Chapter Text
The war is long.
It lasts for two years. In the winter, the Emperor’s guard camp in tents under snow. In the spring, the border forces from Lanling wear flowering buds in their braids instead of beaten gold. In the summer, the Qinghe reserve strip their arms bare so that their muscles shine beneath the burning sun as they fire swords and beat spears. In the fall, the tiny force from Yiling arrives out of the scarlet-red woods, headed by a man dressed all in black who carries no weapon.
Every season, Qishan hammers them. Until finally, after two full turns of the year, Wen Ruohan and his traitorous family fall to the Emperor’s combined forces.
As happens so often, the war ends with a wedding.
***
“It’s so lucky that Bixia is youthful – yet wise in years.” Jin Guangshan, dressed in the red robes of a Minister, hurries to qualify his statement. Now that the war is over the Jin are as flamboyant as ever; although his greying hair is tucked up beneath a futou, Lan Wangji can see traces of gold interwoven in his braids. There is a heavy jade ring on his thumb, and a smell of delicate Lanling plum blossom perfume to his silks. “Peace is always stronger when the victor may be brought into the palace.”
Behind Jin Guangshan several other ministers nod and bow, murmuring agreement at their colleague’s wise words. They’re standing in the cloister outside the Forbidden Palace’s largest hall, watching maids and eunuchs hurry here and there carrying red silk and carpets, low tables and crimson decorations.
Lan Wangji doesn’t waste his breath in pointing out that for almost a year after entering the war, the Yiling Patriarch was held in universal contempt. Although he rarely attended the battlefield himself, Lan Wangji has heard all the rumours. They say he kills only with his hands, that he lives for the thrill of feeling life extinguished beneath his fingertips, that his inner robes are dyed red with blood. “Convenient,” he had told his brother, Lan Xichen, when the marriage was set. “I will not have to pay the price of his wedding garments.”
Lan Xichen had scolded him for joking, but not very sternly. Even a brother does not dare to truly scold the Emperor.
Still. In the end, it had been the Yiling Patriarch’s stratagems and his fierce fighting which had turned the tide of the war. He had killed both Wen Ruohan’s sons, and floored the traitor so that Meng Yao could strike the final blow. His status as the strongest warrior on the field had been undeniable.
Thus, the offer extended to him by the Lan court. Take his place as the Emperor’s consort, the only one permitted to lay hands upon the Emperor, the only one to share his bed with him while he sleeps, unaware and vulnerable. His last, best line of defense. The tradition is timeless. In peaceful eras, warriors and warrior maidens vie through competition for the title. In times of war, the process is necessarily simpler.
Lan Wangji has seen his consort-to-be only once. He wonders whether the fearsome Yiling Patriarch, his lank hair twisted and knotted, his face smeared across with a stripe of blood like some sort of tribal hunter, his clothes heavy homespun, remembers him. Lan Wangji had cut down his fair share of enemies on the field that day. But Lan Wangji is not permitted to remain without a consort on the basis of his own skill. And he is not permitted to refuse a consort on the basis that the man is an animal, untamed, uncouth.
So he watches the preparations for his wedding, and says nothing, and shows even less.
***
The first time he will see the Yiling Patriarch is when his consort-to-be is escorted into the Hall of Supreme Harmony for the ceremony. They will serve tea to their families, they will give each other gifts, they will perform their bows. And then there will be a banquet, thrown for him by the Lanling Jin which can only mean there will be wine and dancing girls and music. All things Lan Wangji abstains from, not just out of war-time austerity but his family’s teachings. Lan Xichen convinced him to allow it out of consideration for their allies, who have just come through a gruelling two years into what is hopefully a time of peace and plenty.
Lan Xichen accompanies Lan Wangji to the palace’s treasure-house, a squat, windowless storehouse which is always flanked by armed guards. “What am I to give a barbarian?” he asks, looking at the rows of shelves holding gold and silver, pearls and gems, silks and rare weapons.
“His style on the battlefield is brutal,” agrees Lan Xichen. “But he is clearly well-educated. In my meetings with him he has been thoughtful, and erudite.”
“He wore a twig as a hairpin,” replies Lan Wangji.
Lan Xichen smiles. “The needs of the battlefield are rough, Bixia. And not all men are so blessed by Heaven as to have jade and precious metals at their command.” His eyes flicker to Lan Wangji’s guan, today an elegant wrought silver cover for his hair.
They walk up and down the rows of treasures. Lan Wangji opens a box here, a chest there. He looks at a copper hand-mirror with mother-of-pearl inlaid lacquer behind it. At a steel sword engraved with a delicate seal-script poem down the centre of the shaft. At a gold and sapphire-studded guan. They all seem impossibly lavish for the man he once saw, his eyes burning like a bonfire, every line of his body radiating raw animal threat.
He finally comes to a flat rosewood box lined with crimson silk. Inside is a set of six gold double-pronged hairpins, the head of each in the shape of a flaming phoenix, their eyes rubies. The craftmanship is exquisite, the birds so lifelike that they seem only a moment away from taking flight in his hands. He closes the box and nods to Lan Xichen, who lifts it. “Excellent choice, Bixia,” he says.
***
The wedding is also serving to celebrate the end of the war, and as such the attendees are not just Lan Wangji’s many ministers of state, but the more senior soldiers who served as well as high-ranking family members. The Hall’s immense courtyard is full of guests; only the most lauded of his advisors have been able to secure their places within the Hall itself to see the Emperor welcome his new fearsome consort to the palace.
Lan Wangji doesn’t fear the Yiling Patriarch. However strong his skills on the battlefield, Lan Wangji is certain of the strength of his own arm and his skill with the sword. Moreover, given what he has seen he is certain that in the palace, all court intrigues and subtle communication, there will be no contest between the two of them. Once married his consort will be relegated to his place in the rear palace, nothing more than an – admittedly hairy – decoration of the crown.
Today, instead of his usual rich cerulean robes pebbled with pearls and shining with silver thread, he is wearing red and gold. The colour of his robes is the rich, deep crimson of the heart of a pomegranate, the gold in his hair and woven through his clothes bright as the sun. The pattern is one of dragons dancing around his body, twining regally over his chest, slipping past his strong thigh, up the broad line of his shoulder. His belt is gold studded with rubies.
Although the palace purchased and provided his consort with his robes, Lan Wangji has not seen them. They will be fine, he knows, finery wasted on a ruffian. With the robes have gone a whole train of other gifts – bushels of rice, horses and forage, leatherwork, crude and fine silks, winter vegetables, taels of silver. Practical gifts rather than ostentatious ones, for the Yiling Patriarch’s poor hapless followers. It feels all of a piece with this man that he brought no dowry with him, no bride wealth for the Emperor. Most consorts would have requested gold and jewels.
He sits on his dragon throne now, Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren beside him, awaiting his consort. Outside the sun is high in the pale winter sky, the shadows in the courtyard stark. He watches the Prosperous Gate at the far end of the courtyard open, watches the bridal party pass through. His consort is dressed all in red, a crimson umbrella overhead to shade him from sun and snow. His courtiers are dressed in Yiling black; there are only four of them. On either side an honour guard walks, tall in their bottle-green uniforms, swords at their hips.
His consort-to-be crosses the long expanse of the courtyard, then reaches the stairs. He lifts his long, red robes and climbs step-by-step, his movements surprisingly graceful. When he reaches the top he pauses for Lan Wangji’s chief eunuch to announce him in a loud nasal tone. “The Patriarch of Yiling, Wei Wuxian!”
Wei Wuxian is tall and slender, even in his heavy robes. They are patterned with phoenixes, their colours not just gold on a field of red but tipped with blue, green, purple – bright, dazzling colours. His hair is immaculately coiffed, raven-dark locks swept silkily up and pinned atop his head with an elaborate golden guan. That, too, must have been part of the wedding gifts, for he wears no other ornaments, no additional hair pins or earrings, no rings or bracelets. His face is covered from the cheeks down with a red veil. His eyes are wide and ink-dark, his lashes thick, a soft pinkish red brightening them at the edges. Phoenix eyes.
He raises his hands in salute, and gets down on his knees. “Long live the Emperor.” He kowtows smoothly, with a ripple of silk. His voice is low but firm, and surprisingly sweet in tone.
“Rise,” says Lan Wangji, staring at this vision. But then, he should not be surprised. Wei Wuxian has the services of the best dressers, the best stylists in the capital today. Even he, uncouth ruffian that he is, could presumably look at least acceptable in a fortune of silk and gold.
Wei Wuxian steps softly forward. He walks like a soldier, like a man trained to the sword, each movement smooth and confident. That, at least, is good. Lan Wangji’s purpose, after all, is to marry the one best-able to ensure the safety of the Emperor. Even if he maintains that one is in fact himself.
“Bixia,” murmurs Wei Wuxian, casting his eyes down as he approaches the throne. Lan Wangji can see just how wide those eyes are, the lashes artificially darkened, the touches of soft red pigment at the corners pleasingly sensual. Lan Wangji abruptly has a mad yearning to see the rest of this man’s face, to understand how this lithesome beauty in red can be the same person he saw a year ago on the battlefield, smeared in blood.
“You are welcome in this palace,” says Lan Wangji, after Lan Xichen pointedly glances at him. He can’t stop staring. The closer Wei Wuxian comes, the more it would seem that his beauty, his poise, is not something merely manufactured by the capital’s stylists.
“Thank you, Bixia.” Wei Wuxian looks to the side, at a petite woman in black standing there, blank-faced. Her eyebrows twitch, and he looks back to the floor in front of Lan Wangji’s feet. “This one is pleased to serve you.”
“Mn.” He stands. “Wei Wuxian, the Yiling Patriarch, has arrived to take the place of my consort. The ceremony will begin.”
“Long live Bixia!” crow the attendants, as servants come in bearing Lan Wangji’s gift to his consort. He steps down off his dais and approaches the man. Lan Wangji is the taller but not by much. Wei Wuxian doesn’t look him in the eye, glancing downwards instead with frankly unexpected modesty. Lan Wangji waves an arm and the rosewood box is presented, being opened by his servant. Wei Wuxian glances inside, his eyes flickering. This close Lan Wangji can see that while dark inside the shaded Hall, they are grey like moonsilver, a subtle colouring.
“They are beautiful,” murmurs Wei Wuxian, reaching out to touch one of the hairpins. His hand, where it extends from the long silken reach of his sleeve, is fine and narrow, his fingers thin. There are a few pale, white scars, but no sign of callouses or wear. Strange hands for a soldier. “Thank you, Bixia.” He removes his hand, slipping it back inside the cover of his sleeve, fingertips just barely visible through the sheer silk like minnows slinking in the shade. He glances at the petite woman he is with. She steps forward and opens a small box with an intricate design of a dragon on top it. The box alone is beautiful, must have been fashioned by a master. Inside lie two rice paper scrolls tied with rich purple ribbon the colour of summer plums.
Lan Wangji reaches out and picks one up. The paper is finest Qinghe make, butter-smooth beneath his fingers. The black characters crossing the pages are masterful calligraphy, the lines flowing fluidly as a fish swims. It’s a collection of poetry, beautifully copied and unknown to Lan Wangji. The first few poems he reads are deceptively simple, evoking scenes of wintry sparseness and a single blooming flower.
“A worthy gift,” intones Lan Wangji, who in fact is taken aback by this choice of an offering. He would have expected something both more ostentatious and cruder – a ceremonial weapon, perhaps, or a bronze statue cast in thick lines.
Wei Wuxian bows. The scrolls and hairpins are carried away, to be placed in their bed chamber. Lan Wangji finds that he wants to read more, is interested to see exactly what poetry his consort prefers, or thinks that he himself would read.
He summons his family, led by Lan Qiren, and the servants shuffle up with ceramic long-necked tea urns and shallow cups. Lan Wangji allowed only his near relatives, but there are still almost a dozen of them all perfectly turned out in Lan blue. Most are older but a few are of his generation – his brother for one, Su Minshan for another. Beside Wei Wuxian, the four people who accompanied him – who Lan Wangji had taken for servants, or courtiers – line up. The slight woman and a taller, heavy-footed young man. An old woman, and an old man. Their black clothes are barely passable, certainly not fine enough for a royal wedding. The two old folks look cowed, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, as does the young man. The young woman’s face is severe and stony.
Wei Wuxian pulls his long, trailing sleeve embroidered with the fan of a phoenix’s tail away from his wrist, and picks up the celadon tea pot offered to him. Slowly, one by one, he pours tea for Lan Wangji’s relatives. Most smile at him; Lan Qiren does not.
Taizi must always remember why his father named him the Crown Prince, Lan Qiren was fond of telling him, back in the days when he had been tutor and instructor both. Bixia loves both his sons, but of them Taizi is the one least likely to follow in Bixia’s footsteps. Even then, it had been impossible to criticize the Emperor, but Lan Wangji had understood the lesson. Do not make the same mistakes as your father.
Once Wei Wuxian is finished pouring tea, his relatives are provided with cups and Lan Wangji goes through the act of serving them. He has heard of emperors in the past who appointed a servant to stand-in for him and pour tea, deeming the act beneath them. He has even heard of those who refused the tradition at all.
For better or for worse, Wei Wuxian will be his consort. Whatever his thoughts on the man, he will not start out their marriage by insulting his relatives. He pours the tea.
And then, abruptly, the tea pot is whisked from his hands and all that’s left is to do their bows. He turns to look at Wei Wuxian. Those bright eyes flick up to him, then drop again. There’s a tiny hint of movement beneath the veil; Lan Wangji can’t be certain, but he thinks the man is biting his lip.
Lan Wangji extends his hand, palm up. Wei Wuxian looks down to it, then slowly reaches out to place his own atop it. His skin is dry, warm, his touch light as a butterfly alighting. Lan Wangji feels a shiver run down his spine, the speed of it like a strike of lightning. Wei Wuxian’s watching him now, above the mask of his veil. They kneel together, wordless but in some strange kind of harmony.
First bow: To your ancestors.
Second bow: To your family.
Third bow: To each other.
They rise. He takes Wei Wuxian’s hand again, and turns to face the room and the wide courtyard beyond. The courtiers bow as one, a ripple of red and blue silk.
“Congratulations, Bixia! Congratulations, Guifei!”
Lan Wangji looks to the side, where Wei Wuxian is staring out at the hundreds of guests bowing to them, his eyes wide.
Lan Wangji still hasn’t even seen his face.
***
The feast passes in a whirl of sound and colour.
Lan Wangji has little appetite for the sumptuous dishes that are presented, one after another, for him and his new consort. He barely samples the rich glazed meats, the crisp vegetables, the rare fruits and berries brought to him from thousands of li distant for his wedding banquet. Wei Wuxian, he notices, eats little more. He keeps his veil on like a shield, now and then tucking a bite beneath it with his chopsticks, nibbling like a rabbit. He moves his head very little, and Lan Wangji can’t help but think that he must be struggling beneath the weight of the ceremonial guan; it likely weighs as much as a brick. As the evening goes by his posture begins to suffer, shoulders curling inwards, bending forward under the oppressive pull of his robes. His eyes grow slowly narrow, edges lined.
Lan Wangji feels these things too, of course, but he makes no sign of it. He has spent his life in court garb, is used to the heavy, stifling weight of many layers heavily embroidered with intricate designs, embossed with gems and pearls. It is amusing, almost, to think of such things as being too heavy for his consort, the kingdom’s strongest warrior.
Still, when he sees Wei Wuxian tilt his head and wince at the way the guan pulls, reaching up to gently rub at his temple, he decides they have suffered enough. The rest of the court can enjoy the dancing girls and the fine wine; there’s no reason for them to continue to endure the feast.
He rises, and abruptly all conversation and song ceases. Wordlessly, he extends his hand to Wei Wuxian. The man gets to his feet a little clumsily, buried in a sea of red silk, before allowing his hand to be taken. Lan Wangji leads him from the palace, out the long hall of dark tile so polished it mirrors the painted ceiling, down the steps and along the covered passageway to his own personal hall, the Black Pine Hall.
Inside, the room is decorated in red for the wedding. Red silks, red lanterns, red carpets and linens. The bed is covered in red sheets, with lucky red paper mottoes hanging from the ceiling. Both their gift boxes are there, propped open on a low table in display.
The door closes behind them, and Wei Wuxian sighs. “Fucking finally,” he says, slumping.
Lan Wangji looks at him, eyebrow rising. “Excuse me?”
Wei Wuxian looks back, then gives a tiny shrug. “This one begs your pardon,” he says, not sounding particularly apologetic.
“I think,” says Lan Wangji, a little frostily, “I would like to see the man I have married.”
Wei Wuxian blinks those phoenix eyes at him, then reaches up and pulls the veil free. Lan Wangji catches his breath, has for once in his life to work at holding himself still.
Wei Wuxian, the Yiling Patriarch, is beautiful. His face is lean, sharp, with high cheekbones and a clean-cut chin. His skin is smooth, even, a little tanned from a year on the battlefield. There is a touch of blush on his cheeks, and red rouge on his lush lips giving him a look of coy appeal. He could easily be a village beauty, even a beauty here in the capital. There is nothing raw, nothing ugly or uncouth about him.
With the veil gone, Wei Wuxian reaches up and begins to unpin the guan from his head, the pins long as the flat of his hand. When he finally lifts it off he gives another sigh; his dark hair comes tumbling down in a river, slipping softly over his shoulders and back. It is clean and sleek as a minx’s sable fur, with an auburn sheen in the warm flickering lanternlight. He puts the guan down on a table and straightens, burying his fingers in his hair and scratching roughly at his scalp. “Gods above, I’m not wearing that again. Bixia must have a head made of porcelain to take it.”
Even in the camps, battle on their doorstep, Lan Wangji has never been addressed with such informality.
“You are,” he begins, and pauses. Irreverent? Ill-behaved? He was raised to know that many relationships require complete respect – subordinate to superior, subject to ruler, husband to wife. Wei Wuxian, as his consort, is deserving of respect.
The man blinks up at him. “Wei Wuxian. Wei Ying. That’s me. Did Bixia forget?”
Lan Wangji feels a muscle twitch in his cheek. “I did not,” he says. “Your manner is… different, now.”
“Well, sure. Because Wen Qing isn’t here to throttle me for misbehaving. The wedding was something of a serious event. Actually, the most serious event possible. But now it’s over, and we’re married. And of course I know Bixia could decide to behead me or banish me or whatever he may choose, but probably not right away. So if it’s all the same to your royal majesty, I’d rather be comfortable.”
There are so many problems with this statement that Lan Wangji doesn’t know where to begin. “Wen Qing?” he says, picking one question out of the pack.
Wei Wuxian is standing now, stripping off the outermost of his belts, a heavy golden embellishment with a clasp like a fish’s mouth. As he pulls it free it slips out of his right hand, falling with a heavy clunk to the floor. He curses and scoops it up to place it carefully beside the guan, then shimmies out of the heavy outer layer replete with embroidery. Beneath it is a semi-sheer under-layer with patterns of gold flowers – lotus flowers – that sits above a matte red layer and serves to highlight the narrowness of his waist, the delicate slant of his shoulders. Lan Wangji can’t help but trace the lines of his body. He wonders what that slick silk feels like to one who has spent years wearing homespun. He wonders if Wei Wuxian let it slide over his body, sleekly, if he luxuriated in its embrace. He blinks as he realises Wei Wuxian is speaking again.
“Sure. Bixia poured tea for her. She’s my right hand. She’s in charge in Yiling, now that I’m here.”
Lan Wangji frowns. “She is not a relative?”
“Not by blood, at least, although after what we’ve been through I don’t think we could be closer. No. My parents are dead. I was raised by the Yunmeng Jiang.”
The Jiang, whose mass destruction by Wen was one of the catalysts of the war.
“I am sorry,” he says.
Wei Wuxian shakes his head. “There were some survivors, but we went different ways. It’s not important, now. I ended up with Wen Qing and Wen Ning – Wen remnants unaffiliated with the main branch, trained to medicine rather than combat. We lived in Yiling, until we couldn’t ignore the war anymore. I became the face of our force, but Wen Qing has always been the brains of the operation, the one holding everything together. She’ll keep it running, now. That’s what matters.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, silk rustling, the translucent fabric gleaming like light on water’s surface. Lan Wangji can’t help but trace the collar of his robe, where it parts to give a peek of smooth skin, the way it lies supple over his fine collarbones like a caress. Here in the low light, his lips painted and his eyes so large, he looks seductive even without meaning it. Looks like a gift to be unwrapped. Lan Wangji swallows.
Do not make the same mistakes as your father.
“To be the consort of the Emperor does not matter?” he asks.
Wei Wuxian looks up at him from beneath impossibly dark lashes. “That feels like a trick question,” he says. “Without Bixia’s armies and the armies of his allies, the Wen could not have been defeated. Peace could not exist. To protect peace for all is the most important thing. So does that make protecting Bixia the most important thing?” his eyes twinkle with merriment, a kind of unspoken laughter that intrigues Lan Wangji despite himself. His servants, his courtiers, his eunuchs greet him with smiles and thankfulness everyday. But he has never seen this silent, shining laughter. “Perhaps. At least, if I’m to spend my life protecting our most royal majesty, I can appreciate the fact that Bixia is unparalleled in terms of appearance, grace, voice, presence, tal –”
“Enough,” says Lan Wangji, sharply. That sparkling, silent laughter comes again. Wei Wuxian is mocking him, going further in one day that Lan Xichen has ever dared to since he was named Taizi. “You forget yourself. You are not here to mock, or to jest.”
Instantly, the laughter is gone. Wei Wuxian rises and holds his hands out in a salute. “Bixia may have what he wishes,” he says, his voice suddenly, strangely flat. “My silence, my loyalty, my body.” He reaches for the slim sash at his waist, looking inquisitively at Lan Wangji.
To see if he will insist on a first bedding, that they consummate this marriage tonight.
It is expected of him, certainly. But Wei Wuxian is not here to bear him children – he has the rear palace and a bevy of concubines for that. Wei Wuxian is here to stay beside him, walk beside him, sleep beside him, to give his life to save the Emperor from death if required. There is need for loyalty, yes, but not love.
Love was his father’s mistake.
“No need,” says Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian’s hands pause, fingers tangled in the silk knot. “Your loyalty is required. Your silence is… preferred. Your body is not necessary.”
“I see,” says Wei Wuxian, quietly.
Lan Wangji rounds the far side of the bed. He sits and quickly, efficiently pulls out the pins securing his own intricately fashioned guan, beads and golden ornaments tinkling. He places it on a table, then removes two of his outer layers, leaving him in a thick, matte red under-robe. “I will sleep,” he says. “You may extinguish the lights when you come to bed.”
Wei Wuxian makes no answer to that.
Lan Wangji closes his eyes, and sleeps.