Archive of Our Own

Lan Xichen, despite the severity of his errors of judgment over the course of his life, is not a complete fool. He has been blind, yes; willfully so, at times, he will admit; has let love and optimism close his mind to potential negative consequences—yes, he will admit that too.

But when Nie Huaisang falls off his horse and snaps his neck not three months after having come to Lan Xichen with his suspicions that Jin Guangyao had knowingly and maliciously contributed to the death of his older brother, not even Lan Xichen can pretend he does not know what has happened.

He had meant nothing but good, he pleads to Nie Huaisang’s memorial tablet every night for the next month. He had done as Nie Huaisang asked, at first, had investigated quietly. Nie Huaisang had sketched out the shape of the interjected bars of music, and Lan Xichen had taken the scrap of paper down to the Room of Forbidden Books and looked through every score on those dusty shelves.

He had found the Collection of Spirit Turmoil with its missing page, and had soundlessly plucked the air above his guqin strings to test how well the interpolated section would fit into the space left behind.

But even then, he couldn’t, wouldn’t believe that Jin Guangyao had been malicious. So Lan Xichen had taken the book and Nie Huaisang’s accusations, and laid them before Jin Guangyao, and asked for an explanation.

Jin Guangyao had taken in the evidence, his eyes slowly widening in horror, and then filling with tears of regret. He had dropped to his knees in front of Lan Xichen, and later into a full kowtow before Nie Huaisang, weeping with self-directed rage and deep, deep sorrow. He explained that yes, he had been in the Room of Forbidden Books, and seen the missing page from the Collection of Spirit Turmoil, and had wanted to test his composition skills by attempting to craft a section of music that would fill the gap; an idle curiosity, he insisted, that must have accidentally become tangled in his mind with Cleansing, which he had learned from Lan Xichen himself around the same time.

Jin Guangyao had wept, and pressed his forehead to the floor before Nie Huaisang, and offered the boy whatever restitution he could make with his wretched life. Nie Huaisang had taken in the sight of them, Jin Guangyao on the floor and Lan Xichen standing beside him, and through his own tears had merely expressed relief that it had indeed been a terrible accident, and not malice on the part of Jin Guangyao.

“Never,” Jin Guangyao had sworn, three fingers pressed together. “Da-ge and I had our differences, but I would never wish to harm him, or you, Huaisang. I know what his loss has done to you, and this humble san-ge would never wish to cause you such pain. That I have will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

Jin Guangyao had insisted on making restitution. Nie Huaisang had babbled something about his aid in running the clan being restitution enough, and then been pulled out of the conversation by a red-faced Nie Zonghui bursting in with news of a small fire in the stables.

And then, nine and a half weeks later, Nie Huaisang’s horse had bucked at a snake in the road, sending its rider tumbling to his death.

The nearest Nie cousin by blood is four years old at the time of Nie Huaisang’s death, and the Qinghe-Nie Clan passes instead into the hands of Nie Zonghui, on the grounds that he had served as the right hand to the previous two family heads: he knew the job, and he was only a notch or two down from the toddler in terms of bloodline.

He had bowed to both of them, Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao, at Nie Huaisang’s funeral, in acknowledgement of their appearance thereat, and never spoken another word to either of them that was not required.

Lan Xichen cannot blame him. He doesn’t sleep for a month after the funeral, and when he finally does, it’s more of a bodily collapse than falling asleep.

It cost two lives, two friends he once held dear as family, but Lan Xichen is not a complete fool, and his eyes have at last been opened.

Only they have been opened too late to do anything about what he now sees.

There’s no proof, aside from what Nie Huaisang brought to him, which Lan Xichen had promptly and thoroughly spoiled for use. A grieving Nie disciple had put a sword through the snake that was Nie Huaisang’s downfall, and the horse had broken its leg in the fall and had to be put down. Lan Xichen had discreetly arranged for the chance to examine the corpses of both animals, but had found no signs of foul play in either.

He could go to Jin Guangshan. Jin Guangyao has already crafted a cover story for Nie Mingjue’s murder, but his father hates him enough that Lan Xichen could push through a punishment regardless. Jin Guangshan sometimes seems to be waiting for someone to hand him an excuse to exile Jin Guangyao; he might even have the man executed, if the excuse were strong enough.

But Lan Xichen cannot bring himself to stoop to such methods. It would not be true justice for the Nie brothers, he tells himself; whatever Jin Guangshan did to his son would be primarily for his own benefit, only thinly wrapped in concern for the dead. And even Nie Huaisang had not gone to Jin Guangshan, even though he must have come to the same conclusions as Lan Xichen about the likelihood of success; so Lan Xichen tells himself that he would understand. That he will understand, if and when they meet again in the next life, why Lan Xichen settles down to wait for another infraction, one he can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, to bring justice for his murder.

When Jin Guangshan sickens and dies a year later, with every outward indication of it being from natural, if perverse, causes, Lan Xichen begins to realize that it may be a very long wait indeed. He doesn’t mind as much as he would have thought. He knows himself to be a coward now, and whatever motivation he may have once had to rectify that has shriveled up and left him, somewhere along the line.

It is around the time of Jin Guangshan’s death that the cultivators who dedicate their lives to studying Mount Tonglu say that the mountain will open again soon; that the great battle of the ghosts that only occurs every few centuries will begin within the next six weeks.

Lan Xichen wonders privately why the cultivators who dedicate their lives to studying Mount Tonglu could not have given them slightly more warning. Several others wonder the same, significantly more vociferously than Lan Xichen.

Nonetheless, the cultivation world gathers together a group of volunteers, and they go and slaughter as many ghosts as they can, in hopes of impeding or preventing the birth of a new Ghost King.

Lan Xichen is among the volunteers, as is Jin Guangyao. The group is larger than Lan Xichen expects; the reason why becomes clear to him when he hears several cultivators muttering together about the likelihood of encountering the Yiling Laozu’s ghost at the mountain, and who will be lucky enough to slay him for the second time.

Lan Xichen feels a moment’s gratitude that Lan Wangji is still too weak to have volunteered.

Mount Tonglu is open for several weeks. Many cultivators claim to have exterminated the ghost of Wei Wuxian in that time, but no claims are substantiated, and the Kiln closes with no proof that the Yiling Laozu even entered the region, let alone took part in the slaughter. The volunteers grumble and clap each other’s backs and return home with a few new scars and many new tales of victory.

Lan Xichen watches Jin Guangyao as closely as he can; but his sworn brother behaves himself. No one here has made themselves his enemy, and so no one dies under scrupulously unsuspicious circumstances.

Fifteen years pass, while Lan Xichen waits for Jin Guangyao to commit an atrocity he can prove. Ironically, the Yiling Laozu does return, resurrected into the body of a suicidally desperate young man eleven years after the death of Nie Huaisang, but he keeps such a low profile that no one outside of Gusu knows of it for another eighteen months. When asked about the slaughter at Mount Tonglu by one of the cultivators who had volunteered at its opening, his only response is to cry, “Damn it, I missed it?! Lan Zhan, we have to cultivate to immortality; I’ve wanted to see the Kiln open my whole life! I can’t believe I died and missed it!” He then pulls a face at the asker and laughs when the man blanches.

Eighteen years after the death of Nie Mingjue, and seventeen after Lan Xichen’s faith in his fellow man was laid to rest in the same coffin as Nie Huaisang, the cultivators who dedicate their lives to studying Mount Tonglu rush as one into Jinlintai and report that the Kiln is quite probably going to erupt any day now; that whatever ghost is left standing inside its volcano is gearing up to make its attempt to break free. Wei Wuxian, who is occasionally brought in for consultation by the cultivators who dedicate their lives to studying Mount Tonglu, reports the odds of the final spirit successfully breaking free as being “pretty fucking high.”

Another volunteer group is dispatched to try and catch the new Ghost King on its way out of the Kiln. The theory—or rather the desperate hope—is that the ghost will be severely disoriented in its first moments out in the open air, allowing for a lucky sword or talisman or bell to catch it unawares and snuff it out.

The theory goes untested: they miss the eruption by minutes.

Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao ride their swords at the head of the group, and hear the eruption as they hurtle over a copse of trees; they exchange a glance and fly higher.

“Too much interference!” Jin Guangyao calls over the roar of the mountain. He’s holding a talisman, a recent invention of Wei Wuxian’s that should alert them to the presence of strong ghost energy; however, the overpowering evil aura of the mountain is too much for it, and it burns up between his fingers as Lan Xichen watches.

“Split up!” Lan Xichen calls. Jin Guangyao nods sharply and gestures; half of the group follows him to the north, the other half going south alongside Lan Xichen.

The two of them had given the rest of the group very strict instructions: should splitting up become necessary, they must always, always keep at least two other people in their line of sight. They’re hunting a Supreme-level ghost, a future Calamity; it would be very dangerous indeed to be alone on such a Night Hunt.

His group spreads out, covering as much ground south of the mountain as they can while maintaining the prescribed density in the air. Lan Xichen leads by example; he swivels his gaze between the ground and his fellow cultivators, making sure there are always at least half a dozen who can see him as he, too, scours the ground for signs of the ghost, until the moment he looks up and there is only one other cultivator in view, much closer to him than he remembers anyone being.

“To the ground!” Lan Xichen hollers immediately. The other figure, balancing on an unfamiliar sword, their hair bound up in a hood to keep from tangling in the wind, looks around them, nods sharply, and follows him down to a clearing below.

Lan Xichen deliberates for a moment on whether to send up a flare—it will let the other cultivators know where he is, but if the ghost is nearby, it will see it too—and in the end decides to hold off for the moment, until he knows more about what has happened. It’s too likely that this is some sort of trick, of the ghost or the mountain, to act rashly.

Lan Xichen pulls out another of Wei Wuxian’s talismans; this one too burns almost instantly to ash. He grits his teeth in frustration and spins in place, as though expecting a clue to descend from the trees.

 As he spirals both physically and emotionally, the other cultivator hops off his sword. “Er-ge, who are you looking for?” the cultivator asks, shaking the hood back from his braided hair.

Lan Xichen opens his mouth to answer. Then, slowly, he closes it again, and turns to face the other cultivator in the clearing.

Nie Huaisang folds the hood over his arm, blinking owlishly up at Lan Xichen. The look on his face is so familiar, even after almost two decades: blank concern with a tinge of panic, like he’s in over his head and in need of someone to rescue him.

He’d worn that expression a lot, in his last few months of life.

It occurs to Lan Xichen after a minute that perhaps he ought to doubt that this really is Nie Huaisang—only moments ago he was on guard for some ghostly trickery, after all—but he cannot find it in him to doubt that the man, the ghost, standing before him, is the genuine article.

The new Ghost King is Nie Huaisang. Nie Huaisang is the new Ghost King. Nie Huaisang has broken out of the Kiln of Mount Tonglu in possession of what must be incredible power, and he is standing here in this clearing with Lan Xichen, and there is no one else around.

Some of his sudden fear must show on his face, or perhaps it’s in his scent; either way, a moment after the terrifying realization that there is no way to save himself from this Ghost King’s wrath, Nie Huaisang’s expression of dim overwhelm cracks, and his face rearranges to show a type of smile that Lan Xichen has never seen on him before.

“There it is,” he murmurs, and inhales deeply, like Lan Xichen is a new, fragrant type of tea. “Oh, it’s as delicious as I dreamed.”

Lan Xichen wets his lips, swallows, and rasps, “Huaisang...”

“Shhh,” Nie Huaisang says soothingly, stepping forward and taking Lan Xichen’s hand. “I’m not going to hurt you, er-ge; how could you think that?”

“The others?”

“They’re just fine,” Nie Huaisang says reassuringly. He even gives Lan Xichen’s hand a little pat. “Everyone else is only distracted by a little maze array. No harm done, and they’ll be free in a few moments. I only wanted a private word with you, away from prying ears.”

He smiles, bright and winning. Lan Xichen’s stomach drops.

Nie Huaisang notices, and chuckles. The sound is friendly, charming, and sets all of Lan Xichen’s nerves on edge. “Silly er-ge,” he says fondly, still clasping his hand. “I only wanted to thank you.”

Lan Xichen can’t physically startle, he’s too afraid, but the words surprise him. “Thank me?”

Nie Huaisang nods, seemingly in earnest. “You’ve done so much for me, er-ge. I wanted to thank you, and to invite you to tea.”

Lan Xichen wets his throat and echoes him again. “Tea?”

“Mhm! How about next week?” Nie Huaisang says brightly. “A week from today, in that little teahouse in Caiyi Town, you know the one.”

Lan Xichen does know the one. Nearly two decades, and he can no longer remember what Nie Mingjue’s laugh sounded like, but he still remembers Nie Huaisang’s favorite teahouse.

“Very well,” he makes himself say. “I will be there.”

Nie Huaisang smiles, looking sincere and pleased. “Thank you, er-ge,” he says. “You’ve always been so accommodating.”

While this faint praise echoes in Lan Xichen’s ears, Nie Huaisang places his free hand on Lan Xichen’s cheek, pushes up onto his toes, and presses a soft kiss to his mouth. Lan Xichen blinks, and Nie Huaisang is gone, and Lan Xichen can hear the sounds of panicking cultivators on the wind.

It takes a long time to calm everyone down and explain that the new Ghost King has come and gone, and that there is no point in them remaining or continuing to hunt for it, and that the safest thing to do now is return home and try to avoid giving offense.

Lan Xichen feels Jin Guangyao’s eyes on him during the whole process of shepherding the cultivators home. Several of their fellow volunteers ask if he saw the ghost; it is against his clan’s precepts to lie, and Jin Guangyao has known him long enough to recognize the circumlocutions Lan Xichen employs to avoid doing so.

It takes four days to get everyone safely back to their homes. On the fifth day, two days before Lan Xichen has agreed to meet Nie Huaisang, he finally lets Jin Guangyao get him alone before he, too, returns home to Lanling.

Jin Guangyao pours Lan Xichen tea, fussing over it with the same deference and respect he has always shown to Lan Xichen, and allows him to take a fortifying sip before speaking. “Er-ge, forgive me for asking what others have already asked, but you saw the Supreme-level ghost, did you not?” He watches Lan Xichen’s face anxiously.

Lan Xichen has gone back and forth, over the past several days, but in the end has decided to be honest with Jin Guangyao, if only to see what his reaction will be. He takes another swallow of tea and nods. “I did. I hope A-Yao will forgive me for not speaking of it sooner, but I could not be sure of being without eavesdroppers until now.”

“Of course, of course,” Jin Guangyao says immediately. He leans forward just a hair, in his interest. “But, er-ge, if you felt you could not let what you saw be overheard by others, could it be that the new Ghost King is someone we knew?”

Lan Xichen nods gravely. “A-Yao...I hardly know how to begin.” It isn’t a pretense, or not entirely. Now that he is sitting opposite Jin Guangyao, the reality of having stood opposite Nie Huaisang, of Nie Huaisang’s cool hand in his, his cool mouth on Lan Xichen’s lips, seems to fade. “I fear you will not believe me.”

Jin Guangyao’s expression becomes even more sympathetic. He says nothing, but reaches over and lays a hand comfortingly on Lan Xichen’s arm.

Lan Xichen says, “A-Yao, it was Huaisang.”

There was once a time when Lan Xichen treasured beyond gold the moments when he could be sure that there was no trace of a mask on Jin Guangyao’s face, the moments when he knew he was seeing the true, unfiltered man. Even as besotted as he was, Lan Xichen had known that Jin Guangyao had a mask for every situation. Lan Xichen had fancied himself, back then, the only one his A-Yao had ever allowed himself to be truly open with. At the time, it had felt like an honor.

It no longer does, now. Now it feels more like confirmation that Lan Xichen is useless, not even worthy of performance.

There’s a moment of blank shock, a few heartbeats of entirely readable surprise and horror, clearer than any expression Lan Xichen has ever seen on his sworn brother’s face. He watches Jin Guangyao pack it away a heartbeat later with a pang.

“Huaisang?” Jin Guangyao asks incredulously. “You mean that the new Ghost King has taken on his form, for some reason?”

Lan Xichen shakes his head. “No, A-Yao. I mean that it was Huaisang, Huaisang himself, who stood before me, and that he, himself, is the ghost who escaped from the Kiln.”

Jin Guangyao’s brows furrow, ever so slightly. It is a mark of the respect he holds for Lan Xichen, more than perhaps anyone in his life, that all he says next is, “You are certain, er-ge?”

“Certain as death,” Lan Xichen says.

“Hmmm.” Jin Guangyao taps his finger against the teacup still cupped in his hands. “I admit, this does surprise me. I wouldn’t have thought him willing to work so hard.” He takes a sip of his cooling tea. “No doubt his ascension is due to a lingering belief that da-ge was murdered and requires vengeance.”

Before Lan Xichen’s disbelieving eyes, Jin Guangyao sighs and shakes his head ruefully, but quite calmly. “We can only pray that he discovers the truth of the matter swiftly, and is able to pass on without too much fuss.”

Lan Xichen blinks at his sworn brother. “A-Yao, you are not concerned?” Jin Guangyao looks at him curiously. “Huaisang’s last suspect in the matter of his brother’s death was, after all, you.”

Jin Guangyao smiles reassuringly—patronizingly—at him. “It was, yes; I do recall that! But I have faith that Huaisang will come to accept the truth that it was da-ge’s cultivation method and natural temper that killed him, and will find the peace he has sought in the realization.”

Lan Xichen scrutinizes his sworn brother’s face, but can find nothing but honesty in his expression, and in the tone of his voice. His sworn brother is a born liar, he knows this to be true, but he isn’t a fool. He ought to be treating Nie Huaisang’s return as at least a moderate threat to his safety. But it is as if Lan Xichen has told him that a summer rainstorm is coming: inconvenient, but inevitable, and not remotely to be feared.

Lan Xichen cannot make any sense of it.

He arrives before Nie Huaisang to the teahouse the next day, and orders a pot of Nie Huaisang’s favorite blend and a plate of melon seeds. The waiter has just laid both on the table and gone again when Nie Huaisang arrives. Lan Xichen senses him first as a flurry of air and motion from the entrance behind him.

“Goodness, er-ge, please forgive this didi for being late,” Nie Huaisang says as he bustles over to the table. He catches Lan Xichen’s face in hands much colder than the weather outside warrants, lays a firm kiss on his mouth, and sits down opposite him. “Oooh, yum,” he says, sounding just like his old self, and pops a handful of melon seeds into his mouth.

Lan Xichen pours tea for him, his limbs moving without his input. “Oh, thank you, er-ge,” Nie Huaisang says delightedly, taking the cup and inhaling the steam. “Mmm, gorgeous,” he murmurs, and flashes a beaming smile at Lan Xichen. “So considerate!”

Lan Xichen is, suddenly, more afraid than he has ever been. He had intended to face his death with equanimity and acceptance, if it should come in this teahouse today, but now that Nie Huaisang is here, all he wants to do is scream and flee, and possibly piss himself. Keeping himself in his seat and silent takes every scrap of willpower he has.

Nie Huaisang sips his tea, closes his eyes to savor the taste, and then looks at Lan Xichen. For a flash of a second he looks hungry, like a man used to living on bread and plain water who has been seated at a feast table. His tongue flicks out and wets his lips.

Then he sighs and reaches across the table, beckoning slightly with his fingers. Lan Xichen, not knowing what else to do, puts his own hand out, palm down; Nie Huaisang covers it with his own. A death-cold finger touches Lan Xichen’s wrist and drags down to his middle knuckle; with it, Lan Xichen feels his fear recede, just a touch. Just enough for him to regain his composure, and remember how to speak.

“This didi is still adjusting to his new powers,” Nie Huaisang says apologetically. “Xuan-gege says the fine control will come with time.”

Lan Xichen swallows, with some difficulty. Nie Huaisang makes no move to remove his hand, so Lan Xichen leaves his where it is as well. His palm is cool and smooth, and his finger continues tracing patterns along the back of Lan Xichen’s hand.

Lan Xichen swallows again, trying to moisten his throat enough to speak. “What do you want with me?” he rasps.

Nie Huaisang uses his free hand to sip his tea, smiling at Lan Xichen as though he’s said something confusing. “I told you,” he says. “I want to thank you, for all you have done for me.”

“All I have done for you?” Lan Xichen echoes. His heart sinks.

Nie Huaisang nods, still smiling. “You got me killed,” he clarifies. “And I’m so much more powerful this way,” he goes on, over Lan Xichen’s involuntary noise of agony. “Resentment suits me much better than trying to cultivate with spiritual power ever did! Let me tell you, er-ge, I can absolutely see why Wei-xiong went wild for the stuff.”

He pops a handful of melon seeds in his mouth and beams. Lan Xichen wets his mouth again. “Are you going to kill me?”

Nie Huaisang sighs. His throat bobs as he swallows the mouthful of seeds. “Honestly, er-ge,” he says mournfully. “I’m here trying to have a nice conversation with an old friend, to catch up on everything I’ve missed, and you keep accusing me of lying to you. Why would I kill you, er-ge? When you’ve bought me a pot of my very favorite tea, and you’ve been so obligingly terrified of me. What would be the point of killing you?”

Lan Xichen opens his mouth, closes it, and tries again. “What are your plans, then?”

“For right now? Nothing, but to have a cup of tea and some snacks with you, er-ge, and for you to tell me how you’ve been all these years,” Nie Huaisang says. He takes another sip of tea. “Later, I may ask you to run some errands for me, or perhaps Hanguang-jun if you’re busy, but that won’t be for some time, I suspect.”

Errands? Lan Xichen almost asks. But he is not an idiot, and he can tell that whatever business Nie Huaisang has with him, it will not be resolved here and now. He must wait longer to find out what fate Nie Huaisang has in store for him.

Instead, he answers the question. “Wangji is married,” he says, and Nie Huaisang’s eyes light up.

“Did Wei-xiong find his way back, then? I simply cannot imagine Hanguang-jun settling for anyone else.”

“Yes, he is back,” Lan Xichen says. “A boy called Mo Xuanyu performed a sacrifice ritual to bring him back.”

“Oh, poor little Xuanyu,” Nie Huaisang says regretfully, surprising Lan Xichen.

“You knew him?”

Nie Huaisang nods through another mouthful of melon seeds. “San-ge’s little didi; you never met him? A shame,” he says, when Lan Xichen shakes his head. “You’d have liked him, I think. He worshipped the ground san-ge walked on. Still!” he says, brushing invisible crumbs off his hands. “That’s one thing off my to-do list, at least! Good for Wei-xiong, and for Hanguang-jun, of course.”

“Do you require Wei Wuxian’s help, then, with your plans?” Lan Xichen asks before he can remember the several pointed warnings Nie Huaisang has already given him.

Sure enough, Nie Huaisang’s flash, an inhuman gleam that makes Lan Xichen’s heart rate kick up. Nie Huaisang takes a long drink from his teacup and sets it down, annoyance evident even in the clink of ceramic on the table.

“I do,” he says coolly, “or, rather, my task will be much easier with his aid. My brother was dismembered, you see.”

Lan Xichen starts to apologize, to retract his hand so he might bow contrition, but before he can do either, his wrist erupts in agony.

He screams involuntarily, grabbing at his forearm, and looks down to see that Nie Huaisang’s fingernails have grown impossibly long, piercing through his flesh from where that cool hand still rests over Lan Xichen’s own. Blood is spurting up, spilling over his punctured skin onto the table. Lan Xichen cries out again, in pain and horror.

No one around them reacts. A few people glance over, but smile and look away, shaking their heads indulgently, as though they had heard only a shout of laughter, and not of pain.

Lan Xichen’s breath is coming loud and ragged. He looks at Nie Huaisang, who leans forward languidly.

“No, er-ge, you wanted to hear this and now you’re going to listen,” he says, but gently, as though explaining a consequence to a misbehaving toddler. “My brother was dismembered. After emerging from Mount Tonglu, I went to his tomb, to his coffin, and I found nothing inside but a paper copy of his corpse, flimsy and empty. I have called for his spirit and received no reply.

“Your A-Yao, the sworn brother you insisted he take as his own, has split my brother’s body into pieces, and his spirit along with it. The reason he still draws breath is that right now, he is the only person who knows where the pieces of my brother are.”

Lan Xichen struggles for breath to speak between his weeping and his ruined wrist, but he cannot find it in time to stop Nie Huaisang from continuing.

“I will find my brother’s body, er-ge, no matter how widely the san-ge you forced on me has scattered him. I will piece him together, and I will let him take his vengeance, and only then, er-ge, will I take mine on you. Until then, I am content to let you wait, and so you will wait.”

Nie Huaisang stands, removing his hand from Lan Xichen’s. The grotesque fingernails remain, holding Lan Xichen fast; there are new ones on his fingers, fresh and clean and perfectly shaped. Nie Huaisang cups Lan Xichen’s chin with his other hand, kisses him hard enough to hurt, and sweeps away.

This time, when the waiter looks over at their table, he screams and drops a tray. The teahouse erupts into chaos.

It takes two months for Lan Xichen to regain full use of his wrist, with spiritual transfers daily from three doctors and Lan Wangji. Even then, the joint’s range of motion is slightly reduced, and the scars heal thick and ugly. The clan elders are for hunting down and exterminating Nie Huaisang with extreme prejudice, as are a majority of the juniors and, distressingly, Lan Wangji, who has taken Lan Xichen’s maiming extremely poorly.

Lan Xichen cannot seem to make them understand that such an action would only result in their slaughter; he cannot make them understand that Nie Huaisang is dangerous, even with the evidence of his near-crippling so close at hand. At last he is forced to issue a decree as Sect Leader that no such hunt will take place, on pain of expulsion from the clan. The elders grumble, and the juniors frown, but the planning ceases.

The grumbling and frowning finally cease when a disembodied left arm blasts clear through the wards of the Cloud Recesses as though they were paper.

“I believe this is the part with which he wishes your aid,” Lan Xichen says to Wei Wuxian, once the arm has been subdued and the injured taken to the doctors. “He requires all of the...pieces.”

“He could have just asked,” Wei Wuxian mutters; but Lan Xichen can already see his eyes light up with the joy of a new puzzle.

That the puzzle is Nie Mingjue’s body is something Lan Xichen tries very hard not to think about, as Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji set off on the chase.

“Why he couldn’t track down the rest himself, if he could find the arm, is beyond me,” Lan Qiren mutters darkly over tea, a few weeks after they depart. He and Lan Xichen are grading essays together, a task at which they would ordinarily be joined by Lan Wangji. “That boy would never lift a finger he could get someone else to lift for him.” He chuckles to himself. “Perhaps it’s a good thing he didn’t last long as Sect Leader, or you’d have been carrying his sect for him as well as your own.”

Lan Xichen stares at him for a moment, rubbing the scars on his wrist. Nie Huaisang has been very busy indeed, while Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian have been on the hunt, if the foul rumors about the Cultivation Chief that have begun seeping into the Cloud Recesses from all corners are any indication of his movements, but that is not what troubles Lan Xichen about his uncle’s words.

“Shufu,” he begins carefully. “Does it not...” Lan Qiren looks up from the latest essay, eyebrow raised. “Does it not worry you,” Lan Xichen starts again, “that one day he may hear you speak with such...with such disrespect?”

Lan Qiren snorts and looks back down at the paper. “What could he do to me that I would have to fear?”

“Injure you?” Lan Xichen suggests. “As he did me, when I defied his wishes?”

“Bah,” is Lan Qiren’s eloquent response. Lan Xichen drops the subject, thinking hard.

That night, he lights some incense and kneels before Nie Huaisang’s memorial tablet. “I think I understand,” he says slowly, trying the words out as he says them. “In life, you were not given the respect you deserved, and now in death, that has become a kind of...power, of yours? So you can deliberately cause people to disrespect you enough to underestimate you?”

He isn’t expecting any sort of response, but after a moment, he hears the door behind him slide open, and footsteps pad into the room.

“Not exactly, but you’re quite close,” Nie Huaisang says. A hand on the back of Lan Xichen’s neck tilts his head up for the kiss, slow and slick, before Nie Huaisang kneels next to him. There’s a smile on his face, worlds away from the snarl he wore the last time Lan Xichen saw him.

Nie Huaisang smooths the fabric of his robes over his knees and pulls a fan out of his sleeve. He doesn’t open it, but what Lan Xichen can see of it glitters oddly in the candlelight.

“It isn’t respect so much as perception,” Nie Huaisang explains. “When I was alive, none of you ever saw me, not really. Or,” he corrects himself, “I should say, none of you saw me. I was a series of roles to the world: feckless young master, cosseted younger brother, disappointing heir, lazy cut-sleeve, and so on.

“Which is not to say I never was those things,” he says, flicking his fan open and waving it gently. Lan Xichen can see now that what should be paper is instead metal, silvery and flexible, beaten almost too thin to be believed. The edges gleam as though they’ve been sharpened.

Nie Huaisang grins; Lan Xichen snaps his attention back to his face. “I certainly have been idle, and feckless, and useless, and disappointing,” Nie Huaisang says. “But there was more to me.” He sighs. “I would have made a wonderful spy for da-ge, if he would have ever countenanced such tactics, or perhaps a torturer like san-ge.” He shrugs lazily. “But no one wanted to see that, so eventually I stopped trying to show anyone. And now, as you say, the level to which I am seen is within my control.”

“I see,” Lan Xichen says. His mind is whirring. “So although they know you are a Ghost King, shufu and A-Yao cannot see the threat you pose to them.”

“Not until I want them to,” Nie Huaisang agrees. His grin over the top of his fan grows deadly sharp for a moment.

Lan Xichen shivers. “And me?” he asks.

Nie Huaisang cocks his head to the side, eyes sparkling. “What about you, er-ge?”

Lan Xichen swallows through a suddenly dry throat. “I have been wondering if the, ah...” Nie Huaisang raises his eyebrows, visibly trying to hold back a laugh. Lan Xichen swallows again. “The, ah, more intimate touches you have given me have served a purpose, in regards to your new...new power.”

Nie Huaisang laughs, his head tipping forward and then back with the force of it. “Oh, I always forget how prudish you Lans can be,” he says fondly. “Yes, I can bring someone into my...call it a sphere of influence, via touch. No one will react to me if I don’t want them to, but it helps if you don’t call attention to us either, when we’re having a chat like this.”

Lan Xichen knows his ears are red, and his throat, and perhaps the points of his cheekbones. Nevertheless, he pushes on, “And your, ah, choice of touch? Must it be, ah...”

Nie Huaisang takes pity on him, sparking feelings both shamed and shameful. “Any touch will do,” he says, grinning widely again. “I chose the kiss for two reasons.” Lan Xichen waits, and he goes on, “One, I’ve always wanted to.” He lifts his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. “You’ve always been beautiful, Xichen-ge, and you still are, even now. And two, san-ge has also always wanted to.”

“I see,” Lan Xichen murmurs. It’s oddly disappointing, in a way he hadn’t expected.

Nie Huaisang cocks his head to the other side. “You look sad, er-ge,” he observes gently.

“I feel many things,” Lan Xichen says honestly. “Sadness is among them.”

For some reason that makes Nie Huaisang smile for a moment, before he sobers again. “Hanguang-jun and Wei-xiong are nearly done finding all the pieces of da-ge’s body,” he says. Lan Xichen flinches and nods. He knows Nie Huaisang has been in contact with them from Lan Wangji’s periodic reports via letter. “Once they have done what they can, I will finish the retrieval myself. If you will be so good as to journey to Yunping City in Yunmeng, in a fortnight or so, we can see this matter concluded.”

Lan Xichen startles. “So soon?”

Nie Huaisang gives him an unimpressed look. “I’ve waited nearly two decades, er-ge.” He levers himself to his feet, and offers Lan Xichen a hand. “So if you want to give san-ge a try, I suggest you do so quickly,” he says, and then kisses Lan Xichen deeper than ever before, linking his hands behind Lan Xichen’s nape and swaying close.

Just as Lan Xichen decides to lift his hands and place them on Nie Huaisang’s waist, Nie Huaisang pulls away.

“By the way, how did you get in?” Lan Xichen asks instead. “And how will you leave?”

Nie Huaisang smiles and reaches into his sleeve, his fingers emerging with a pair of shining red dice. “A gift from Cheng-gege,” he says brightly. “Until next time, er-ge,” he calls over his shoulder; he tosses the dice into the air, catches them, and slips through Lan Xichen’s door.

“Cheng-gege and Xuan-gege,” Lan Xichen mutters to himself, the names clicking in his mind. Nie Huaisang claims powerful figures as older brothers.

But then, Lan Xichen reflects ruefully, that has always been true.

Two weeks later, Lan Xichen trudges through Yunping City behind Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian, both of whom, they report, have also been invited to witness whatever this night will hold. Evening falls around them, the shadows getting darker and sharper as they pass through the streets towards the Guanyin Temple that appears before them as they turn a final corner, the doors standing wide open.

Nie Huaisang, sitting cross-legged on a table just inside, sees them approach and beckons them in, hopping off the table as they approach. Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji each get a finger to the backs of their hands. Lan Xichen receives two fingertips across the soft skin of his inner wrist, brushing over the scars that still haven’t healed flat, and shivers.

Across the temple, Jin Guangyao is supervising a team of disciples in dark cloaks over Sparks Amidst Snow robes, as well as a handful of monks and a man whom, after a confused moment, Lan Xichen recognizes as the leader of the Moling-Su Clan, all of whom are digging frantically down into the floor. From the looks of it, they’ve managed quite a pit so far.

“What are they looking for?” Wei Wuxian whispers to Nie Huaisang.

At his normal volume, Nie Huaisang replies, “A coffin, and a sealed black chest.” He jumps back up onto the table he had been sitting on before. “Both of which I may have reburied a hair deeper than I found them.”

“How have you not found it yet?” Jin Guangyao demands of his diggers. Lan Xichen stares; he has never heard the man speak so harshly, or with so little compassion. Jin Guangyao’s face is set in a snarl, too, lips pulled back from furious teeth in an expression that looks like nothing so much as an angry street dog, fighting over a scrap of food.

“Don’t worry, san-ge!” Nie Huaisang hollers. He produces that same odd, silvery fan and waves it encouragingly in the direction of the digging team. “It’s just a bit more, you’ll see.”

Jin Guangyao flaps a hand at Nie Huaisang without looking at him, a clear nonverbal request to shut up. Next to Lan Xichen, Lan Wangji’s brow twitches, and Wei Wuxian outright boggles. Evidently, Nie Huaisang has not filled them in on the extent of his new powers.

“Dig, you useless wretches,” Su Minshan gasps, heaving a shovelful of dirt over the lip of the pit; his next thrust downward rings out, metal against solid wood. “Zongzhu, we’ve found it!” he calls, and the rest of the diggers cluster around him as they clear the dirt from the lid of what turns out, when Lan Xichen moves closer to see, to be a coffin. There is indeed a black chest that comes into view, resting on the foot of the coffin lid.

“Er-ge, come back,” Nie Huaisang calls, urgent enough that Lan Xichen obeys without really thinking about it. A good thing, as it turns out—as soon as Jin Guangyao gives the order to open both, whatever Nie Huaisang has planted in the chest takes out most of the monks and about half of the disciples.

Jin Guangyao and Su Minshan come staggering out of the cloud, coughing and wincing. “What have you done with her?” Jin Guangyao snarls at Nie Huaisang, clutching his chest. The cloud of poison dissipates enough for Lan Xichen to see that the coffin behind him is empty, as is the chest atop it.

Nie Huaisang smiles innocently. “She’s somewhere safe. I thought the Lanling-Jin Clan might like to give the mother of their Sect Leader a more honored resting place than the charred ruins of the brothel she was once trapped in.” He cocks his head to the side, tapping his chin with his fan. “Why? What was san-ge afraid I had done with the corpse of his beloved family member?”

Nothing about him changes, not his height or his posture or the darkness of the shadows he casts, but Lan Xichen can tell that he must turn his powers down as he speaks, by the way Jin Guangyao turns pale and starts to tremble, backing up until he reaches a pillar to lean against. Beside him, Su Minshan has drawn his sword and is frantically swinging it between Nie Huaisang and Lan Wangji.

Nie Huaisang hops off the table and smiles. “Hi, san-ge,” he murmurs. “Did you miss me?”

Jin Guangyao opens his mouth, only a barking sort of animal cough coming out. Nie Huaisang waits patiently, opening his fan and holding it up in front of his chest, smiling ingratiatingly. It looks disturbingly like the expression Lan Xichen has seen on Jin Guangyao’s face so many times over the years.

“H-Huaisang,” Jin Guangyao manages, trying and failing ghoulishly to match his smile, even as his trembling causes his words to stutter. “How-How nice it is to see you again.”

“Is it?” Nie Huaisang asked sweetly. “I wouldn’t,” he adds sharply to Su Minshan, as the man starts to lunge forward with his sword pointed at him. “You’ll interrupt my plans, and your master will get a slow death, instead of the quick one I have planned for him.”

“What are you going to do to him?” Su Minshan demands. His face is terrified, pale and sweating just like Jin Guangyao, but the point of his sword is steady as he aims it at Nie Huaisang.

“Me?” Nie Huaisang asks, managing somehow to sound exactly like he had at sixteen, whiny and outraged at the mere suggestion that he might be expected to do anything. “I’m not going to do anything to him, Su-zongzhu.” His head turns to the side suddenly and he smiles, as though he can hear something Lan Xichen cannot.

As Lan Xichen turns to look, and sees the tall, painfully familiar shape in the frame of the door, Nie Huaisang turns back to Su Minshan and Jin Guangyao and says, “Da-ge will.”

Jin Guangyao bolts. He’s on his feet faster than Lan Xichen could have predicted, making headlong for a door at the back of the temple. The remaining Jin disciples rally themselves to get out of his way; Su Minshan throws himself into the path of Nie Mingjue’s advance, buying Jin Guangyao a few more steps with his valiant death. It all happens so quickly that Lan Xichen has no time to react, or even to decide what his reaction will be.

Nie Huaisang flicks his wrist. His fan, shining silver and whistling like a thrown dagger, spins out and slices through the heel of Jin Guangyao’s boot, and he topples to the floor, just in time for Nie Mingjue to fall upon him.

The fan emerges with a spray of blood and meat and returns to Nie Huaisang’s hand. He shakes the gore off with a little grimace, pulling out a handkerchief to dab it clean.

Lan Xichen chooses to watch that, rather than what is happening at the back of the temple. The sounds are bad enough.

Eventually, there comes a feral roar: the sound of a fierce corpse that has finished its work, but not worn out its rage.

Lan Wangji, who has been watching the display with a faint expression of distaste, says to Nie Huaisang, “What is your plan for suppressing him once more?”

Nie Huaisang wipes the last drop of Jin Guangyao’s blood off his fan and looks up. “Wei-xiong, would you mind?” he asks, as though asking Wei Wuxian to pass him a lost chopstick at dinner. Wei Wuxian rolls his eyes but pulls Chenqing from his belt and obligingly begins to play.

Once Nie Mingjue has been forced into the coffin and onto his knees, Nie Huaisang speaks again. “Hold for a moment, please, Wei-xiong,” he requests quietly.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes are sober and pitying, and he nods and holds the high, quivering note as Nie Huaisang walks over to his brother’s corpse, stepping over the remains of Jin Guangyao as if they did not exist. Nie Mingjue is still growling, low and full of menace, shoulders twitching as he fights the hold of Chenqing’s music, but there is no fear in Nie Huaisang as he takes his brother’s dead face between his hands.

Lan Wangji turns, and Wei Wuxian closes his eyes. Lan Xichen does not, at first. He watches as Nie Huaisang presses his forehead to Nie Mingjue’s, and thick black tears, the exact color and consistency of ink, slip down his cheeks.

Lan Xichen looks away then.

Later, when Meng Shi’s coffin has been closed over Nie Mingjue, Lan Wangji ties it shut with seven guqin strings, and Wei Wuxian plasters it with talismans and a sigil drawn in his own blood. Nie Huaisang dries his ink-black tears on an ink-black handkerchief and leads their small party out of the temple and into the growing sunlight.

“Well, this has been fun,” Nie Huaisang says with brisk sarcasm. “Wei-xiong, Hanguang-jun, this one thanks you for your aid.” He doesn’t bow, but he does give them each a nod, which they return. “Wei-xiong, if everyone does as they’re told and there are no delays, Meng Shi’s body should be arriving at Lanling in two days, if you want to give the child a heads-up.”

Wei Wuxian looks surprised. “You were serious about that?”

Nie Huaisang looks faintly amused through his exhaustion. “What, you thought I would chop her up like her son did my brother?” He snorts, snapping his fan open and closing it again. “It isn’t her fault her son killed my brother.” He smiles wanly. “Consider it my revenge against Jin-lao-zongzhu.”

Wei Wuxian nods. “I’ll warn Jin Ling. He’ll do right by her.”

“Very good.” Nie Huaisang opens his fan again. “Well, if that’s everything, I am going to go and drink myself to sleep. Don’t wait up.” He turns on his heel and begins to walk away, waving the fan over his shoulder in a faux-cheery farewell.

“Wait,” Lan Xichen hears himself say. “Wait,” he repeats, stepping forward, and Nie Huaisang pauses and turns to look back at him curiously.

Lan Xichen flounders for a moment. “What about me?” he finally manages to string together.

Nie Huaisang looks startled. “Whatever do you mean?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.

“You said...” Lan Xichen grapples for the memory he wants. “You said that after da-ge took his revenge on, on Jin Guangyao—”

“That only then would I take mine on you,” Nie Huaisang finishes, nodding. “Yes, I do remember that.”

“Xiongzhang,” Lan Wangji mutters, quiet and urgent. Nie Huaisang turns a reassuring smile toward him.

“No need to worry, Hanguang-jun,” he says kindly. “As I pointed out to your xiongzhang in that same conversation, it could be argued that he did me a great service in getting me killed.” Lan Xichen flinches. Nie Huaisang catches the motion and, apparently absentmindedly, runs his tongue over his left canine tooth.

He gathers himself quickly and says, “My point being, perhaps I owe you no further vengeance, er-ge.”

Lan Xichen feels his face and stomach drop. “But,” he says desperately. “But, then, will I ever see you again?”

Nie Huaisang quirks an eyebrow, curious again. “Do you want to?” he inquires. “I would have thought you’d want to put the whole mess behind you.”

Shaking his head fervently, Lan Xichen swallows and struggles for words to describe the need he doesn’t quite understand himself. “I... You were gone,” he rasps. “For so long, you were gone, and it was my fault.” He feels carved open, hollowed; a stark contrast to the last few months, and the last twenty years. Something in him was buried with Nie Huaisang, and all at once, the thought of losing it again, of losing him again, is intolerable.

“I see,” Nie Huaisang says thoughtfully. “So perhaps the best revenge would be me staying away.”

Lan Xichen doesn’t realize he’s going to say, “No,” until the word is choked out of his throat. Nie Huaisang’s expression goes soft, full of pity, like he’s looking at a wounded animal. “No, please,” Lan Xichen gasps, and drops to his knees.

“Oh, er-ge,” Nie Huaisang murmurs, stepping closer. “You poor thing.” Lan Xichen, out of words, reaches out and hugs him around the waist, burying his face in Nie Huaisang’s stomach as though it will protect him from the grief and anger and shame and regret. He does not cry—he has not shed a tear since Nie Huaisang died—but his eyes are hot and dry, and for the first time in decades, he almost wants to.

Nie Huaisang smells of ink and steel and blood.

“You poor, poor thing,” Nie Huaisang murmurs soothingly. Lan Xichen whines, like the wounded animal he feels like. Nie Huaisang’s icy hand comes to press gently on the top of Lan Xichen’s head, petting his hair softly. The stroke of his hand goes down, and his palm covers the knot of Lan Xichen’s forehead ribbon, fingers tangling in the tails.

Distantly, Lan Xichen hears Lan Wangji inhale; but Lan Xichen does nothing other than clutch Nie Huaisang’s waist tighter. There isn’t anyone left with a greater right to his forehead ribbon than Nie Huaisang, after all; and if this is the price to keep the last vestige of the best part of his life, he will pay it happily.

Nie Huaisang pets him for a while, murmuring soothing nothings while Lan Xichen tries not to shake apart. Finally, he tucks his fingers under the ribbon knot and pulls Lan Xichen’s face away from his abdomen, meeting his eyes.

“I’ll come back,” he promises, and Lan Xichen feels all the bones of his spine melt away. “I need to go for a little while, er-ge, but you will see me again. Alright?”

“Alright,” Lan Xichen whispers. There’s nothing else to say.

Nie Huaisang smiles down at him, a benevolent ghost-god-king pressing the pad of his thumb to Lan Xichen’s lower lip. “Close your eyes,” he murmurs kindly. “Count to ten before you open them.”

Lan Xichen closes his eyes on the sight of Nie Huaisang framed by the rising sun. When he opens them again, there is no trace of anyone but Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian, coming closer to help him to his feet. His lower lip tastes like ink, and steel, and blood.