have been more than severe when he arrived here. The woman catches his gaze, saying, “They will heal, but they will scar.”
“Luckily, with a face like his, no one will think to look at his body. Scarred or otherwise.” Xiao Xingchen slips inside the room, bowing first to the woman, then to Lan Wangji. “Sect leader. Hanguang-jun.”
The woman scowls at him, though it seems like her lips are twitching in amusement. “And how would you know his face?”
“We met before I lost my eyesight. He made quite the impression.”
“So it would seem.” She starts spreading some sort of ointment on one of Lan Wangji’s larger cuts, one so deep that it must have sliced right down to his ribcage. Lan Wangji barely notices the pain, too distracted by what he has just witnessed.
Sect leader, Xiao Xingchen said. But Lan Wangji knows all the current sect leaders, and this woman is not one of them.
“I will leave you to it,” Xiao Xingchen says, interrupting Lan Wangji’s train of thought. “Before Song Lan gets lost again.”
“Brand-new eyes, and he doesn’t know how to use them. May the gods have mercy.”
The door clicks shut, and they are alone again. Lan Wangji hesitates, unsure how to phrase a question without paper or music, and equally unsure if it would be considered rude to ask at all.
He gets his answer when the woman says, “Don’t worry. I can keep up my end of the conversation without input. Although I must say that you’ve arrived two decades too late. I used to have a disciple who would have talked enough for the both of you, and a room full of people to boot.”
Lan Wangji tilts his head, and receives the vague impression of a smile in return.
“I’m talking about Cangse Sanren,” she says. “You may have heard of her.”
Baoshan Sanren. He mouths the words, more to himself than to ask for confirmation. The immortal Baoshan Sanren is before him.
“Got it in one. I was quite taken aback when my former disciple brought you to my doorstep. Your ribbon would have been an indication to your identity in any case, but even without it, I would have known who you are. Lan Yi’s family line holds strong, it seems. So does the tendency to self-sacrifice.”
Lan Wangji looks away. If he had his voice now, he would still not apologise for what he’s done, and he would do it again in a heartbeat if he had anything left to offer. He would lay down his life if it could save Wei Wuxian’s own.
The ensuing silence is heavy. Eventually, Baoshan Sanren bows. “Welcome to my sect, Hanguang-jun.”
*
Wei Wuxian’s letter is answered within three days’ time.
The envelope bears the seal of Zewu-jun. Inside, there is one single sheet of paper, with only one single sentence on it.
I regret to inform you that my brother is no longer residing in Cloud Recesses.
The words have gone up in flames before Wei Wuxian can digest this, his resentful energy having sparked without his volition. The letter is nothing but ash now, but it doesn’t matter, because Wei Wuxian remembers it perfectly.
I regret to inform you that my brother is no longer residing in Cloud Recesses.
A lie? No, they could have just said that Lan Zhan was in seclusion. But if Lan Zhan has truly left his childhood home and sect residence, then where has he gone?
Not to the Burial Mounds, Wei Wuxian thinks sourly. After he returned without a golden core, Lan Zhan has kept his distance from him.
Except, a voice whispers in the back of his mind, except that’s not quite true, is it? Lan Zhan had started keeping his distance well before that. He’d left Wei Wuxian behind after the Xuanwu cave, had he not? Left without saying goodbye.
Somehow, suspecting that Lan Zhan had wanted nothing to do with him even before the resentful energy makes it worse. Wei Wuxian can deal with people leaving because they don’t support his cultivation methods. But if it’s not his cultivation that Lan Zhan disapproves of, that means he disapproves of Wei Wuxian.
He spends an entire night twisting and turning and getting no sleep whatsoever. The next morning, he sends another letter. This one goes to Jiang Cheng, asking if he’s heard anything about Lan Zhan recently.
This time, his letter is answered within only two days.
I’ve heard he’s very popular among the commoners now, Jiang Cheng has written, bitterness seeping through every character. It’s even started to affect Yunmeng Jiang. The other day, I saw one of his shrines in a village near Yunmeng. Building shrines to mortals now, would you believe the nerve of these people?
Wei Wuxian frowns. At another time, in another life, he might have thought this whole matter hilarious. He would have teased Lan Zhan about it to no end. Of course they’re building you a shrine, he would have said, they probably think you’re the god of beauty. Will you give me a blessing, Lan-er-gege?
But Lan Zhan isn’t here to be teased, and if he was, it’s not like they’re still close enough for that sort of thing.
After rereading Jiang Cheng’s letter, Wei Wuxian sits down at his desk and writes to his Shijie. She may be heavily pregnant by now, but she always knows what to do. She’ll tell him how to proceed here, for sure.
He does not get a letter in return. What he does get is a golden butterfly, sent not by his Shijie, but by her idiot husband. The butterfly relays its message and promptly disappears in a cloud of sparkly dust, leaving Wei Wuxian alone and stricken.
He’s gone.
He does not send a fourth letter.
*
When the story of Lan Wangji’s disappearance becomes widely known, the cultivation world accepts this without question. People disappear sometimes. He was probably killed in a night hunt. It’s a shame when such a talented cultivator dies so young, but then again, he hasn’t really been around this past year anyway, has he? Barely anyone has seen him since the war. People who refuse to be part of a community can’t expect their disappearance to truly impact others.
When Lan Xichen receives reports of his brother’s likely death, he locks the letter in a drawer and locks his heart away with it.
When the Yiling Patriarch hears of it, he rides to Koi Tower that very night. He doesn’t ask how. He asks, where?
*
Now
It is a humbling experience, serving in Baoshan Sanren’s sect. Of course, he is not a real disciple of hers, but he serves her just the same, Lan forehead ribbon or not. After his injuries are healed, Lan Wangji expects to be shown the exit. But it has been several months now and he is still here. He has his own set of quarters now, his own daily tasks. Every morning, he has the unique pleasure of having Baoshan Sanren give him a cultivation lesson, and every night, he teaches her how to play the guqin in turn.
In Cloud Recesses, he would frequently be asked to teach some of the younger disciples. It has always been one of his favourite tasks, but this is the first time he has had a student past the age of eight. Baoshan Sanren is hundreds of years older than him, her cultivation has allowed her to reach immortality, and still she lets
Lan Wangji adjust her fingers on the guqin, gently correcting her mistakes.
“I’ve always admired Lan Yi,” she tells him one of those nights. “Before her, it never occurred to anyone that they could use music as a weapon.”
Lan Wangji inclines his head, then touches her arm to redirect her attention towards the instrument, where he shows her how to play the first chords of Inquiry. She imitates his movements, and after a few tries, manages to copy him. It has been strange to find out that for all her power and wisdom, the honourable Baoshan Sanren does not possess a natural inclination for music.
“You look like her,” she says later, after the lesson has ended for tonight. “Sometimes I can hardly bear to look at your face, because the resemblance is so strong. But Lan Yi used to smile all the time. You’re very unlike her, in that regard.”
Unable to offer either a smile or words of regret, Lan Wangji plays Song of Sorrow instead. He does not weave his cultivation into it, making it a song like any other. He does not look at her while he plays, but as the song ends, she reaches into her hair and holds out her hand. On her palm rests a delicate silver hair pin, shaped like a cloud.
“I never had the chance to give this to her. It’s yours, if you like.”
Lan Wangji wants to protest, to point out that he does not require any presents and would not wish her to give up any mementos for his sake besides, but one look at her face makes him reconsider.
He has not forgotten how fortunate he is, knowing that Wei Wuxian is alive. Not everyone is that lucky.
He takes the pin, fastens it in his hair, lets her inspect it and nod in satisfaction. Then, even though the hour is late and his hands hurt, he plays one more song for her. Like he’d done for Song Lan, he plays for her, too, the Song of Remembrance.
*
They don’t get much news in their self-appointed seclusion. Every few weeks or so, a messenger will drop a handful of reports at a designated point at the foot of the mountain. There is no consistency to these reports. They may contain anything from birth records over specific sect news to rumours. Sometimes there is a thick stack of papers, and other times there is nothing more than a single sheet.
Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan had left not long after Lan Wangji healed. They send letters on occasion, and Lan Wangji used to wonder whether they were behind the semi-official reports as well. Eventually, Baoshan Sanren revealed the information herself: the news come from commoners whose families have been loyal to her for centuries.
“One of my disciples once asked whether fewer people are reporting, after so much time has passed. She said that humans forget easily. I told her that in my experience, there is a strength found in human memory that is hard to find anywhere else. We don’t forget, we try as hard as we can to remember.”
It has become part of Lan Wangji’s duties to collect these accounts, their only way of communication with the outside, and go through them to check if there is anything of interest. Usually, there is not.
Today, the name Yiling Patriarch pops up.
His eyes are drawn to it immediately, and it takes him a few seconds to focus enough to read the rest of the page.
Apparently, rumour has it that the Yiling Patriarch is travelling through Lanling, digging up graves. Whoever wrote the report has included their suspicion that the Yiling Patriarch may be building an army, though the reason for that remains unknown. Another war among the cultivators?
Lan Wangji reads the report three times, and still fails to understand.
He does not believe that Wei Wuxian would do anything without cause. During the war, Wei Wuxian’s use of corpses to attack the enemy became common knowledge. After, Lan Wangji withdrew from the public eye, but even Cloud Recesses heard rumours that Wei Wuxian had managed to revive one of his friends, who had become one of his most trusted lieutenants. Lan Wangji has never cared for such gossiping, but as he recalls these stories now, he can’t help but wonder if Wei Wuxian is looking to revive somebody else.
The war has seen many sacrifices. Who has died in Lanling that Wei Wuxian could be searching for so badly?
He hesitates to show this account to Baoshan Sanren. She has mentioned Cangse Sanren a handful of times, but never her family, never her child. She surely must have heard of Wei Wuxian’s existence – there used to be a time, during the war, when ever cultivator and non-cultivator knew his name – but it remains doubtful whether she knows his connection to her favourite disciple.
Mostly, Lan Wangji puts off showing her the report because he is afraid to find out that she knows exactly who Wei Wuxian is, and does not care.
In the end, however, Lan Wangji cannot lie, nor would he wish to do so, not to the woman who has given him sanctuary. He waits only a day or so before he hands her the stack of files that may be of interest to her, the report about Wei Wuxian on the very top.
He watches her read, her brow furrowed. Whatever she may be thinking, she keeps it to herself until she has gone through all the reports, just as she always does. Eventually, she sets the papers aside in one graceful movement. She is still frowning.
Her next words are a spear through Lan Wangji’s heart.
“Cangse Sanren,” she says, “would be ashamed of her son.”
No. Lan Wangji tries to say this, fails, tries again, and fails again. Frustrated, he bows to her, short enough that it could not be considered even basic courtesy, sweeps his sword from the floor and leaves.
He leaves the room, the residence, the mountain.
It is not until after he is miles away already, still feeling a kind of anger that before today had been foreign to him, that he realises he left his guqin behind.
He does not return for it.
*
Time seemed to move differently on the mountain. Now that he is back in the realm of mortals, Lan Wangji does not know for how long he has been gone. Long enough for a turn of the seasons, clearly: he had gotten injured just as the first cherry blossom trees were starting to bloom. They are bare now, a sign that he has not just missed spring, but summer as well. Autumn is already giving way to winter, the days are getting colder and darker, and Lan Wangji does not know where to go, does not even know where he is.
The first town that he passes through solves this mystery, at least. Some of its buildings have lotus flowers decorations, a sure sign that he is in Jiang sect territory and probably not all that far from Lotus Pier. That is fine; Lan Wangji will spend the night here and leave in the morning before Jiang Wanyin ever even learns of his presence.
In his search for an inn, the sun setting in his back, he passes by a shrine. This would not usually be enough to warrant his attention, but there is something strange about it that makes him halt in his steps. The Yunmeng people, with their thousand lakes, have been praying to water gods for millennia. But this shrine does not have any characteristics common for water gods.
“If you’ve come to make an offering,” a voice behind him says, “you’ll have to wait for a few more minutes. Hanguang-jun only takes offerings after dark.”
Lan Wangji does not get a chance to react to this inane statement. Just now, the man who’d so helpfully spread his knowledge about false gods, has taken a look at his face and is now clutching a hand to his heart. “Hanguang-jun,” he gasps and, to Lan Wangji’s horror, sinks to his knees.
Lan Wangji, feeling helpless, touches the man’s shoulder to try and make him get up. The man kowtows, muttering a prayer. Even worse, the scene is starting to draw the attention of others, passers-by who all have a similar reaction as the man, and who all, without fail, kowtow to Lan Wangji.
“Give us your blessing,” someone begs, and suddenly, dozens of people are asking the same thing. Lan Wangji, mortified, wishes nothing more than to leave, except that would surely be considered impolite.
“Hey! What’s happening here?”
“Sandu Shengshou! It’s Sandu Shengshou!” The town people who, only moments before, were praying to Lan Wangji, now offer their greetings to Jiang Wanyin, before turning back to Lan Wangji.
Jiang Wanyin is striding onto the market square with barely suppressed anger rolling off him in waves. He appears to be alone, which is something to be thankful for, at least.
Coming to a stop right in front of Lan Wangji, he bows and manages to make even that look sarcastic. “Lan Wangji,” he says. “Imagine my surprise when during one of my routine inspections of the villages near Lotus Pier, I see a commotion and find you in the middle of it. Walk with me.”
Although part of him is bristling at being commanded like this, Lan Wangji obeys, grateful for anything that will remove him from this situation. Together, they leave the town and start walking down a well-travelled road that must lead either directly to Lotus Pier or directly away from it.
“You are looking well for a dead man,” Jiang Wanyin mocks. “Though perhaps not very well for a god. Tell me, what have we done that you, in your eternal benevolence, decide to bless the people of Yunmeng with your divine presence?”
Even if he had the use of his voice, Lan Wangji would not have deigned to reply. He will not be taunted like this. But when he turns on his heels and attempts to walk away, Jiang Wanyin reacts fast, blocking his path with his sword.
“Hold up. You’re still in my territory, so you answer to my command. And I say that you’re not going anywhere until you’ve told me where the hell you’ve been these past few months.”
Lan Wangji glances at the town that they’ve just left behind; Jiang Wanyin scoffs. “Oh, I know well enough that you’re not a god. It turns out people will to pray to anyone, as long as it makes for a good story. And your story is said to be better than most.”
Lan Wangji looks at him blankly, which prompts an eyeroll from Jiang Wanyin. “Fine,” he snaps. “We’ll go to Lotus Pier first. I’ll tell the servants to prepare an extra-cold bath for you, make you feel right at home. But don’t think you’re getting out of this conversation.”
Lan Wangji has never, not once in his life, felt like he was ‘getting out’ of anything. Still, for lack of a better option, he steps on his sword and follows Jiang Wanyin to the Jiang sect residence.
*
Lan Wangji only knows Lotus Pier from Wei Wuxian’s stories. Back when they were in Cloud Recesses together, Wei Wuxian would coax and threaten and beg until Lan Wangji would agree that yes, he would let Wei Wuxian show him Lotus Pier someday.
That was before Lotus Pier burned to the ground, of course.
From the looks of it, Jiang Wanying has managed to rebuild it in all its former glory, an impressive feat that has Lan Wangji’s full admiration. It seems fitting that Wei Wuxian would have grown up here, in a place as loud and colourful as he. It’s not surprising that he did not like Cloud Recesses. By all rights, he should not have tried as hard for Lan Wangji’s company; then again, Wei Wuxian’s actions have always been a mystery.
Jiang Wanyin shows him to a set of guest quarters, arranges for a bath and then waits outside his quarters to half-lead, half-strongarm him to dinner. The whole experience is not unlike being held prisoner, and Lan Wangji wonders if Jiang Wanyin fears that without surveillance, he will just leave. If that is indeed his worry, he is more perceptive than Lan Wangji has given him credit for: Lan Wangji had indeed been planning to leave Lotus Pier as soon as Jiang Wanyin was out of sight.
At dinner, Jiang Wanyin serves him all manner of dishes from the local cuisine, pointing out the ones that will contain the least amount of spice. This is a thoughtful gesture the likes of which Jiang Wanyin has never been known to show Lan Wangji to date, and it distresses him more than he would like to admit. It is even more confusing because every kindness is coupled with harsh words, a strange contradiction.
“Eat,” Jiang Wanyin instructs, “if Hanguang-jun can manage to stomach our food. Don’t worry, we’re going to Lanling tomorrow. Their fancy dishes should be more to your taste.”
Lan Wangji takes a bite of roasted tofu and does not try to conceal his bewilderment, both at Jiang Wanyin’s travel plans and at his estimation of Lan Wangji’s taste that lacks any basis in reality. Scowling, Jiang Wanyin loads more food onto Lan Wangji’s plate and says, “I should have you drawn and quartered for everything you’ve put my brother through recently. But you’ve also saved the life of my nephew’s father, so I suppose that evens it out. You’re eating very slowly.” His glare of accusation does not fade until Lan Wangji eats a mouthful of rice. When he does, Jiang Wanyin leans back in his seat, crossing his arms in self-satisfaction and saying smugly, “I guess our food is good enough for you after all.”
Nothing about what he has said so far has made sense, but Lan Wangji’s mind is stuck on the mention of Wei Wuxian. I should have you drawn and quartered for everything you’ve put my brother through recently. He hasn’t even seen Wei Wuxian in more than a year. Not since the war. Their last conversation was almost two years ago, in the Xuanwu cave, when Wei Wuxian was dying and Lan Wangji unable to help. Whatever his perceived slight against Wei Wuxian, it has either come from Jiang Wanyin’s imagination or it is two years in the past. Neither scenario seems likely.
“Anyway,” Jiang Wanyin says, after dinner is over and the table has been cleared, “you should get some sleep. Be ready to leave at dawn. The sooner we get Wei Wuxian to stop his mad rampage, the better.” He does not elaborate this cryptic comment, escorting Lan Wangji back to the guest quarters without another word. Just as Lan Wangji is about to go inside, however, Jiang Wanyin adds, “It’s good to have you back. If you ask me, the world has more than enough gods already. Not many good people, though. Good night, Lan Wangji.”
*
They leave at dawn. By midday, they are flying over the many forests of Lanling. By dusk, they see a black cloud of resentment energy on the horizon.
They fly in the direction of the cloud without discussion. This much resentment energy can only mean one thing, can only have one person responsible for it, and even though Lan Wangji has been consciously avoiding Wei Wuxian for two years, he can still barely contain his excitement at seeing him now.
Just this one time, he promises himself. They will go do whatever Jiang Wanyin wants, whatever he has to talk about with his brother, and Lan Wangji will get to drink in his fill of Wei Wuxian’s face for that time. Just today, and then never again. It will be enough, because it has to be.
The resentment energy gets stronger the closer they get. Jiang Wanyin says something about his cultivation energy recoiling in response, but Lan Wangji does not experience anything of the sort. It’s quite the opposite, actually: the more the resentment energy tries to invade him, the more his own cultivation embraces it in return. It’s somewhat embarrassing, the way his body responds to Wei Wuxian even now.
They land on a gravesite. Jiang Wanyin curses, shaking his head in disgust, and yells, “Wei Wuxian!”
And then, Lan Wangji sees him.
He emerges from a cloud full of shadows, his eyes glowing red. Freshly dug up graves are all around him, old and new corpses everywhere. “Jiang Cheng,” he says coldly. “I thought I told you last time to mind your own business.”
“For fuck’s- look.” Jiang Wanyin points at Lan Wangji, who freezes under the intensity of Wei Wuxian’s gaze. Even during the war, he never truly met the Yiling Patriarch. He is meeting him now.
Wei Wuxian is staring at him, shadows still swirling around him. One of them shoots in the direction of Lan Wangji; before he can react, Wei Wuxian has held up a hand and drawn it back into himself.
“Lan Zhan,” he breathes.
The resentment energy has gone before they can truly realise what has happened. Where only seconds earlier, it was thick enough to obscure sight, it is now vanished entirely, leaving only the graveyard with all its open graves.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says again. His eyes are no longer red. He looks, Lan Wangji thinks, completely unchanged. It makes something in his throat swell up.
Wei Wuxian approaches slowly, raising a hand to cup Lan Wangji’s face. “There you are,” he says. Lan Wangji returns his gaze, hoping that the depth of his feelings doesn’t show in his eyes.
A second passes. Then Wei Wuxian demands, “What’s wrong with your voice? Jiang Cheng, what’s wrong with his voice?”
“What?”
“His voice,” Wei Wuxian says impatiently. “What did you do?”
“I-! You-! I didn’t do anything, and there’s nothing wrong with his voice!”
Wei Wuxian is still cradling Lan Wangji’s cheek. Lan Wangji is frozen to the spot, unable to move, knowing this is what he has long feared would happen if he spent more than few minutes in Wei Wuxian’s presence, and also aware that as long as Wei Wuxian is touching him, he does not possess the strength to move away from him.
“Come to the Burial Mounds with me,” Wei Wuxian tells him. “We’ll figure this out. No, don’t look at me like that! There is no way I’m letting some curse rob the world off your voice, okay? Just come with me and I’ll fix you right back up. Unless- don’t you want to?”
Wei Wuxian’s voice is full of self-doubt, something that is not allowed to happen. Lan Wangji raises his own hand to touch Wei Wuxian’s cheek in turn, trying to communicate that he wants to, he will always want to, there is no saying no when it comes to Wei Wuxian.
It must work, because Wei Wuxian smiles and leans into his touch. “Alright then,” he says. “I’ll just close up these graves real quick and then we can go. You don’t have to worry about anything, alright? Not one thing.”
While Wei Wuxian closes the graves that he has inexplicably dug up, and while Jiang Wanyin begrudgingly helps him with this, Lan Wangji thinks about everything that he has left to worry over, and wonders how he could ever manage to keep any of it from Wei Wuxian.
*
The Burial Mounds, against all odds, are prospering. The Yiling Patriarch has build his residence at the very top of the mountain, using resentment energy to help him along. There are even a handful of disciples now. With the tribute the other sects pay to Yiling every season, they have enough to not merely persevere, but to thrive.
Wei Wuxian volunteers all this information freely and without being prompted, holding tightly on to Lan Wangji’s arm the entire time. He points out some sights – a lotus pond, some plantations, a playground. “Do you like it?” he asks, eager and resigned all at once. Lan Wangji’s nod makes him smile again, and his smile, in turn, makes Lan Wangji’s heart flutter in his chest.
In the main residence, they have to walk down a long, narrow staircase until they reach what Lan Wangji suspects is the basement, except then Wei Wuxian proclaims it to be his own quarters, makes a joke about slaughtering demons, and promptly leaves him alone in order to “look up some stuff”. Lan Wangji, left to his own devices, spends some time decidedly not looking at Wei Wuxian’s narrow bed, and instead inspects the bookshelves, tidies up some of the mess on the ground, and eventually wanders over to another part of the cave that is shrouded in darkness. As he gets closer, he realises that there is a man lying there, covered in talismans.
He recognises Wen Ning’s face. It appears that some of the stories about Wei Wuxian were true after all.
As he gets closer, Wen Ning stirs, struggling against his bounds but failing to break free off them. He sinks back onto the cot, face slack in sleep.
“I was hoping you could show me some musical techniques for him.” Wei Wuxian has walked over without his noticing, leaning against his back, his chin digging into Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “I can subdue him, but I can’t manage to calm him down. I sent you a letter asking for your help, and was told you had died. After that, everything else pretty much stopped mattering for a while.”
Lan Wangji raises an eyebrow in question; Wei Wuxian laughs ruefully. “What did you expect me to do! Jin Zixuan swore on all the realms that after saving him, the demon attacked you. He said you were just gone afterwards.”
He considers this. Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan have not told him much about what happened when they found him, only that they had heard reports of a demon and ran into him by chance once again. Evidently they told Jin Zixuan even less. Their rescue of Lan Wangji must have gone unnoticed by Jin Zixuan, who undoubtedly was occupied with defeating the demon at the time.
Jin Zixuan, from the sound of it, then took it upon himself to tell Wei Wuxian of Lan Wangji’s demise. Lan Wangji, annoyed with Jin Zixuan beyond belief, wonders if this is how Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin feel all the time.
“Well,” Wei Wuxian is saying, “you’re here now! What do you say, will you teach me Song of Clarity?”
Regret is weighing down every fibre of his soul. He shakes his head.
Wei Wuxian looks hurt, but only for a second, upset giving way to something more thoughtful. “You won’t? Because you don’t want to?”
He shakes his head again.
“Because you can’t?”
A nod.
“Do you need your voice? No, that’s ridiculous. I can figure this out. Is there something wrong with your hands? Your memory? Your guqin?”
Lan Wangji hesitates, then inclines his head.
“Okay! We can work with that. Is it broken? Did you lose it?” Wei Wuxian has stopped embracing Lan Wangji from behind, but that is a forgivable offense, because he is has taken his hand instead, their faces very close as he tries to read Lan Wangji’s face for every miniscule expression. “You didn’t lose it, but- oh. You left it somewhere! Can we go get it? No. Well, that’s alright!” He brightens and, acting so quickly that Lan Wangji’s heart is in danger of stopping, brings up Lan Wangji’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I’ll build you a new one. That’s one thing taken care of! And for that other thing, I need to check your qi really quick.”
Lan Wangji does not get the chance to protest, Wei Wuxian has already pressed two fingers to his wrist, his frown growing more pronounced with every second. “That’s weird,” he says. “I should be able to feel the curse by now.”
Lan Wangji averts his gaze. He has known, of course, what would happen. This entire day has been a series of entirely predictable events, and Lan Wangji, proving a previously unknown weakness of spirit, has not managed to prevent even one of them. It is too late now. Whatever happens next, he must endure it, knowing that it was his fault.
“No curse,” Wei Wuxian says, more to himself than anything else. “But it’s not a medical condition, either. I can sense that your voice is missing, but there isn’t a bit of residue resentment here. It’s like you weren’t cursed, your voice was just taken.” He withdraws his hand, taps his lips a couple of times, deep in thought, before his eyes refocus on Lan Wangji with renewed intensity. “Something did take your voice. Yes? Yes. I think I can find out what it is, given time, but what’s most important right now is getting your voice returned to you. Whoever took it will probably gladly give it back as soon as I’ve killed them.”
Lan Wangji grabs Wei Wuxian’s wrist without thinking, shaking his head.
“I’m a little confused now. Wait- this will be quicker if you just write it down. Here, you can use talisman paper.”
He takes the paper and the brush – and hesitates, thinking about how to best phrase it.
He hands it back a minute later, and Wei Wuxian reads it with an air of bewilderment.
What Lan Wangji has written is this:
Killing it will return my voice and result in your death.
“Lan Zhan! You don’t have faith in my abilities? How could you! Unless – how about if someone else killed it? Would they die, too?”
He had not thought it possible to feel such a terrible mixture of shame and misery. Whereas Wei Wuxian is nearly bouncing on his feet in excitement, always eager to solve a good mystery, Lan Wangji thinks viciously that Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan would have done better not rescuing him at all.
He has not shaken his head, but even that is answer enough. Wei Wuxian taps his lips again, saying, “So it’s just me? But how could I be part of it if I wasn’t even there?”
Lan Wangji does not know what face he has just made, but it’s enough to make Wei Wuxian’s eyes widen in shock.
“I was there? You must be mistaken. We haven’t even spoken since-“ He falls silent in the wake of Lan Wangji’s flinch. “Since the Xuanwu Cave,” he finishes. It no longer sounds triumphant, and Wei Wuxian no longer looks excited, just distressed. To his feet, dark shadows are beginning to pool, and when he next speaks, there is again a red glint to his eyes.
“I’m going to propose a theory. The theory is this: we were both injured, but my injury was worse. We might have made it anyway, but we were trapped in the cave, waiting for rescue that may never have come. I’ve heard stories about these caves. The Xuanwu wouldn’t have been the only danger. So when I was nearing death, something came out of the depths of those caves and offered you a deal – a deal that the honourable Hanguang-jun could not refuse, of course. Your voice for my life, easy as that. Am I getting close?”
Lan Wangji turns away, unsure where to go yet sure that there must be someplace he can go that’s not here. He is stopped by a wall of shadows that suddenly manifests itself right in front of him, a silent warning that he is not going anywhere without Wei Wuxian’s permission.
“I thought so.” Wei Wuxian’s smile is bitter. “And to think that you asked why I would bear a brand meant for someone else. One day you’re going to choke on your honour.”
He shakes his head, reaches for the talisman paper again, writes Not honour with shaking hands.
Wei Wuxian has been reading over his shoulder; now he laughs incredulously. “Not honour? What else is there?”
Love, Lan Wangji thinks.
He cannot say that, and he does not write it.
They are caught at an impasse, Wei Wuxian misunderstanding his intentions and Lan Wangji unwilling to explain. His exit is still blocked by shadows, and so he can do nothing now but wait for his judgement.
At last, Wei Wuxian sighs, the red in his eyes receding. “I’m going to the Xuanwu cave anyway. Don’t try to stand in my path. Someone dared lay a hand on you? We’ll see if some nice bit of torture is not going to change their mind on returning your voice after all.”
He holds up a hand; several talismans rearrange themselves to form a large circle. A snap of his fingers, and the air inside the circle starts shimmering. A portal, Lan Wangji thinks. No one has managed to create anything like this in centuries.
“Stay here,” Wei Wuxian commands him, and goes through the portal.
Just as it’s about to close back up, Lan Wangji steps through behind him.
They are back in the Xuanwu cave, and this time, there is no rescue party coming.
*
Being back here after two years is strange. Everything looks exactly the same. A deserted cave in the middle of nowhere, no one aware of its existence. There is a dark stain on the ground in one of the corners that Lan Wangji imagines is blood – his own or Wei Wuxian’s, it doesn’t matter.
Wei Wuxian has not said one word to him since they have emerged from the portal, has not even so much as looked at him. He is angry, that much is obvious. But, knowing where Wei Wuxian was headed, how could Lan Wangji have stayed behind?
They do not have to wait for long.
“Interesting,” the spirit says, just as it did two years ago. Its voice echoes in the cave for a moment, bodiless, before the spirit manifests itself as a blurry shape once again. “Have you come to make a new deal?”
Wei Wuxian is already gathering up resentment energy, so Lan Wangji has to move fast. He steps in front of Wei Wuxian, and nods.
“Lan Zhan! What-“
Lan Wangji performs the silence spell, cutting Wei Wuxian off mid-sentence. The spirit makes a noise akin to a laugh.
“Out of all the humans I’ve met, you have been the most entertaining. What’s this new deal, then?”
Lan Wangji stares at the spirit until they laugh again. “I almost forgot,” they say. “Will you let me in?” He has barely finished his nod before he fells a strange presence enter his mind. This must be similar to what possession feels like, he thinks, except that his body is still his own. It is only his thoughts that are shared now.
What’s the deal? the spirit repeats.
He is free to speak within the confines of his own mind, but there are also other ways of communication open to him now. He shows the spirit the memory of his earlier conversation with Wei Wuxian, Wei Wuxian’s insistence to return his voice, and then he shows them other instances of Wei Wuxian ruthlessly doing everything necessary to get what he wanted. Wei Wuxian is not going to let this go, and so, to protect him, even two years later Lan Wangji is still willing to do anything – even if it is for nothing but having the use of his voice returned to him. If that is what Wei Wuxian desires, Lan Wangji will try to achieve it.
Even by making another sacrifice?
Yes.
And what will you give me this time?
Lan Wangji does not have to think about it. He offers up the memory of the shrine he saw, his recollection of Jiang Cheng mentioning the existence of other shrines, and finally shares various instances of people complimenting his high cultivation.
Soon, the god they pray to will not be false. I am on the path of achieving immortality.
Spirits are already immortal, the spirit says, although they sound uncertain. You want to give me your immortality on top of that?
Lan Wangji says, I do not yet have immortality to give. I am giving you my potential.
He knows he has won even before the spirit says, Deal.
His mind is his own again, the spirit having withdrawn almost without his noticing. Lan Wangji blinks, realising that Wei Wuxian is frantically shaking him by the shoulders. “Lan Zhan? Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Lan Wangji says, his lips curving into a smile, and Wei Wuxian looks relieved and then shocked and then furious, all in the span of a split second.
“What did you do?” he demands. “What did they make you sacrifice for this?” He looks ready to start shaking him again. Somewhere at the other end of the cave, the spirit seems to give him a cheery wave before fading away. “Lan Zhan, what did you have to give up?”
Lan Wangji thinks about ascending to immortality, about living forever while knowing that Wei Wuxian cannot, about Wei Wuxian dying right in front of him and Lan Wangji letting it happen.
He also spares one brief thought for Baoshan Sanren, secluded on her mountain, Lan Yi nothing but a memory for her now. And he thinks of the pin that is still fastened in his hair, a gift that had been unable to reach its true recipient before it was too late.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian asks again, “what did you sacrifice?”
Lan Wangji kisses him.
Later, when Wei Wuxian asks once more what he gave up, Lan Wangji takes his hand and says, “Nothing.”