Lodestone: All In One

An alternate timeline where Meng Yao is taken in by Lan, rather than Jin, and a great many alliances are reversed.

Becoming the Phoenix – One

Meng Yao is just a little less reticent, and Lan Xichen, very taken with him, offers to arrange for him to stay the summer. Drama with a hint of Romance, I-2

Character(s): Jiang Wanyin, Lan Xichen, Meng Yao, Nie Huaisang, Wei Wuxian

Pairing(s): Lan Xichen/Meng Yao

I would like it to be clearly understood that this story is all Zhu Zanjin’s fault. He made that one video, and the moment I saw him in all that white I thought "yes, that’s just what Meng Yao would look like if he became part of Lan instead of Jin," whereupon the plotbunny descended upon me rather like a dropped anvil, and a month later I was staring at this fic and feeling a bit hung over.

So here we go, with a hard left turn from canon into a different track.

“Won’t you stay a few more days?”

The words felt like they lodged in Meng Yao’s chest, for his breath to catch on—words of welcome and invitation from the Master of Lan himself. But it was only the courtesy that Lan Xichen showed to all, he reminded himself firmly. It was fine to take this stolen moment of formal farewell to bask in that warmth, but he shouldn’t mistake it for something personal. No matter how he might wish it were, or how it had seemed it might be, for that one moment during the presentation of gifts when their hands had touched. He couldn’t lower his guard just for that. He drew in a breath to offer back light words of excuse. He was still only a servant of Nie, after all, barely even a disciple of the sect, even if Huaisang insisted on braiding his hair up as if he were.

And then he made the mistake of looking up.

Lan Xichen’s smile was warm, and even Meng Yao’s well-developed cynicism couldn’t mistake the genuine welcome of it. He even thought he saw something strangely like hope in Lan Xichen’s eyes, a sincere desire that Meng Yao not go. It shocked truth from his lips that he hadn’t meant to let fall.

“If I stay longer, I’ll only want to keep staying.” The moment he heard what he’d said, he recalled himself sharply and grabbed for his prepared words to deflect that truth before it could be denied by another. “And I’m only…”

“In that case,” Lan Xichen spoke at the same time, and smiled when he and Meng Yao broke off as one. “In that case, Meng-gongzi,” he continued, voice so gentle that Meng Yao had to swallow hard against a surge of hopeless wanting, “allow me to speak to Nie-zongzhu and request it. He is a frank and forthright man; you need to speak directly to secure his understanding, sometimes.”

Meng Yao stood staring at him, caught completely off guard. He had come expecting to spend a few precious moments luxuriating in genuine kindness, because it was clear that was the kind of man Lan Xichen was. He hadn’t expected this. “I…” He halted there, groping for words or even thoughts to deal with such generous care. Should he? It was another risk of rejection from the disciples here, but the sponsorship, however brief, of the Master of Lan might balance that. Should he?

Lan Xichen spread his hands, inviting but not pressing. Meng Yao had noticed that—Lan Xichen didn’t press, didn’t repress or chide directly, only led by action. “May I?”

Meng Yao took in a slow breath, hoping distantly that Lan Xichen wouldn’t see how it shook, and chose. “Please.” He swept into a deferential bow. “Forgive the trouble I put you to…”

Lan Xichen caught his arms, hands firm for all their grace. “You and I are of an age; there’s no need for such formality.”

Meng Yao raised his head and was struck breathless again by the earnestness of those dark eyes on him. Hesitantly he straightened, and was rewarded with an approving nod and a shade of satisfaction in Lan Xichen’s smile. “If you wish it,” he agreed softly.

“I do.”

The simple words settled Meng Yao. This summer would be a risk, yes, and he had no doubt it would wear on his control with a good eight or nine sects worth of pampered disciples whispering over his inclusion, but he had this guide rope to hold to: Lan Xichen wished him to be here, and wished him to hold his head up. He would do so, then. He took a breath and raised his chin and dared to meet Lan Xichen’s eyes directly. “Thank you, Lan-zongzhu.”

He nearly floated back to his rooms on the strength of the smile he got in return for that.

“I told you so!” Huaisang declared when he returned, still dripping wet, from his jaunt around the mountain with Wei Wuxian. He waved the roll of message paper that a very young Lan disciple had delivered to their suite of rooms. “Da-ge says you should stay, if you like.”

Another time, Meng Yao might have asked exactly how Huaisang come to fall full-length into water and clearly not mind, and possibly have put in a word or two of caution about associating with someone who had obviously chosen to thumb his nose at the whisperers, with glee and with emphasis, at every opportunity. Huaisang had a rebellious streak of his own, for all that most people didn’t recognize it, and normally Meng Yao tried not to encourage it. But right now, Meng Yao was too occupied with shock at the idea that Lan Xichen, the Lord of Wild Brilliance¹ himself, had clearly sent a message immediately to the Nie sect, with enough urgency to be answered at once.

On Meng Yao’s behalf.

Huaisang nudged his shoulder against Meng Yao’s, smiling at him sidelong. “Told you he’d agree,” he repeated.

“You did,” Meng Yao finally answered, with a faint laugh of disbelief.

Huaisang made a satisfied humming sound and went off to change his robes with a spring in his step. Meng Yao, for his part, sank down beside the table in their sitting room and tried to re-order his plans. He hadn’t had one for this place, beyond the presentation of gifts itself, and being taken note of as the second Nie representative. Now… now he had an entire summer of intensive study, the kind he’d never had opportunity for before. It felt as though he’d been climbing a sheer cliff face, one reach after another, only to have someone open a door through the stone itself and hold it for him. He needed to take advantage of this time.

And, the thought followed, slow and unaccustomed, he needed to accept this gift of Lan Xichen’s.

“Meng Yao!” Huaisang sang out, popping back out of his sleeping room trailing an armful of white. “Here. You’ll need this tomorrow.” He spilled an overrobe with the Nie crest on the shoulder into Meng Yao’s arms.

Meng Yao gathered it up with a helpless smile. “Huaisang…” He swallowed hard and said to the armful of silk, “You know I’m going to make you do your homework, if I’m here.”

“Only if you’re not too busy with Zewu-jun.” Meng Yao looked up, started by Huaisang’s slyly knowing tone.

“That isn’t…! It was just his natural kindness, Huaisang, that’s all.” He had to think that, or he didn’t know what he’d do.

Huaisang tapped his furled fan against his lips, smirking faintly. “Hmmm, I wonder. Lan-zongzhu doesn’t normally take much interest in the summer lecture students is all I’m saying.” And on that slightly alarming note, he wandered back toward his sleeping room.

Meng Yao clutched the white student’s robe and tried to re-order his thoughts when it felt as though the whole world had just tilted.

A few lectures on found Meng Yao at once pleased, exasperated, excited, and possessed of a persistent headache.

He was pleased by the lectures. They were clearly laid out and provided the kind of coherent explanations for cultivation practices that Meng Yao had spent his entire literate life wishing for. He took meticulous notes.

He was exasperated that Huaisang had attended going on three years of such lectures and still couldn’t answer most of Lan Qiren’s questions. He knew for a fact that Huaisang could have mastered the concepts in a month, at most, if he applied himself, but there was Huaisang’s stubborn streak once again.

He was excited because each lecture helped him fit another bit of the patchwork study from his youth into a sensible whole, letting him either confirm or discard those bits with increasing confidence. He spent his evenings with his notes spread over any table that offered privacy, jotting down his thoughts and speculations.

His headache was named Wei Wuxian, and he could only be thankful that Wei-gongzi seemed far more focused on Lan Wangji than on Huaisang. There’d have been no homework of any sort getting done, otherwise, and Meng Yao couldn’t quite stifle the suspicion that that was the real reason Nie-zongzhu had agreed to let him stay the summer.

Meng Yao glanced around the smaller of Cloud Recesses’ public meditation gardens with a sigh, hands planted on his hips. Huaisang wasn’t here, which meant he was almost certainly around the back of the mountain with Wei Wuxian again, and most likely Jiang-gongzi with them given that Meng Yao hadn’t encountered the young man making his own search. Well, at least Jiang Wanyin might be a small restraint on what they got up to. Hopefully.

“Meng-gongzi?”

Meng Yao whirled around, heart leaping up before he even laid eyes on Lan Xichen, standing behind him on the path. “Lan-zongzhu.” He started to bow, only to be stopped by a swift hand under his arm. His cheeks were hot as he straightened, but he made himself look up and was promptly lost in the pleased smile Lan Xichen gave him. “Were you looking for someone?” Lan Xichen asked.

In the final analysis, Meng Yao liked Huaisang too much to use the threat of the Master of Lan to herd him back into line, so he smiled and shook his head. “It was nothing urgent.” He firmly set aside the thought that he liked Lan Xichen too well to share even his passing attention.

He nearly swallowed his tongue in shock when Lan Xichen swept out an inviting arm. “Will you walk a little with me, then? I’ve been wanting to ask how you find your time with us, so far.”

“I… If you wish,” Meng Yao managed, and stepped slowly to his side. He was, distantly, glad that Lan Xichen directed their steps down the smooth stone path beside one of the mountain’s many streams; he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to pull enough of his attention off Lan Xichen himself to not trip on a rougher path.

“My uncle has spoken well of your diligence,” Lan Xichen remarked, as they strolled along the green curve of one bank. “Are such scholarly studies a thing you enjoy?”

The easy compliment, so casual, so matter-of-fact, scattered Meng Yao’s thoughts and made him grope for an answer to the actual question. “This is a welcome chance for me to discover such things, certainly.”

Lan Xichen smiled, holding out a hand to guide him down the turn to a footbridge. “I’m glad, then. I hoped it was that, and not that you felt at all excluded.”

“Oh no, not at all!” Which was not entirely true, and Lan Xichen’s look of quiet regret said he heard the note of falseness in Meng Yao’s quick assurance. Meng Yao looked down. “I really do value the time to go over my notes, and think through the implications,” he murmured. Lan Xichen’s hand rested for a moment on his shoulder, and his breath caught; he almost thought he could feel the warmth through his robes, brief as the touch was.

“You can always come to me, if you have questions about the lectures,” Lan Xichen offered.

Meng Yao looked up at him quickly, eyes widening. “Oh, but I couldn’t—”

“I would like it,” Lan Xichen cut him off gently, and the sincerity of his voice caught Meng Yao’s attention. Possibilities fanned out through his mind, as reflexive as breath. Did Lan Qiren’s long tenure as the summer teacher displace Lan Xichen? Did it deprive him of renown, or of teaching itself? Did Lan Xichen wish to influence other sects more directly? Or was it Lan Wangji’s strict perfection of learning that took away his brother’s chance to guide?

Some of that, at least, he could test for right now.

“I’m afraid I would trouble you with my lack of knowledge,” he said softly, casting his eyes down. “So much of this is new to me.”

“Not at all.” Lan Xichen’s fingers rested under his elbow, a tiny graceful reminder of how he’d caught Meng Yao’s bows short, and Meng Yao was just about to put a mental mark next to ‘enjoys teaching and misses it’ and lift his head when Lan Xichen continued, “So you truly are self taught, then? Mingjue-xiong said that he thought you might be, but that you learned so very quickly he couldn’t be sure.”

Meng Yao’s eyes shot back up, wide and startled, and he felt his heart beating quicker. Lan Xichen had been testing him, and he hadn’t even realized! The man’s smile was still gentle, though, still earnest when he added, “Clearly you have little true need of help, but I would be happy to assist with those questions you do have.”

“I…” Meng Yao’s thoughts jumbled together with the sudden shift in direction as he tried to fit this sharp perception and subtlety together with the through-line of Lan Xichen’s solicitous care for the servant of another sect. One he’d suspected was mostly untaught. But even before that, Lan Xichen had stepped forward to welcome and deftly defend him…

Defend him. The only one in the room who’d needed it.

Teach him. The only one present who did need it, and who might welcome it.

The conclusion settled into place, and Meng Yao’s racing thoughts settled around it. Lan Xichen wished to take care of those around him. To be able to do something for those around him. Between an uncle who probably still considered the Lan sect his own care, and a younger brother so clearly determined to be perfect, to be no trouble, no wonder Lan Xichen had learned to be subtle about it.

No wonder Meng Yao had caught his eye, just as Lan Xichen had caught Meng Yao’s. Their needs might fit together very well indeed.

Meng Yao didn’t have to feign the deep breath he took, or the nervous clasp of his hands. He’d never anticipated an opportunity like this path opening up before his feet, and it would be a risk to take it. He didn’t dare take the chance that Lan Xichen’s own want would entirely blind him; Meng Yao would have to offer up his own genuine need, to secure Lan Xichen’s action on his behalf. He would have to give more of his genuine self than he normally dared to. But in return he might find himself sheltered under the hand of the Lord of Wild Brilliance.

Meng Yao wet his lips and looked up to meet Lan Xichen’s gaze. “If my ignorance will not trouble you too greatly,” he took a tiny step toward Lan Xichen, “I would be deeply grateful for your instruction.”

It wasn’t until Lan Xichen’s smile softened and warmed that Meng Yao realized just how tightly he must have been restraining himself, waiting to see whether Meng Yao would accept or not. “It will be my pleasure.” This time, when he held out an arm to guide Meng Yao down the path, it curved closer around him. Unexpected warmth rushed through Meng Yao, from head to toe, so strong it stole his breath, and he ducked his head again as he walked on, close by Lan Xichen’s side.

Shelter. Genuine shelter. He’d thought he’d never feel it again.

When he got back to his rooms, Huaisang was out by the sitting room table. He took one look at Meng Yao and positively grinned. “So, did Zewu-jun find you?”

Meng Yao stopped short and considered entreating the Heavens for patience. “You hid and then told him where to find me,” he stated, because it really wasn’t a question at all.

Huaisang unfurled his fan with a delicate snap and blinked innocently over the edge of it. “Just being helpful to our host.”

Meng Yao laughed helplessly; perhaps Huaisang was learning a little more from his example than Nie Mingjue had quite anticipated. “Yes, he did, so you can desist now, truly.”

Huaisang made a satisfied little hum, and took himself off toward his sleeping room. Meng Yao shook his head and tried to regather his composure. His eyes fell on his notes, still sitting out.

Perhaps… perhaps he would just jot down a few questions to bring to Lan Xichen tomorrow.

Flipside

Nie Huaisang peeked around the corner of one of the more remote pavilions, and ducked back, gesturing to his companions to come closer. A grinning Wei Wuxian, trailed by a Jiang Wanyin who was rolling his eyes, scurried up to join him and they all peeked around the corner.

Lan Xichen sat on one of the benches inside, head tilted toward Meng Yao, who perched beside him, hands moving through the air as if he might shape whatever question he was asking that way.

In Huaisang’s rather expert opinion, the student uniform suited Meng Yao. The light-weight fabric showed how fine-boned he really was, and the simple white of them brought out how large and liquid and dark his eyes were. When Huaisang’s brother had first taken Meng Yao into the sect, Huaisang had wondered a little if having someone even smaller than he was around was supposed to be some kind of encouragement to pay more attention to the physical arts. After all, if Meng Yao could do it, presumably Huaisang could too. Meng Yao had turned out to be really nice, though! He’d only ever scolded a little, and he’d been quick to deflect any lectures from the sect elders about Huaisang’s duties. On the way here, he’d let Huaisang take time to catch the finch he’d spotted with only a rueful head-shake over it, and he’d headed off the drunk advances of that one man at the inn just over the border with no more than a glare. A really scary glare, admittedly, but the point was, Huaisang liked Meng Yao.

So of course he had to show off Meng Yao’s good luck to his other friends.

Lan Xichen said something back. The river was too close, here, to hear what, but his voice was low and gentle. Meng Yao listened raptly, face turned up to him like a flower to the sun.

“Wow,” Wei Wuxian whispered in a slightly awed tone. “You were absolutely right. He really does have it bad.”

“I know, right?” Huaisang grinned gleefully and then flapped his sleeve at them. “Oh, here, watch!”

Meng Yao said something, head cocked questioningly, and Lan Xichen nodded, giving him a warm and encouraging smile. Meng Yao burst into an answering smile, sweet and bright, just like a flower blooming.

“And he doesn’t even know it!” Huaisang whispered.

Wei Wuxian gave him a look of disbelief. “No,” he scoffed, “how could either of them possibly be missing it?”

“I’m not sure about Zewu-jun,” Huaisang admitted, “but Meng Yao has no idea. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know he’s in love, yet.” At Wei Wuxian’s astonished look, he turned his hands palm up, helpless. “He’ll figure it out eventually, I’m sure.”

“But it’s so obvious!” Before Wei Wuxian could protest any further on that, though, a straight figure in white moved into view on the bank of the river. It drew his attention like a hook sunk in a fish.

“Lan Zhan!” And Wei Wuxian was off, trotting down the path to catch up with Lan Wangji, whose stiff body language said he was maybe considering running the other way behind that flat expression. Wei Wuxian ignored this to drape an arm over Lan Wangji’s shoulders.

Huaisang exchanged the exasperated look of younger brothers everywhere with Jiang Wanyin. “He’s going to figure it out eventually, too,” Huaisang observed. “I just wonder if he’ll do it before Lan er-gongzi tries to cut his arm off.”

Jiang Wanyin’s mouth tightened. “Probably not,” he muttered, glowering after the sibling who’d abandoned them so abruptly. Huaisang patted his shoulder in sympathy.

And then he peeked back around the corner, because entertainment this amazing was hard to come by. Besides, he’d need to know exactly when to push a little harder, to get Meng Yao to figure things out.

Huaisang hid a grin. There were some compensations for always being the little brother.

1. Lan Xichen’s title is 泽芜君 Zewu-jun. 泽 Ze is fairly easy to read here as luster/shine; I quite like the reading of "brilliant," it comes in useful forms for this title. But translating 芜 wu straightforwardly as overgrown misses the wonderful opportunity to take advantage of the "grown wild" connotation. Therefore, I’m rendering it here as Lord of Wild Brilliance, which has more of the clout one expects from Lan Xichen. back

Becoming the Phoenix – Two

Lan Xichen continues tutoring Meng Yao, who eventually does realize that Lan Xichen is actually interested in him. Eventually. Drama with quite obvious Romance, I-2

Character(s): Lan Wangji, Lan Xichen, Meng Yao, Nie Huaisang

Pairing(s): Lan Xichen/Meng Yao

Meng Yao hadn’t directly answered, when Lan Xichen had asked him if he enjoyed scholarship, largely because at the time, the answer would have been no. As the summer progressed, though, he thought his answer was changing. Or more precisely, that he was learning what scholarship actually was. It was nothing like the struggle to make sense of the fragments of truth and fraud his mother had scraped together for him. Day on day passed with no urgent demand on his time, no concern about sustenance or work. Lan Qiren’s classes were strict, but simple. All Meng Yao needed to do was read and remember, to connect stories together into philosophies and theories together into cosmologies. When he found himself halted by a gap in his knowledge, Lan Xichen brought him texts on history and the natural sciences to span the distance, so clearly pleased with the project that Meng Yao found himself spending more then one evening sitting by the river as dusk fell, discussing his thoughts with Lan Xichen more freely than he could have imagined a single month ago.

“Wei-gongzi said it to provoke, certainly,” he said tonight, trailing his fingers through the icy chill of the pool they sat beside and watching the ripples flow away, “but the Nie sect itself chooses to make use of the kind of rage that can become malice, at death, does it not? The entire saber form is grounded in the ferocity of anger against injustice.” It was, after all, one of the reasons he’d chosen Nie to approach, after his disastrous experience with Jin. “Is that not, at the root, the same as what he described?”

“Both of you think deeply on these things. It’s no wonder the answers usually given the juniors are not enough to satisfy you.” Lan Xichen, seated above Meng Yao on one of the taller stones, leaned his elbows on his knees, regarding his clasped hands. “Justice is not a singular or simple thing. Consider that, in rousing the headsman’s victims from their graves to use their resentment to disperse his lingering ghost, one sort of justice would be served. Their resentment might be appeased. But in the process, would we not have endangered any chance they might have had to rest properly, by desecrating their bodies? The members of the Nie sect, especially the Masters of the sect, risk themselves by calling on the fury they do, but they risk only themselves. They do not disturb the path of other spirits. That may be as close to righteousness as can be.”

Meng Yao pursed his lips at that, because he had heard murmurs of at least one Nie ancestral rite that had claimed other lives. Had that been willing? Truly? When he glanced up at Lan Xichen, though, the man was smiling down at him, a little crooked, a little sad. It put such an unexpected twist through his chest to see that sadness that he reached out at once to touch Lan Xichen’s knee, leaning toward him. “I didn’t mean…”

“Shh.” Lan Xichen’s hand covered his gently. “This is the realm of mortals. None of us is perfect. All we can do is strive toward greater understanding.” His smile warmed. “As you do.”

The sweet security of Lan Xichen’s regard wrapped around him like a blanket on a cold night, and he relaxed into it as he was finding it increasingly easier to do. A little alarmingly so, to be honest.

It wasn’t that the whispers had stopped. They’d merely been swept a little deeper into the dark corners. They’d even taken a turn for the vicious, for a little while. Soon after he started bringing his questions to Lan Xichen, he’d heard at least one remark about taking after his mother.

Unfortunately for the Chang disciple who’d spoken, he’d been injudicious enough to say it where Lan Wangji could hear. Lan Wangji had turned such an icy glare on the Chang disciple that Meng Yao had honestly thought the boy might piss himself in fear. While he knew it had been entirely due to the slur on Lan Xichen, and no favor to him, he’d still treasured up the memory of the Chang boy’s expression, storing it away in his heart next to the face Jin Zixuan had made the day he’d answered incorrectly that a spirit of rage could only be appeased with blood. Lan Qiren had called on Meng Yao to answer correctly that rage-filled spirits could also be soothed, if one could learn enough of the spirit’s past to find something meaningful to them—a beloved song or the memory of a cherished person. Meng Yao treasured the look the entire Jin contingent had worn, really, but Jin Zixuan’s especially.

So it wasn’t that the infuriating whispers had stopped. It was just so much easier to ignore them when Lan Xichen smiled at him.

Meng Yao always looked for isolated places, when he wanted to practice the sword. He had no form, to speak of; he’d started far too late and had far too piecemeal instruction for his form to be very coherent. It was one of the things most persistently pointed to when cultivators wished for a pretext besides his birth to denigrate him, so he tried not to provide more opportunities than he could help.

It was also why he started so violently when he heard someone behind him, in the grove he’d found far off the regular paths of Cloud Recesses, balance wobbling as he tried to retrieve his sword and turn at the same time.

“Easy!” Strong hands caught his elbows and set him back upright, and he looked up into Lan Xichen’s concerned gaze. “My apologies; I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Meng Yao flushed hot and looked down at his toes. “No, I should have been paying more attention.” There was quiet for a moment, and threads of old tension wound up his back.

“Meng Yao.” His head shot up, eyes wide at the outright coaxing in Lan Xichen’s voice. Lan Xichen slid his hands up to rest on Meng Yao’s shoulders. “Surely you don’t think I would mock you?”

“No, no of course not.” His tension started to ease under Lan Xichen’s hands, soothed away by the memory of the respect Lan Xichen had always offered him.

And then Lan Xichen smiled, the smile that meant someone had, of their own will, walked to exactly where he wanted them. “Then will you favor me with the opportunity to guide this practice of yours?”

Meng Yao sighed, rueful; yes, he had walked into that. His nerves, still taut from years of denials, protested the thought, but if those memories ran deeper, the memories of Lan Xichen’s gentle encouragement this summer were closer and brighter. “If you truly think it won’t be a waste of time,” he said, low. “I know I started the sword too late to ever truly master it.”

Lan Xichen’s brows rose, and for once he looked every bit the Master of Lan. “And who told you that? I assure you, they were mistaken.”

Meng Yao’s hands clasped on each other, tight with the sudden leap of hope. “You… you really think so?”

Lan Xichen smiled. “I know so. Come here.” He led Meng Yao back to the center of the clearing and stood close behind him, hands on his shoulders. “Start with your breath. Breathe in, and feel your body and qi gather like a drawn bow. Breathe out, and feel the release of force.”

Automatically following the quiet instructions, Meng Yao breathed deep, and indeed he felt a compression through his chest and spine. Letting the breath go, listening to Lan Xichen describe what should be, he felt the little surge running like a ripple through his whole body. It did feel like release, and that image of a bow caught in his mind. “Oh.” His eyes widened. “That’s why those manuals said to move on the exhale. To ride that release and use the greatest potential moment of strength and motion.”

“Precisely.” Lan Xichen’s hands squeezed his shoulders gently. “Step with me, so you can feel it. Foot forward on the exhale. Shift through the center on the inhale, lightly, yes like that, gathering. And focus it all forward on the exhale.”

It was so easy, with Lan Xichen’s voice in his ear, with the perfectly balanced shift of his body at Meng Yao’s back to guide him, and for the first time he flowed through a step, just like the most frustrating manuals had described (though never well enough to replicate).

“Excellent.” Lan Xichen sounded downright smug, and Meng Yao craned his head back to look up at him with a laugh. Lan Xichen’s smile was just as pleased with himself as it had sounded, but Meng Yao dared to think some of that satisfaction was for him, too.

“Can you show me one more time, please?” he asked, a bit shy with the residual awareness that Lan Xichen was more or less embracing him, but above all eager with the bright sense of understanding almost in his grasp.

“As often as you need,” Lan Xichen promised, hands settling lightly on Meng Yao’s hips. “Come back to neutral stance to start. Try not bending your knees quite so deeply, this time, just enough to feel loose. Listen to what your body says is enough.”

Meng Yao listened intently, moving with the light touches until he settled into a kind of openness, in muscle and bone and qi, that he’d never felt before. It might have alarmed him, without the steady reassurance of Lan Xichen at his back, just as relaxed.

With that presence, that steady support, for once he didn’t feel afraid of anything.

At first, Meng Yao was too caught up in his discussion with Lan Xichen to realize that they were walking through one of the larger, and therefore more public, courtyards.

“…I didn’t have the context to see it, when Huaisang first mentioned, but now I think he truly does have a deep intuitive sense of how the celestial cycles can be used to heighten even the smallest action.” He looked up at Lan Xichen, pacing slowly beside him, and happiness fluttered up in his chest at the quiet interest in the tilt of Lan Xichen’s head toward him. “I suppose I can understand why most cultivators don’t rely much on those things in the field. You can’t count on being able to pick the most advantageous direction for attack or for binding, and those who haven’t made a deep study of astronomy probably wouldn’t be able to modify a trap or talisman on the moment to take best advantage of the season or time of day. But if you have studied it… I just can’t help thinking that Huaisang’s approach to cultivation could be very advantageous.”

A flurry of white at the corner of his eye made him look around and realize they weren’t alone. And that Huaisang had turned from whatever he was laughing over with Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin to stare at Meng Yao, face soft with shock. Meng Yao felt his own face heat; he hadn’t held forth on his developing theories to anyone but Lan Xichen, yet. He dared a quick nod, though, because he did, more and more, think the Nie sect should be valuing Huaisang’s studies.

“Indeed,” Lan Xichen said, quiet but carrying, so gracefully indirect that it made Meng Yao a little breathless just to watch, “without the scholars among us, how should we advance as a society?”

Huaisang promptly hid behind his fan. Meng Yao thought he might be blushing, and smiled up at Lan Xichen, warm and grateful on his charge’s behalf. The answering warmth in Lan Xichen’s eyes nearly made him stumble.

Far more quietly, carrying only between the two of them, Lan Xichen murmured, “Your heart to care for those in your charge is a treasure as well.”

Yet again, Meng Yao felt a tug on the deepest part of his heart, one he’d been feeling more and more sharply all summer—half pleasure that Lan Xichen thought such things of him and half a desire to do more. To truly earn the regard Lan Xichen gave him so generously. He ducked his head, a little flustered by it.

Lan Xichen smiled quietly and rested a hand at the small of his back, guiding him toward the path that led beside one of the less frequented streams. Meng Yao could feel Huaisang smirking from across the courtyard, but couldn’t quite stop his whole body from inclining to Lan Xichen, moving with that gentle touch.

From the knot of Jin disciples on the other side of the courtyard came a faint sniff and mutter of, “Such a suck up.”

If Meng Yao hadn’t still had Huaisang in the corner of his eye, mildly alert for any teasing, he’d never have seen the split second narrowing of Huaisang’s eyes or the tiny, sharp gesture mostly hidden in his sleeve. Even so, he was nearly as startled as everyone else by the abrupt yelp and splash as one of the Jin disciples tripped over nothing and fell flat in the stream.

The water flowed along the north side of this courtyard, Meng Yao’s recent studies prompted him to note, in just the conjunction of element and direction that might make even the smallest and most fleeting talisman of freezing stick a foot very firmly motionless.

Huaisang fanned himself languidly, looking on with perfect innocence as the other disciple hauled himself out of the water, sputtering. The two Jiang disciples smirked behind him, Wei Wuxian with an elbow propped on Huaisang’s shoulder and a sidelong look that suggested he might have caught it, too. Meng Yao ducked his head, fighting not to laugh. If nothing else, this summer had convinced him that Huaisang did have the Nie clan temper, in his own form.

Lan Xichen graciously pretended not to notice the Jin disciple’s disarray, nodding a perfectly kind and composed greeting as he led Meng Yao out of the courtyard. Meng Yao composed himself likewise and passed by with lowered eyes and quiet reserve, mood considerably bolstered by a little inward glow over Huaisang’s sharp defense.

“It’s good to see that your care is returned,” Lan Xichen murmured as they passed under the dappled shade of the tall, straight trees, “but I trust Huaisang won’t be tempted to make too much trouble.”

“I’ll speak with him,” Meng Yao promised, even though it would almost certainly mean another round of gleeful teasing.

Anything he could to do keep matters as Lan Xichen liked them, he thought he probably would.

Meng Yao sat on one of the flat boulders beside the waterfall with his arms around his knees, breathing carefully, steadily, trying to control the dragon of rage and hurt that twisted through his chest.

Today had not been a good day.

He’d noticed, last night, that his notes had been moved, but he’d only thought that Huaisang might have been looking for the good ink brushes. This was Cloud Recesses, where order was strictly kept. He hadn’t really thought that it might have been one of the other summer students snooping until the morning lecture, when Chang Yun (again!) had answered Lan Qiren’s question about techniques that might allow use of a sword against a possessing spirit without killing the victim. It had been, word for word, Meng Yao’s own description of qi extension along the blade’s edge that Lan Xichen had taught him a few days ago. Lan Qiren had looked approving, and Meng Yao had felt such rage sweep through him that he was almost surprised none of his papers had caught fire from it.

His only consolation had been that Chang Yun hadn’t been able to answer any following questions, and that when Lan Qiren, now looking a bit disappointed and not particularly hopeful, had asked the rest of them if anyone could expand on Chang Yun’s insight, Meng Yao had been able to add that the technique was both limited by the cultivator’s breath control and also strengthened by familiarity with the victim. If the victim’s qi was known to the cultivator’s, then the possessing spirit would be easier to perceive and target.

But the whole thing had thrown him straight back to his troubles in the Unclean Realm and—

“Meng Yao?”

Meng Yao started violently, yanked out of his thoughts, and it was only Lan Xichen’s quick hand under his arm that kept him out of the river. Lan Xichen swiftly settled beside him in a billow of blue robes, frowning. “Meng Yao, what’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“I…” His teeth locked on his own words, hurt and fear fresh and sharp in his heart. Would he even be believed? How could he argue against everyone’s certainty that the son of a prostitute could not possibly be as accomplished, intelligent, worthy as the children of who had been born to the cultivation world?

An arm curved around his shoulders. “Won’t you tell me?” Lan Xichen coaxed.

Perhaps it was simply the unaccustomed comfort of the arm around him, but Meng Yao felt like something in him snapped, and the whole story rushed out of him in a flood—the certainty that Chang Yun had snooped in his notes to steal his ideas, the multiple times the Nie field commander had done the same, first by as-if-friendly conversations and later by outright eavesdropping, presenting Meng Yao’s ideas about patrol patterns through Qinghe or even budget plans as his own, raising himself in Nie-zongzhu’s estimation, and always, always trying to grind Meng Yao back into obscurity, into the brutality of the world he’d tried so hard to leave, only to find the same brutality here, dressed in finer clothes. He was shaking by the end of it, fingers wound into the fabric over his knees, whole body drawn in on himself, voice gone hoarse. “Sometimes, I just want to…” He cut himself off again, wincing with the twist of his heart, because he wanted so much for Lan Xichen to think well of him, but it was still the truth. He did find himself wishing for just a little time alone with those people, just him and them and a knife.

The arm around him tightened a little. “You are better than that,” Lan Xichen said, quiet and sure. His absolute certainty knocked the breath out of Meng Yao’s lungs, and when he pulled in another it shook, but it went all the way down. Slowly, he straightened enough to look up at Lan Xichen.

“Am I?” he asked, and felt that he needed to ask, because he hardly knew any longer, not when Lan Xichen’s eyes were on him.

They were dark and steady, now, and Lan Xichen lifted a hand to cup Meng Yao’s cheek. “You are,” he said, so firmly that it left room for nothing else.

Meng Yao swayed into his hand, shaken down to the core of him and yet not able to deny it. Not when Lan Xichen said it, and he knew in his heart that he would do as Lan Xichen wished. “I…” he swallowed hard. “All right.”

Lan Xichen’s smile was so warm. “That being so, will you allow me to speak to Mingjue-xiong about this?”

“I… But…” Meng Yao shook his head in protest. “There’s no proof!”

“Perhaps I will bring you some jurisprudence to read next.” Lan Xichen stroked a thumb along his cheek. “Uncle thought there was something odd, you know, about Chang Yun not being able to answer any deeper questions about what he said was a technique he’d thought of on his own.”

Meng Yao couldn’t do more than blink at him, stunned, and Lan Xichen shook his head, smile turning wry.

“Actions and thoughts leave marks of themselves behind, always. If I bring you to see Uncle, and he examines you on that sword technique, won’t you be able to answer all the questions that Chang Yun could not, and more? And if Mingjue-xiong asks his field commander about how he came to think of those patrol patterns, will he not be caught just as foolishly short?”

Meng Yao chewed on his lip. It sounded reasonable, yes, but he was still what he was and… his breath caught as Lan Xichen’s thumb stroked over his lip, this time, coaxing it loose from his teeth.

“A-Yao,” Lan Xichen said, softly, “will you let me speak to them?”

“I… that is… of course.” He hardly knew what he was saying, too stunned by the sudden understanding that Lan Xichen hadn’t just been enjoying someone to teach, all this summer. He’d been courting Meng Yao.

Lan Xichen. One of the Twin Jades of Lan.

Had been courting Meng Yao.

“Thank you.” Lan Xichen’s smile had turned more intent, and far more personal. “As I have not yet the right to be first to take action on your behalf… I will speak with them.”

Tingling warmth rushed through Meng Yao from head to toe at the thought that Lan Xichen intended to claim that right, and he had to wet his lips before he could speak. “Then I will rely on you,” he said, husky, and dared to add, “Xichen-xiong.”

Lan Xichen’s smile widened, and he leaned in to kiss Meng Yao once, gentle and restrained, so clearly restrained that anticipation curled, tight and heated, low in Meng Yao’s stomach. “That would please me very much,” Lan Xichen murmured against Meng Yao’s lips.

Meng Yao leaned into him, thoroughly breathless and deliberately pliant, and a little thrill ran through him as Lan Xichen’s arm tightened around him in response. He felt a little like he was falling, so many things he’d thought would be necessary, so many things he’d once planned, slipping out of his open hands and unraveling in the sweet rush of this new thing.

Or possibly not so new, and he ducked his head against Xichen’s shoulder, face heating as he thought back over all the moments of attention, of courtship, that were so obvious in retrospect.

“When you’re ready,” Xichen said softly, against his hair. “I will wait.”

That gentle courtesy, the unfailing respect that Xichen had offered him from the start, anchored so deeply in his heart that it made him shiver and press closer. “Thank you, Xichen-xiong.” He didn’t think it would take him long at all, to be ready, but there were some things he should finish for the Nie sect. That was for later, though.

For now, he curled deeper into the circle of Xichen’s arm and let himself rest there.

Flipside

Whenever they were both in the Cloud Recesses, Wangji’s brother tried to make time for them to eat together. Wangji liked those meals, liked the feeling of having his brother all to himself for a little while instead of needing to share him with the entire sect. He tried hard to not be selfish about it, but he still liked these little times when it was just the two of them.

Tonight, though, his brother seemed to be thinking of something else, smiling at nothing as he divided the last of the dumplings between them. The dumplings were tasty, but not enough to warrant that kind of expression. “Xiongzhang,” Wangji asked, hesitantly, “are you…” He trailed off, unsure quite what words he wanted to put to this.

His brother looked up to meet his eyes, and his smile immediately softened into the one Wangji recognized as his, the one that was just for him. “I’m sorry, Wangji. I’ve probably been a bit distracted, lately, haven’t I?”

Wangji looked down, not wanting to be disrespectful and say so, but agreeing nevertheless. His brother reached over to lay his hand over Wangji’s, and the formless anxiety wrapping itself around his spine eased a little. Their hands were so similar; he liked remembering that.

“You’ve probably noticed that I’ve been interested in Meng-gongzi.”

Wangji didn’t think he twitched, but his brother’s hand tightened on his anyway.

“I meant to speak of this, once I was sure enough.” His brother smiled. “Perhaps I am, now. I wish Meng Yao for my cultivation partner.”

Anxiety surged up again, laced with echoes of empty rooms and his uncle’s voice turning harsh. “Someone outside the sect?” he asked, trying to be calm.

“No one from within the sect has moved my heart,” his brother said, simply, as if it were truly that easy, as if duty and discretion had no part in the decision. His brother smiled for him, warm and gentle. “The heart is not always wise, perhaps, but we ignore it at our peril. The heart drives us, Wangji, acknowledged or not.”

“But—” Wangji bit off his protest and lowered his eyes.

His brother’s hand stayed wrapped over his, steady and sure. “Tell me, Wangji. I don’t wish to wound your heart in this, either.”

He drew a breath and spoke to his bowl. “Should the heart be let to drive who stands beside the Master of Lan?”

“I think it must, yes.” He looked up, more than a little startled by the quiet certainty in his brother’s voice. “If I cannot trust my partner with my own heart, how can I possibly trust them with my sect?”

Wangji blinked, feeling like his brother had tipped the world sideways. He hadn’t thought of this as a matter of trust, before. And then his brother’s smile took on the teasing quirk he’d started to dread the appearance of, this summer.

“If you relied only on the rules to judge Wei-gongzi, I doubt you would ever trust him. And yet, does your heart not tell you that he can be trusted?”

Wangji tried not to glower, but his brother was making it very difficult. “Xiongzhang.”

His brother patted his hand, obviously laughing behind that little smile. “Just a thought, Wangji.”

Wangji refrained from snorting with disbelief, and instead took a pointed bite of the last dumpling.

And very definitely did not think about what his heart told him of Wei Wuxian.

Becoming the Phoenix – Three

Meng Yao and Lan Xichen are courting. Nie Huaisang is very entertained. Lan Wangji is more dubious about the whole matter. Romance, Drama with a dash of politics, I-2

Character(s): Jin Zixuan, Lan Xichen, Luo Qingyang, Meng Yao, Nie Huaisang

Pairing(s): Lan Xichen/Meng Yao

Many things had abruptly become easier for Meng Yao.

After Chang Yun was ejected in disgrace from the Lan summer lectures, whispers about Meng Yao had hushed, for the first time in his entire life. It was a little stunning, to be able to walk abroad without careful calculation of dangers and politics and how deferential he had to be to whom.

He kept the manners Huaisang had helped him polish drawn about him, of course, but the sudden freedom felt like a yoke of filled water buckets suddenly falling off his shoulders.

And whenever he was with Lan Xichen, so many of his habitual calculations dissolved in the warm glow of Xichen’s attention. For once in his life, Meng Yao was spending most of his time unreservedly happy, and a little dazed by the fact.

Sword practice did get a bit more difficult, though.

“This will finish with a lunge, so start rotating through the inside now. It stabilizes the sword and contains your qi more tightly. That will strengthen the blow, as you complete it.” Xichen’s palm slid down the inside of Meng Yao’s forearm, demonstrating the rotation, and a gasp caught in Meng Yao’s throat at the warmth of the touch, promptly disrupting his breath control.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized at once, frustrated with himself. He had better focus than this.

Xichen laid a finger very lightly against his lips. “It doesn’t displease me,” he murmured, and Meng Yao lost what little control his still had of his breath, eyes widening helplessly as heat rolled through him like a wave.

“Xichen-xiong,” he said, against that hushing finger, half protesting and half wanting more. Xichen’s smile turned a little rueful and he gathered Meng Yao close, just holding him for a moment.

“It is a little of why I meant to wait until the end of summer to declare myself,” he admitted as Meng Yao slowly relaxed against him. “But I’m selfish enough that I like how freely you answer me, a-Yao. Forgive me?”

“Anything,” Meng Yao agreed, softly.

Xichen chuckled and leaned back enough to look down at him, clearly amused. “I’m not the only one who likes to say romantic things, hm?”

Meng Yao just smiled. It was the bare truth, though he rather hoped they were never in circumstances that would lead Xichen to see this truth in action. “So, I should rotate inward in the moment I begin to shift forward?”

“Precisely.” Xichen dropped a light kiss on his forehead and stepped back. “Show me.”

Meng Yao regathered his concentration. He might never be a brilliant swordsman, but after a summer of Xichen’s tutoring he anticipated being an irreproachably competent one. He was certainly bending all his effort on that goal.

He never wanted Xichen to be ashamed of him before the other sects.

“I told you so,” Huaisang sing-songed under his breath.

“Huaisang.”

“He’s standing right there watching you.”

“Huaisang.”

“Why don’t you ask if he’ll help with your lantern?”

Meng Yao pinched the bridge of his nose, holding his brush clear of the paper so he didn’t ruin the flowing water he was drawing. Water, not clouds, water. And if there was a camellia traced inside one swirl, that was no one’s business but his. “Huaisang,” he growled.

Huaisang folded a gilded paper seam delicately around the frame of his lantern, smirking. “Just a suggestion.”

Meng Yao added the final lines to his drawing, firmly refraining from looking over his shoulder at where Xichen stood beside his uncle, watching over the summer students. He could still feel the weight of Xichen’s attention, and the heat in his cheeks that had probably started Huaisang’s teasing. “You’re getting a great deal of fun out of someone else’s courtship, Huaisang. I didn’t know your preferences ran that way.”

Huaisang sputtered and then laughed, lifting both hands. “All right, all right, I’ll stop.”

“Good.” Meng Yao calmly lifted both their lanterns out of the way of Wei Wuxian’s precipitous retreat from an irate-looking Lan Wangji.

“Sorry, sorry!” Wei Wuxian laughed as he fended off both Lan Wangji and Huaisang, now, as Huaisang protested his carelessness around such fine working materials. Meng Yao let himself silently enjoy even this small inclusion in their horse-play. It felt nice.

As dusk started to fall and they all started passing around slivers of burning wood to light the lanterns, he checked the wicks in both his and Huaisang’s, and smiled indulgently at Huaisang’s count of three. He lofted his lantern gently up at the same moment as Huaisang. The white shapes drifted up, dark against the lingering light in the sky but lit from within and starting to glow faintly.

Huaisang clasped his hands and intoned fervently, “I wish to successfully complete my education, and not come back next year.”

Meng Yao couldn’t stifle a laugh. “We’ll work on that a little harder, then,” he murmured. He ignored Huaisang’s abruptly appalled look, and closed his eyes, forming his own prayer in his heart.

Please. Let me belong here.

He didn’t realize he’d actually whispered it aloud until Xichen’s hand closed warm on his shoulder, and Xichen said, just as softly, “You will.”

Meng Yao looked up and around at him, clasped hands pressed tight to his chest. The ready promise of a true place, so clear in the steadiness of Xichen’s eyes on him, made his knees weak the way even Xichen’s touch didn’t.

Xichen smiled faintly and repeated, soft and certain. “You will.”

Meng Yao bent his head, leaning just a little into Xichen’s hand, and nodded, accepting. When he regathered his composure enough to look up, it was to see Huaisang had wandered a few steps away and was playing his fan gently while staring off into the surrounding mountains, standing between Meng Yao and the sidelong glances of most of the other summer students.

Xichen chuckled. “I see. So he’s the only one allowed to tease you?”

Meng Yao made a rueful face. “Apparently. To be honest, I think Nie-zongzhu took me on in large part for Huaisang’s sake. It seems to have worked.”

“Perhaps at first it was for Huaisang’s sake.” Meng Yao’s cheeks heated again at Xichen’s gentle refusal to let him denigrate himself. “I hope the two of you will continue close.”

Meng Yao looked down, smiling, and admitted. “After this summer, I find it hard to imagine otherwise.”

And that made him very happy. But he also couldn’t ignore the weight of Xichen’s brother’s eyes on him, cool and measuring and not particularly pleased, before Lan Wangji turned his attention back to Wei Wuxian. This whole matter of having extended family seemed very fraught, from where he was standing.

On the other hand, perhaps what worked with Huaisang would work here, as well: simply taking care of what was placed in his charge.

He would give that some thought.

With only two weeks of the summer lectures left, Meng Yao thought he finally dared to give in to Xichen’s silent, subtle invitations, and walk with him back to Xichen’s rooms. For tea. In the sitting room. With the screens open. And while a tiny part of him wished otherwise, most of him relaxed at the careful, courteous propriety.

Xichen’s sober expression as he contemplated his delicate greenware cup, though, suggested that dalliance was the last thing on his mind.

“Xichen-xiong?” he asked, a bit tentative. “Something seems to occupy your thoughts.”

Xichen shook himself and looked up with a faint smile. “There is, yes. And… I believe it’s something you ought to know.” His smile softened. “Given that you are considering becoming the partner of the Master of Lan.”

Meng Yao ducked his head, trying to collect himself from the wave of giddy delight that swept through him. It was the first time Xichen had said it in so many words. If he was putting it in these terms, though, this was probably about politics. Meng Yao set his cup down neatly and folded his hands. “What is it?”

Xichen sobered again. “Since the founding of the sect, our clan has guarded and kept seal on a fragment of the yin metal Xue Chonghai crafted. Just recently, Wangji and Wei-gongzi,” his mouth quirked, “stumbled into the Cold Spring where it has been kept. Lan Yi, who has kept it sealed there all these years, released it into their hands.”

Meng Yao took in a quick breath, thoughts flashing over the history books that Xichen had brought him this summer. The yin metal shaped by Xue Chonghai had been scattered, they said. And yet, now he also remembered rumors and whispers drifting by that Wen Ruohan had found a piece. “Do the fragments call to each other, then? Is the piece Lan guarded moving because of the piece the Wen sect found?”

Xichen smiled, though it wasn’t entirely a happy one. “You’ve always been very swift of thought, a-Yao. That is my fear, yes.” He took a slow breath. “As it was released into Wangji’s hands, we are considering allowing him to seek for the other pieces.”

Which would, it went without saying, put Lan in direct conflict with Wen. “Are you…?” Meng Yao bit his lip, uncertain.

“A-Yao.” Xichen reached across the table to cup his cheek, thumb gently coaxing his lip free of his teeth. “You can always speak your thoughts to me.”

Meng Yao nodded slowly, holding tight to the trust Xichen had built in his heart all this summer. “Are you sure it’s necessary to stand against Wen?” he asked, softly.

“I’m afraid so.” Xichen’s mouth hardened into a tight line. “We’ve started seeing people, some of them from our own sect, attacked with foul techniques. People with their spiritual consciousness stolen or drained away, leaving them little more than corpse puppets.”

Meng Yao swallowed hard against a rising gorge, trying very hard not to imagine what it might be like to have his own cultivation, the thing that had let him break free from his mother’s world, turned against him like that. “The yin metal,” he whispered. “The chronicles said it consumed spirits. I thought they just meant spiritual energy.”

“Apparently not.” Xichen rubbed a hand over his face, looking tired. “I don’t know precisely when or how, but if Wen Ruohan continues to pursue this path… then yes, we must stand against him. I will start to sound out the other sects and try to gather support without exposing ourselves too badly.”

“Does that mean you’ll leave Jin for last?” Meng Yao offered with a tiny smile. To his pleasure, Xichen laughed softly.

“I did say you were swift of thought.” More seriously, he added, “And if you wish to think on this before you give me an answer, I assure you I will not take it amiss. A war among the sects is nothing I ever wished to ask you to involve yourself in.”

Fear still shivered through Meng Yao at the thought of committing to a fight against the Wen sect, given what rumor said of their numbers and wealth and vicious brutality. But the other great sects were not weak. If they banded together, they could match Wen’s numbers. And one thing this summer had allowed him to understand more viscerally than ever before was the power of the strongest cultivators. Nie Mingjue. Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji. He had heard rather terrifying things of Yu Ziyuan, Jiang-furen, this summer. And if he wasn’t mistaken, Wei Wuxian truly was a match for Lan Wangji, despite his carefree manner.

Together, it might well be possible.

“My answer has not changed,” he said, soft and sure, lifting his chin to meet Xichen’s eyes. “If you will have me, I am yours.” More shyly, he finally voiced a thought he’d taken a good deal of pleasure in, since Xichen first spoke. “Even my name tells us I was meant for you, does it not?”²

Xichen took in a swift breath, eyes going darker, and Meng Yao couldn’t help a spark of glee that he could affect Xichen the same way Xichen affected him. “A-Yao.” Xichen slid around the side of the table and reached out to close his hands gently around Meng Yao’s face. His kiss was gentle, too, but there was such restrained heat in it that Meng Yao swayed into him, hands coming up to spread against Xichen’s chest, unstrung by the depth of passion that single kiss promised. “You were well named,” Xichen murmured against his lips. “Never doubt it.”

“If you say it, then I won’t,” Meng Yao promised, voice gone husky. He was glad Xichen stayed close, one arm curving around him, because he felt very in need of something to lean against. He’d only heard that low, velvety tone from Xichen once or twice, and it turned his bones to water every time.

“Well, then,” Xichen said after a moment, tone lighter, “perhaps this is a good moment for something I’ve been meaning to do.” He drew a small cloth packet out of his robes and offered it to Meng Yao.

Meng Yao took it with a questioning look up at Xichen, but Xichen only smiled, so he carefully folded the pale blue silk back to see what was inside. When he did, his breath caught.

It was a hair ornament, not too much larger than the one he wore now, but rather than the pewter that the Nie sect favorited, this one was made of curving lines of bright silver. If he wore this, any cultivator’s first glance would take him for part of the Lan sect. “Xichen-xiong,” he whispered.

“You do belong here,” Xichen said quietly, gathering him closer. “Settle matters with Mingjue-xiong, and then return to me?”

Meng Yao turned his face into Xichen’s shoulder, blinking back the stinging in his eyes, and nodded.

A place of his own, to return to, was worth any danger that came with it.

Flipside

Jin Zixuan didn’t know quite what he was feeling.

It had been happening a lot, this summer.

First there was his (technically) betrothed, who he had been prepared to have to keep at a distance, prepared to find overeager to be connected with the Jin sect and the Jin heir. Except that she didn’t seem to be. She’d smiled in a kind way, when they’d met, and he was fairly sure it was hope he kept seeing in her eyes, but she didn’t pursue him at all. Quite the contrary, she turned away so easily, every time, that he was left feeling maybe she didn’t want this after all.

Well he was hardly going to be the one to pursue her!

Although it was possible Wei Wuxian had just a tiny bit of a point about being more polite to his (technically) betrothed. Not that it was Wei Wuxian’s place to demand any such thing, but there might be a little bit of a point under all the yelling. But by the time Jin Zixuan got done rebuffing the yelling, as he was absolutely within his rights to do, he’d usually lost the moment to consider the point.

It was all very frustrating.

And then there was Meng Yao.

The whispering among the other students had been the first he’d heard that he allegedly had a half-brother at the Lan lectures, and it hadn’t been a pleasant way to find out. He thought he’d contained himself well, had comported himself as his mother and father would, each in their own separate way, wish him to, and dismissed the gossip of lesser sects as beneath his notice. But he hadn’t been able to help actually noticing. All the more when Lan-zongzhu himself had taken Meng Yao under his wing.

Even Jin Zixuan had wondered, just a little, about what Meng Yao could possibly be providing that would interest a man of Lan Xichen’s stature. The memory of thinking that had smarted when it became clearer that Meng Yao was very intelligent.

No, not just intelligent. Perceptive. Sharp. It wasn’t uncommon, at this point, to spot him wandering the Cloud Recesses at Lan Xichen’s side, speaking animatedly about the theoretical and philosophical basis of cultivation.

On the one hand, Jin Zixuan approved. Blood would tell. On the other… even he had trouble following some of that. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the fact, especially on top of Wei Wuxian’s alarming and unorthodox but undeniably fascinating theories, tossed into the middle of lectures like a stone into still water.

The two brightest among the summer students were…

Well, he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

“Gongzi, the packing is almost done.” Luo Qingyang leaned in the open doors of his rooms, arms crossed. “Are you really not going to speak to Jiang-guniang before we go?”

“Why should I?” he asked, snappish with his own uncertainty and reflecting darkly on the drawbacks of having people around him who were raised to be his retainers, and therefore far too familiar. In every sense of the word.

Demonstrating his point, Luo Qingyang huffed an exasperated sigh. “Because you’re going to be married to her, and that’s not going to be very nice if she thinks you hate her?”

“I don’t hate her,” he muttered, wishing his retinue had been just a little less efficient about packing his things away so he’d have something to fidget with.

“Yes, but have you given her any reason to think you don’t?” she asked with elaborate patience. At his silence, she shook her head and said, more gently, “Just think about it, Gongzi.” As she left, he sighed to himself, very quietly.

This would all be so much easier if he just knew how he felt about it all.

2. For those following along at home, Meng Yao’s given name, 瑶, means ‘precious stone’ or ‘jade’—that is, something fine and precious, very much in the sense that the Twin Jades of Lan is used, which makes he and Lan Xichen all kinds of poetically matching. *sprinkles hearts all over them* back

Becoming the Phoenix – Four

Political violence erupts, and Meng Yao and Lan Xichen find each other through it. Drama with politics, Romance, Porn, I-4

Character(s): Lan Qiren, Lan Xichen, Meng Yao, Nie Mingjue

Pairing(s): Lan Xichen/Meng Yao

Meng Yao had been having quite a nice day. A nice season, even.

He’d kept Huaisang out of the very worst of the trouble he’d tried to find by running about with Wei Wuxian, and Nie-zongzhu hadn’t held it against Meng Yao that Huaisang had slipped out of the Cloud Recesses a day or two before him and promptly vanished on some jaunt of his own.

“He’ll be all right,” Nie-zongzhu had said gruffly, drumming his fingers on his writing table with an agitation Meng Yao refrained from pointing out. “More importantly, next time a member of my sect is acting like some Wen hooligan, boy, tell me about it! I won’t have that kind of thing in the Nie sect!”

“Yes, Zongzhu,” Meng Yao had answered politely, eyes lowered. As always, this deflected Nie-zongzhu, and after a moment more of glowering he had laughed, low and rough.

“Not that for much longer, hm?” He’d raked his glance over the, admittedly, very pale white and gray robes Meng Yao had been wearing, smiling behind his mustache. “A good thing. It’s as well that one of us managed to settle on someone.” He’d sat back with a sigh. “All right, take some of the men and go find Huaisang. Make sure he’s all right.”

Meng Yao had stifled his laughter until he’d been out of the receiving hall.

And it hadn’t been much trouble to track down Huaisang, given that he’d apparently fallen in with Lan Wangji’s search for the yin metal fragments, which Wei Wuxian had invited himself along on. Meng Yao was honestly starting to come around to Xichen’s belief that those two were becoming friends, if only because Wei Wuxian clearly had no intention of letting it be otherwise and Lan Wangji was apparently very bad at saying no to him. Huaisang had rolled his eyes mightily over the two of them the whole time he was chivvying Meng Yao and the escort he’d brought to follow after them to the Chang sect’s compound.

They’d stumbled in on the end of an alarming combination of wanton slaughter and cultivation politics, but Meng Yao’s offer of Nie justice to answer Xue Yang’s identifiable crimes had brought the whole thing around in favor of the Nie sect, which gave him some satisfaction. The criminal was duly packed away into a cell and Meng Yao had been a little impressed by Wei Wuxian’s political awareness, when he actually bothered to exercise it. Best of all, Lan Wangji had given him a long, measuring look and a faint nod before turning away, which was progress for them.

It had been such a nice day. And then Wen Chao had shown up.

The man’s strutting and posing and bullying arrogance were bad enough, but the implications hovering around his words were worse. The Wen sect knew that the other sects were seeking to keep the yin metal fragments from them, knew that the beginning of an alliance against them was already forming.

And they were targeting Lan.

He was almost grateful when Wen Chao lost his patience and threat turned into melee. It gave him something to do with his growing fear and rage, let the complex net of politics and plans narrow down to a blazing now of iron control over his breath, of feeling the movements around him and driving his sword through the spaces created by the broad strokes and long lunges of the Wen form. He lost track of Huaisang early and hoped that meant Huaisang had found somewhere to shelter. One Wen fighter fell back from him with a deep slash in his side, but the one that replaced him drove Meng Yao back along the inner passageway, and almost onto Nie Mingjue’s sword before the sect master swore and hauled his cut short.

“Meng Yao—!” The shout ended on a harsh sound that wrenched Meng Yao’s focus wider again, and shock raked through him as Nie Mingjue stumbled into him.

“Zongzhu!” He caught Nie Mingjue’s arm and looked over his shoulder into the hard, detached gaze of Wen Zhuliu.

Wen Chao laughed from behind his retainer and called a halt to the attack. “Nie-zongzhu,” he taunted as Nie Mingjue tried to straighten up, “Just as Qinghe lies at the foot of Qishan, now you are under my foot.”

Meng Yao’s breath felt frozen in his chest, but calculation flashed through his thoughts. Wen Chao was no renown fighter; even Meng Yao might be able to stand him off for a while. Wen Zhuliu, though, was another matter, and the only one here who might match him was injured, to what extent Meng Yao didn’t know. Wen Chao was toying with them, though. He wasn’t yet quite ready to declare open war all on his own. There was a chance, if Meng Yao could remind Wen Chao of that fact, but how could he speak of it confidently when it was obvious he was the only thing currently keeping the Master of Nie on his feet!?

He’d rarely been as grateful as he was then to hear Huaisang’s voice behind him, and the exclamations from Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin as they hurried up also. Indeed, Wei Wuxian promptly squared himself up in front of Nie Mingjue and reminded Wen Chao of the exact political trespass Meng Yao had had in mind. He breathed out a slow breath of relief and helped Huaisang get Nie-zongzhu more upright. His dignity as the Master of Nie was an important part of carrying this off.

And then Wen Chao taunted Wei Wuxian, in turn, with the information that Wen Xu, known for his volatility and brutality, had already attacked the Cloud Recesses.

Meng Yao lost the rest of Wen Chao’s words to the ringing in his ears. The only word echoing through his mind was Xichen. Slowly, his fingers closed around the little packet he kept in the breast of his robes, the hair ornament Xichen had given him, the promise that the next time he came to Cloud Recesses it would be for good. The solidity of metal pressing against his palm brought the rest of the world back in time for him to hear Wen Chao gloat over how the direct disciples of the major sects would be gathered in to Qishan soon. Hostages, obviously, and the thought broke the helpless echo of Xichen’s name, set the spark to a quick-crackling line of other thoughts.

Three days travel by sword, to reach Gusu.

Survivors.

Shelter, where would be the most impregnable now?

Qinghe Nie, the clan hold that was a fortress.

The land path back, possibly with wounded, possibly evading pursuit; fifteen days, most likely.

Meng Yao took a slow, controlled breath, as the echo of Wen Chao’s mocking laughter faded off the stone walls. “Huaisang,” he said, very calmly, “I won’t be able to look after you in Qishan. Please take care of yourself. Do what you have to, for the time being.”

Huaisang’s mouth was tight as he looked across at Meng Yao, and he nodded sharply. “I will. I promise.” He ducked further under his brother’s arm, taking all of his weight.

Meng Yao turned to give Nie-zongzhu a precise bow, feeling like he was hanging on to his composure with clenched teeth. “Nie-zongzhu. Forgive me, but I must take my leave of the sect now. I will return within twenty days, with Xichen-xiong and any other survivors.”

Nie Mingjue’s mouth tilted, but his eyes were burning almost as hot as Meng Yao’s heart felt, and he nodded as sharply as Huaisang had. “Go. Bring them here.” His voice dropped, turning gravelly. “And then we’ll begin.”

Meng Yao smiled, hard and tight. “Yes,” he agreed. “We will.” He turned and strode for his rooms, ignoring what sounded like an argument that started between Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian, behind him. If Wei Wuxian won it and caught up to him, well and good. If not, well, Meng Yao wasn’t going to wait.

Meng Yao stood in the middle of the Cloud Recesses’ largest courtyard, in the middle of white stone blackened with streaks of ash, of graceful, austere buildings burned down to shells, screens seared away to gaping holes, and concentrated fiercely on his breathing.

If he didn’t, he was going to scream.

The bones of the mountain remained. Even most of the trees and greenery had survived, saved by the constant flow of water and mist. But the pavilions and walkways were in ruins, and several halls had sagging roofs where load bearing pillars had burned and cracked. The refuge that Xichen had made this place into for him was in tattered pieces.

Lan Qiren sat on one of the courtyard’s remaining benches, leaning heavily on one hand. “They’re both gone,” he said, voice rough with smoke or grief or both. “Wangji gave himself up to save the last of our disciples, and I made Xichen take our books and flee. We haven’t been able to find him. I think he must have left the mountain already.”

Meng Yao’s mind locked around those details, cold and hard. “If Wen Xu took Lan er-gongzi with him, then he’ll be one of the hostages. They will not be kind, but the value of a hostage only lasts as long as they live. The Wen will not kill him. I will seek for Lan-zongzhu.” He turned, examining Lan Qiren closely. “Will you be able to travel as far as Qinghe? Nie-zongzhu has offered the shelter of the Unclean Realm.”

Lan Qiren studied him for a long moment and finally nodded, slowly. “I can travel, with our disciples’ help. You truly believe you can find Xichen?”

Meng Yao took another slow, controlled breath, pushing down the fear trying to claw its way up his throat. “Yes,” he answered, flat and sure. He would not allow it to be otherwise.

Lan Qiren sighed, slumping more heavily on his supporting hand. “Well. You were a diligent and well-spoken student this summer. I imagine you’ll do. Find him, then.”

Meng Yao brushed aside his bafflement over what being a diligent and well-spoken student had to do with finding Xichen, and took his leave with a quick bow. He was most of the way to the distant clearing he’d used for sword practice, the one no one but Xichen had ever found, before the image of Wei Wuxian floated up from the back of his brain—the image of Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji sharing a silent thought together. He couldn’t help then imagining the face Lan Qiren would likely make, if he saw that.

He was snorting with helpless laughter when he walked into the clearing, scrubbing his hands over his face, and so it was Xichen who saw him first.

“A-Yao!”

His head jerked up, and for one moment he just stared at the vision of Xichen, safe and whole if also smudged with ash and streaks of green sap here and there. “Xichen-xiong,” he breathed, taking one step forward, and then another, and then with a rush he was in Xichen’s arms, holding fiercely tight to him. “You’re all right,” he gasped, shaking now that he was sure it was true. And then he pushed back just far enough to look up, hands sliding over Xichen’s shoulders, down his chest, patting gently. “You are all right? They didn’t hurt you?”

“They never caught me,” Xichen confirmed, stroking Meng Yao’s hair back. “Uncle insisted that I take the library and go, when they started breaking the barrier. They left a small troop in the town, who have kept on searching, but they don’t know the mountain. I’ve kept ahead of them, but haven’t quite dared return to the Cloud Recesses, yet.” He closed his hands around Meng Yao’s face, just looking at him for a long moment, smiling even through the worry so clear in his eyes. “How did you hear so quickly?”

Meng Yao tamped down the snarl that wanted to escape. “Wen Chao boasted of his brother attacking the Cloud Recesses, when he took a little band of his own to the Unclean Realm. Fortunately, there were a few too many witnesses for his comfort, and he broke off quickly. I think I was only a day behind Lan er-gongzi, all the way here.”

Xichen stilled. “Wangji returned?”

Meng Yao bit his lip and reached up to rest his hands on Xichen’s shoulders. “Yes,” he said, softly. “He seems to have arrived just after the barrier broke. He… he gave himself up to protect the rest, and Wen Xu took him.”

For one long moment, he saw the mirror of his own rage turn Xichen’s eyes dark and hard. And then those eyes closed and Xichen drew a deep, slow breath. When they opened again, they were clear. Meng Yao tucked his chin down and tried to bank his fury in turn; clearly, Xichen was not going to cut his way through the Wen troop in Gusu immediately.

A shame, that.

“They took him?” Xichen asked quietly. “As a prisoner?”

“As a hostage, most likely. Wen Chao mentioned that an ‘invitation’ will be coming, demanding all the major sects send disciples to Wen for ‘schooling’, including at least one direct disciple.” Because it seemed like the thing Xichen most needed to hear right now, he added softly, “Hostage taking only works if they stay alive. They won’t kill him.”

“Which complicates any move against them,” Xichen murmured in a considering sort of tone, and Meng Yao smiled.

“Then the first step must be an opportunity for them to escape. Not such a difficult thing, considering how many servants a place like the Nightless City must require.”

Xichen’s brows arched up, and he slowly smiled back. “I see I’ll need to ensure you’re included in our councils.”

Meng Yao felt like he might be glowing, lit up with the pride and pleasure of hearing that. “Nie-zongzhu invited all of you to shelter with him, for now. Shall we return to the rest of the sect, or…?”

“Better not, if the Wen are still searching for me but not bothering with anyone else.” Xichen stroked the backs of his fingers down Meng Yao’s cheek. “Once we’re out of Gusu, it will be my turn to rely on you, I think, to get us there unseen.”

Despite the grim situation, Meng Yao felt he might nearly float down the mountain, as they set out, buoyed up by Xichen’s trust.

The surviving Lan sect, in the care of Lan Qiren, had made it back to the Unclean Realm before Meng Yao. He wasn’t surprised. He and Xichen had had to make their way cross-country for the most part, staying away from roads of any size to avoid the little squads of Wen disciples that were cropping up everywhere. The times they’d had to pass through larger towns or cities, to break their trail or to pick up supplies, Meng Yao had taken them through the poorest districts and markets, trusting that the people who made their living there would still recognize his own knowledge of the ins and outs, and failing that, his absolute willingness to kill in defense of what was his.

Only one arrogant little gang in Zibo had challenged that willingness, demanding money to let such obvious fugitives pass through unharmed. Fortunately, it had been no great delay in his errands to leave their leader bleeding out on the threshhold of the Anbo gambling hall before returning to Xichen with the fish and buns that he’d gone out to get. His sleeve had gotten fairly well bloodied, though, and he’d had to give up on the sneaking temptation to not mention it to Xichen.

He needn’t have worried. Xichen had only gathered him in and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, leaving him both flustered and soothed in the wake of that descent back into familiar violence. He’d felt less concern over what he might have to do, after that.

The indirect journey had made slow going, though, and he felt a good deal of tension unwind from his spine at the sound of the heavy gate of the Unclean Realm closing behind them.

He followed quietly along beside Xichen as the surviving Lan disciples came to greet their sect master—fewer than he’d thought there were, and he worried over what other bad news might find Xichen until Lan Qiren mentioned that they’d left a thin network of the senior disciples behind in Gusu, dispersed among the villages and smaller cities. Finally, Nie Mingjue showed Xichen to the rooms set aside for him, already thoughtfully draped with some surviving hangings from the Cloud Recesses.

“They are yours for as long as you require,” he said firmly over Xichen’s attempt to thank him, and Xichen gave way with a wry smile that said he was used to Nie Mingjue’s bluntness.

And then Nie Mingjue gave Meng Yao a rather sly sidelong glance, and added far more lightly, “You need a little extra room, now, don’t you?” Meng Yao choked down what was absolutely not a squeak and Nie Mingjue added, “Or there are rooms beside these for Meng Yao, if the two of you prefer to be formal.”

Xichen was laughing as he waved Nie Mingjue out. “Thank you Mingjue-xiong, I’m sure we’ll be fine.” His smile turned gentle and rueful as he gathered a furiously blushing Meng Yao into his arms. “I’m afraid the bit about teasing is a family trait, if you’re close enough with them.”

“I…” Meng Yao couldn’t quite look up, but he did manage to say, against Xichen’s shoulder, “I do wish it. To stay with you.”

Xichen’s arms tightened around him. “That pleases me more than I can say.” And then he huffed softly. “I wanted a more public declaration and celebration, for you. But it seems that will be difficult for some time.”

Meng Yao felt like he might melt against Xichen with the warmth of hearing such a thing, and he finally dared to look up. “Then perhaps…” He reached into the breast of his robes for the small package that had been a talisman to him lately, and held it out rather shyly to Xichen. “Would you help me with this?”

Xichen’s gaze on him turned heavy and intent. “I would be very pleased to.” He led Meng Yao to the table and pressed him down onto one of the cushions, stepping into the sleeping room to rummage briefly through the things set out there before returning with a comb. Meng Yao wet his lips, pulse speeding as Xichen settled behind him and delicately undid his pewter hair ornament, laying it aside on the table. Long fingers slowly unwound his coiled braids and carefully unravelled them, one after the other.

Meng Yao had had other people help him with his hair before, especially with the dressed braids that the Nie sect favored. But never like this, never to undo the claim of another and replace it, and every time Xichen’s fingers brushed his neck, his breath caught, until he had to put out a hand and hold on to the table, lightheaded.

Xichen gathered his hair back and ran the comb through it, broad, powerful hands so very gentle that it made Meng Yao shiver. Xichen took his time about it, strokes slow and soothing. When he finally sectioned the front strands and drew them back, it was into a simple fold and snug twist, wrapping it with the black ribbon Meng Yao had used to bind the ends of the braids under. Meng Yao held out the silver, Lan-styled hair ornament, fingers trembling around it a little, and Xichen took it only to lace his fingers with Meng Yao’s and lift his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Almost done,” Xichen promised softly.

Meng Yao nodded and folded his hands in tight his lap, feeling as though he were about to step through some great gate or doorway into a new place. There was nothing ritual about what they were doing, and yet it felt as irrevocable as making their bows with an entire clan looking on.

Xichen slid the silver hair ornament into place, running the pin so carefully through Meng Yao’s topknot that he didn’t feel a single hair pull. “There,” Xichen said quietly, hands resting on Meng Yao’s shoulders. “Let me look at you.”

Meng Yao turned on his knees to look up at Xichen, breath still coming rather fast. “Is it…?”

Xichen smiled slowly, more heated than Meng Yao had ever seen. “It becomes you very well, my own.”

Meng Yao made a breathless sound as the certainty of Xichen’s claim wrapped around him, and leaned pliantly into Xichen’s arms as Xichen gathered him close. “Xichen-ge,” he said, soft and wanting. He could feel the hard breath Xichen took in, at that, and smiled up at him, bright and giddy that he had this effect on Lan Xichen.

It was only fair, after all.

Xichen laughed softly. “I see.” He leaned down and pressed slow kisses, not to Meng Yao’s parted lips but to the line of his neck. Meng Yao jolted against him, eyes wide and shocked at the way the heat of Xichen’s mouth on his skin ran through him, sweet and liquid.

“Xichen-ge!”

“Will you let me, a-Yao?” Xichen murmured against his throat. “It is not yet the place I most wish to give you, but will you let me undress you here in our rooms, and lay you down, and know that no one else will ever see you undone as I have?”

Meng Yao shuddered, feeling the words as if they were a caressing hand reaching deep inside him. “Yes. Please.” He wanted everything he could have of Xichen, the edge of long desire whetted by still-immediate fear that he might lose it all. Finally, Xichen raised his head and took Meng Yao’s mouth, kissing him slow and deep and thorough enough that Meng Yao almost thought he might come undone just from this.

“Thank you.” And then Xichen scooped Meng Yao into his arms and stood, lifting him effortlessly. Meng Yao caught at his shoulders with a breathless laugh.

“Xichen-ge!”

Xichen smiled down at him and repeated, “Let me?”

Meng Yao ducked his head, flustered but also delighted to be cradled so close, sheltered by Xichen’s strength. “Yes, ge-ge,” he agreed softly, snuggling closer as Xichen’s arms tightened around him.

Xichen carried him to the sleeping room and laid him on the bed. Somehow the solidity of the bed under him made everything more real and immediate, and Meng Yao’s breath came increasingly short as Xichen tugged off his shoes, slowly unwound his belts and sashes, sure, gentle hands nudging Meng Yao to shift so Xichen could slide the robes off his shoulders. It felt desperately intimate, before Xichen’s hands ever touched skin, and when they finally did Meng Yao found himself arching up off the bed with a low, wordless sound.

“Shh.” Xichen kissed him again, slow and sure, flattening his palms against Meng Yao’s skin and stroking slowly up his ribs. “I have you, a-Yao.” He cupped a hand around Meng Yao’s cheek, eyes steady on him, staying close. “All right?”

Meng Yao wet his lips and nodded; anticipation still fluttered through his stomach, but Xichen’s gentle care softened it into a warmth he could relax in. Xichen kissed him softly and drew back long enough to shed the last of his clothes. Meng Yao hadn’t even noticed him undressing. He reached out as Xichen returned to the bed, a little shy but wanting to feel Xichen’s body against his. When he did, it drew a soft moan from him, and Xichen smiled as he gathered Meng Yao close against him, smoothing a hand up and down his back.

“Easy, my own. We’ll go slowly.”

Meng Yao looked up at him, eyes wide as the implications of Xichen’s words sank in. Xichen assumed he was untouched.

Which he was. His mother had defended him fiercely from anyone who had presumed her boy’s favors were for sale alongside her own, and made sure he could defend himself as he grew up. But for someone to assume it, that of course he would be inexperienced, would need to go slowly… He buried his head in Xichen’s shoulder and nodded, wordless.

Xichen cuddled him close, hands gentle on him, until Meng Yao finally relaxed against him, quieting into pliancy, until he lifted his head again, want starting to rise through the heart-shaking wonder. “Xichen-ge?” he asked, pressing a little closer.

Xichen smiled. “Yes. Come here, my own.” He nudged Meng Yao down onto his stomach, leaning over him, and Meng Yao’s whole body relaxed at the feeling of Xichen over him, sheltering him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything, stretched out like this, that he was entirely in Xichen’s hands, and still all he felt was safe. Warm hands stroked up and down his back, slow and firm, until he wanted to purr with it. “You honor me with your trust,” Xichen murmured against the nape of his neck, and a slow shudder ran through Meng Yao, heat and want and sweetness all wound together. He was hard already, just from this gentle handling.

“Ge-ge, please.” He looked over his shoulder, entreating, and Xichen dropped a soft kiss against his temple.

“Yes, my own.” He slid a hand slowly down the length of Meng Yao’s body, easing under him to stroke down his stomach until long fingers wrapped around his cock, fondling him. The rush of sensation was so intense, after all the slow petting, that Meng Yao moaned out loud with it. He lifted his hips for Xichen, flushed with how wanton it felt, but Xichen’s approving sound against his shoulder and the pleasure winding through him kept him there, gasping for breath as Xichen’s fingers worked over him, slow and firm and caressing. Xichen wrapped an arm around him, supporting him and bracing himself over Meng Yao, and it was easy, so easy, to relax into that hold, to spread his knees against the soft covers and give himself up to Xichen’s touch, to the awareness of all Lan Xichen’s immense strength and control wrapped around him.

Just as his body started to tighten with the first whisper of release, Xichen let go and reached over their heads, and when his hand returned, fingers stroking over the curve of Meng Yao’s rear, they were slick. Anticipation shivered through him, and he whispered against the covers, “Yes. Please.”

Xichen gathered him a little closer, long fingers sliding between his cheeks, spreading them. “You’re so sweet for me, my own,” he murmured against Meng Yao’s ear.

Meng Yao moaned, breathless, as Xichen’s fingers rubbed slow, firm little circles against his hole, easing him open. “Always, for you.” And this was why, the slow way Xichen’s fingers worked over and over his hole, relentless and still so gentle, stretching him harder and harder, but so caressing. It set Meng Yao panting, muscles lax and trembling as those long fingers filled him over and over, and still Xichen was stretching him wider. “Ge-ge,” Meng Yao gasped, dizzy with the slow-rising flood of sensation and the warm certainty of how careful Xichen was being with him. He’d heard too many stories, growing up, of customers who weren’t, especially from the younger men. This was the furthest possible thing from those tales, and he loved feeling it.

“I’ll take care of you, a-Yao,” Xichen promised, low and sure, and just hearing it unwound Meng Yao, soothed him down into the pleasure of that intimate touch, left him draped over the support of Xichen’s arm under him. “There.” Xichen’s voice turned velvety. “That’s good.” He eased his fingers free and shifted over Meng Yao, the light, braced weight of him settling warm all the way down Meng Yao’s back. The slow slide of his cock, thick and hot between Meng Yao’s cheeks, sent a breathless shiver up Meng Yao’s spine. It felt big, made him aware all over again that Xichen was larger than he was, all over. The awareness made heat coil low in his stomach.

“Tell me, if you don’t like this,” Xichen said softly, and pressed a kiss under Meng Yao’s ear. “Promise me, a-Yao.”

Meng Yao laughed, soft and a little giddy with proof after proof of how Xichen cared for him. “I promise, ge-ge. Let me feel it?”

“Yes.” Xichen’s voice was caressing, and the hand that settled on Meng Yao’s stomach, lifting him higher onto his knees, was gentle. Meng Yao relaxed into the support, and was very glad of it indeed when Xichen’s cock started pushing into him, slow and steady, stretching him wider and wider. He was gasping for breath by the time it leveled off into a slow slide into him, but he didn’t want it to stop. When Xichen asked, husky, “A-Yao?” his answer was a low moan of, “Yes.”

Xichen took him at his word, drawing back slow and easy, and then pushing into him on a long, hard slide that ended with his hips grinding into Meng Yao’s ass. Xichen made a husky sound of pleasure that walked heat up Meng Yao’s spine. The intensity of that stretch and slide, of feeling Xichen inside him, unstrung Meng Yao, but that was just fine. Xichen held him safe and sure, and all Meng Yao needed to do was feel this. Feel how big Xichen was inside him, feel the way Xichen shifted over him and the jolt of heavy pleasure at the end of each slow thrust in. The heat of it built so slowly, so sweetly, that the crest caught him by surprise, and he cried out, thin and breathless, as pleasure raked through him, body wringing down tight on the thickness of Xichen’s cock.

Xichen groaned and caught Meng Yao up tight against his body, the long, slow rhythm of his thrusts turning hard and short. Meng Yao could feel every bit of him, now that his body was clenched tight around Xichen, and the rougher drag sent sparks down his nerves, drove tiny whimpers out of him. When Xichen stilled and slowly eased them both down to the bed, Meng Yao lay quiet in the circle of his arm, trying to catch his breath. He thought maybe Xichen was, too.

Finally, Xichen drew back, and Meng Yao couldn’t help making a soft, protesting sound. Xichen was smiling as he eased Meng Yao gently around in his arms and gathered him close again. “I’m here, a-Yao. I have you.”

Meng Yao relaxed again, winding his arms around Xichen’s ribs and snuggling close. “Thank you,” he said, a little shy now that the rush of heat and pleasure was past.

Xichen pressed a soft kiss to his forehead and another to his lips, mouth warm and slow against his. “It was my honor and my pleasure, and I thank you for permitting me.”

Meng Yao blushed hot, burrowing into Xichen’s chest. Xichen’s effortless grace made him feel so young. Xichen cradled him close, one broad hand rubbing up and down his back. “Let me take care of you, my own,” he murmured against Meng Yao’s hair.

“Always,” Meng Yao promised, basking in the warmth of belonging. He would do anything to keep this.

Anything at all.

Flipside

Nie Mingjue considered the man beside him, as he led Meng Yao into the cells to where Xue Yang was being kept.

When Xichen had first written on Meng Yao’s behalf, Mingjue had jestingly protested that Xichen was stealing his people. Now he thought rather that Xichen had found one of his own people among Nie, and reached out to claim him.

There was a strain of extremism, in Lan. Lan cultivators, especially the ones of Lan clan blood, were rarely capable of half-measures. When they chose a path, they chose with their whole hearts and never looked back. Mingjue had seen it in Xichen’s father’s choice of wife. He’d seen it in Lan Qiren’s choice of the Lan Discipline above all else. He’d seen it in Xichen’s own choice to follow the path of compassion, from which he would not budge for all his uncle’s strictness or Mingjue’s own efforts to get him to consider practicalities now and then.

He’d seen the very same thing surface in Meng Yao’s eyes, like a dragon rising from the still surface of the sea, when he’d heard Xichen might have been harmed. It was why Mingjue hadn’t tried to argue against an instant, headlong drive across the country to retrieve Xichen. And it was why he’d escorted Meng Yao down here himself. If Xue Yang said anything to suggest a threat to Xichen, which he might well do for fun, poisonous little creature that he was, Mingjue had no doubt that Meng Yao would kill him on the spot, if there was no one to hold him back.

Xue Yang looked up at the sound of them approaching, with that alarming, disconnected smile of his firmly in place. “Nie-zongzhu. Have you decided to appease the Wen by releasing me? Or perhaps to torture me for that bit of yin metal you want so much?” He laughed as if either possibility amused him.

“Be silent,” Mingjue snapped. Xue Yang always made his skin crawl, to talk to.

Beside him, Meng Yao was staring hard at their prisoner. “Ah,” he said, quiet and even, and glanced up at Mingjue. “There’s no point to questioning him, by any method,” he stated, matter-of-fact. “None of this is real to him.”

Mingjue frowned. “What do you mean?” He rapped his knuckles on the iron bars. “He seems to be able to tell everything around him is real. He hadn’t tried to walk out through these, at least.”

Meng Yao smiled a bit tightly. “I didn’t mean that he’s delusional, exactly. It’s simply that the only truly real thing in his world is himself and his desires. He won’t react the way most people would think reasonable. He might view torture as pleasing, in a way, because it’s attention focused on him. Not,” he added dryly, “that he wouldn’t also most likely take it as a reason to destroy Nie and the Unclean Realm, and probably Lan because I’m standing here talking about it.”

Mingjue couldn’t help noticing that Xue Yang was now focused on Meng Yao with a look of deranged delight. “Oh. You’re interesting.”

Meng Yao glanced at him, hard and distant in a way that was almost as alarming. “Extract the yin metal fragment from him and kill him swiftly. Speaking to him will gain you nothing.”

“Xichen might know how to locate it, at least,” Mingjue said, trying to banish the mental image of twin swords clashing and sliding against each other. “And then we can be done with this, yes.” He beckoned Meng Yao along as he turned back toward the stairs.

“Come back and talk some time,” Xue Yang called after them, lilting and coy, and Mingjue resolved to wash as soon as he could. Maybe that would get rid of the feeling that he’d walked by something foul and the scent was clinging to his robes.

“I would prefer if you didn’t,” he said, as they climbed back toward the light. “Speak with him again, I mean.”

Meng Yao laughed, flat and unamused. “Please don’t worry; I won’t. No good ever comes of it, with someone like that.”

When they found Xichen, he frowned and reached out to rest his hands on Meng Yao’s shoulders. “A-Yao?”

A visible shudder went through Meng Yao, and he stepped close, fingers wound tight in the flowing silk of Xichen’s sleeves. The way he looked up at Xichen was near desperate, but then he drew a long breath and seemed to find comfort, or perhaps stability, again. “I’m well, Xichen-xiong,” he said softly, and the words rang true.

It was an uncomfortable thought that came to Mingjue then—that perhaps, in someone with that Lan-like current of extremism, the difference between madness and sanity lay in whether they chose a path that loved them back.

Not that he really had room to judge what sanity another sect’s ways left them.

“Xichen, do you know of a way to reveal yin metal? To make it resonate?” he asked briskly, turning to the practicalities.

Xichen’s lingering worry turned to a thoughtful look. “Possibly. Let me check some of our texts.” He was gathering Meng Yao into the curve of his arm even as he spoke, and Mingjue stifled a snort of amusement.

Even if he was right, it looked as though these two had chosen a good path, in each other. He was glad for them both.

And he put out of his mind the thought of what Meng Yao’s path might have looked like, otherwise.

Becoming the Phoenix – Five

Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue prepare for war, Meng Yao builds his spy network, and Nie Huaisang demonstrates his skills. When Lotus Pier falls, Jiang Yanli joins them and, in face of Jin Guangshan, gives Meng Yao his first lesson in poise. Drama, Angst, but also Romance, I-3

Character(s): Jiang Yanli, Jin Guangshan, Lan Qiren, Lan Xichen, Meng Yao, Nie Huaisang, Nie Mingjue, Wei Wuxian

Pairing(s): Lan Xichen/Meng Yao

Meng Yao laid his brush aside and sat back from his writing table, scrubbing his hands over his face. Plans to get the hostages out of Wen hands were going slowly. He was developing a remarkable information network among the lower servants; apparently the Wen were nearly as brutal to their own menials as they were to the other sects. But the very brutality that made people so willing to pass on information also made people fear taking action to cross their masters.

And, of course, even the major sects were cautious of appearing to contemplate alliance, let alone action, while their children and siblings were vulnerable.

He frowned at his growing stack of timeline notes, mouth tight. He might be wrong, still, but he didn’t think he was. And if he wasn’t, then delaying was the worst thing the major sects could do. Every day that passed increased the chance that something would—

“Meng-gongzi!” One of the youngest Lan disciples popped through his door in a whirl of excited white. “They’re back!” The girl disappeared again before he could ask who, but ‘back’ could only really mean one thing. Meng Yao scrambled up and strode for the front gates.

Sure enough, both Huaisang and Lan Wangji were in the first courtyard. Xichen was already there, holding his brother by the shoulders, relief bright on his face. Nie Mingjue arrived on Meng Yao’s heels and nearly knocked Huaisang over in his rush to check for injuries. Meng Yao watched the brothers for a long moment, smiling, before he turned to herd the rush of onlookers back out of the courtyard with assurances that everyone was fine, they’d see everyone later, go make sure the rest of the returning disciples were settled.

Then he went to go check Huaisang himself.

“I’m fine, I’m fine! I promised to keep my head down, and I did.” Huaisang’s eyes darkened with his rare, deep anger, the slow, cold rage he almost never showed. “Not that it would have made much difference.”

Meng Yao sighed. “So it’s true? Wei-gongzi was drawing Wen Chao away from Jiang-gongzi and Lan er-gongzi?”

Both Huaisang and Lan Wangji looked at him at that, equally startled each in his own way. Xichen chuckled, one arm still around his brother’s shoulders. “A-Yao gets word of much that goes on in the Nightless City, these days.”

Meng Yao ducked his head at the warm look Xichen gave him. “Only what happened inside personal quarters, or what the guards boasted of, first hand. So I wasn’t entirely sure. That’s what it sounded like, though.”

“It was foolishness,” Lan Wangji huffed, with such open (for him) upset in the way he looked aside, brows pinched, that Meng Yao put another tally mark in his mental column labeled ‘Lan Wangji cares for Wei Wuxian’. Xichen shared a speaking look with Nie Mingjue, and Nie-zongzhu gestured them all further inside.

“Both of you wash the dust of that place off you, and then we’ll speak of it.”

When they re-gathered in the Nie receiving hall, Meng Yao observed that Lan Wangji was moving far more easily than he had been in the courtyard, and took a slow breath to suppress his snarl. Lan Wangji wasn’t his the way Xichen was, but all of Lan was becoming his through Xichen, and Wen would regret laying hands on them.

Though he supposed, if his growing suspicions were right, he might be willing to let Wei Wuxian go first in this particular case.

The more Huaisang and Lan Wangji told of Wen Chao’s actions, though, the more troubled he became. He hadn’t been wrong at all, and that did not make him happy.

“Jin-gongzi, at least, seems prepared to take action,” Xichen mused, when the tale was done.

“Mm.” Huaisang looked down at his clasped hands. “His father seemed… less so.”

Meng Yao’s mouth tightened. “That’s not good.”

Xichen tipped his head, inquiring. “Why not? A little more time to prepare won’t do us any harm.”

“It’s getting worse, though. According to their own servants, Wen Xu was always harsh and Wen Chao was always arrogant. But now Wen Xu is little better than a rabid animal and Wen Chao is attacking other sect’s holdings on a whim.” Meng Yao gestured at Huaisang and Lan Wangji. “And now, abandoning all the heirs of the major sects, unarmed, to what he obviously thought would be the death of many of them?”

Xichen and Nie Mingjue exchanged an uneasy glance.

“Five years ago,” Meng Yao pressed. “This started five years ago, and it’s been getting worse. It’s been worsening most quickly for those closest to Wen Ruohan. If we’re right about when he found the first fragment, and if he has another two now,” Meng Yao looked the question at Lan Wangji, who nodded tightly, “then it’s likely to accelerate again. There’s something coming, and coming soon. Something even worse than what happened to the Cloud Recesses.”

Nie Mingjue’s face hardened. “Then we will start readying to attack. With or without Jin.”

Xichen bent his head with a sigh. “If that’s what you think best.” And then he smiled faintly. “Actually, that may be just what it takes to get Jin Guangshan to move.”

Nie Mingjue snorted. “You could always offer to give him custody of the fourth fragment. If Meng Yao is right, I’d be just as happy to have the thing out of here. Let Jin Guangshan’s own greed make him a target, and he’ll have to move.”

“Mingjue,” Xichen scolded, though he also looked a bit tempted by the idea.

“It’s here?” Huaisang squeaked, eyes huge.

“Don’t worry, it’s sealed. Actually,” Meng Yao eyed Huaisang thoughtfully. This might be a good opportunity to advance his side project of raising Huaisang’s credit with his own sect. He turned to give Nie Mingjue a short bow. “Nie-zongzhu. I have heard from some of your most trusted men that Huaisang is the Nie sect member most skilled in the celestially sourced seals. If you permit, perhaps he could make the fragment’s containment more secure.”

Nie Mingjue grunted and waved a hand at them. “True enough. See to it, then. Xichen, is there any way we can get Jiang Fengmian to a meeting without setting a spark to the fuse?”

Huaisang looked torn between pride and alarm as Meng Yao led him toward the below-ground work rooms. “We’re keeping the fourth piece here?” he hissed. “Really?”

“Wei-gongzi was right,” Meng Yao said, making a note to remind Huaisang of how much trust his brother was showing in his cultivation, once Huaisang was calmer. “Xue Yang had it. And the Lan sect obviously accumulated a very deep knowledge of the resonance properties of yin metal, over the years they kept a fragment sealed. Xichen-xiong only played for a minute or two, and the fragment dropped right out of Xue Yang’s sleeve. Where,” he added, unlocking the work room door, “four different searches didn’t find it, before.”

“Well, the Twin Jades of Lan, after all,” Huaisang pointed out, and then stopped short, staring at the low-glowing circles that enclosed the innocuous looking piece of metal in the middle of the room.

Innocuous looking, but not, by any stretch of thought or perception, innocent. The very air of the work room was heavier, made the lungs labor if one stayed inside too long. Huaisang pressed his sleeve over his mouth, eyes narrowing. Meng Yao smiled, a bit wryly. After what he’d seen over the summer, he’d thought that a palpable threat to Huaisang’s people, and especially his brother, would bring this side of Huaisang out again. And Huaisang might not care much for the sword, but according to everything Meng Yao had seen and more that he’d heard while Huaisang was hostage, his more scholarly skills were very advanced.

Sure enough, Huaisang paced a slow circuit of the room, eyes flickering over the carved stone anchors on the floor and the paper seals ringing the walls. And when he was done, he planted his hands on his hips and looked downright exasperated.

“Huaisang?” Meng Yao asked, trying not to laugh despite the dire atmosphere of the room. Huaisang looked like someone had tried to make him wear clashing colors of robes.

“Honestly,” Huaisang huffed, “am I the only one in the whole sect who actually bothers to calculate exact angles?” He paced to the east side of the room and settled into a relaxed stance, closing his eyes. “Don’t speak until I’m done,” he murmured.

Meng Yao closed his mouth and held still. After all his recent months of sword training under Xichen, of working to build the correct base techniques to focus his qi, he could feel it a little when Huaisang drew his in, a deep internally focused shift that barely stirred his robes. At least until Huaisang’s whole stance shifted, and visible lines of force connected him to the four stone anchors. They slid and shifted, one after the other, a ripple of change running around the circle. For one breath, the strange, harsh scent of the yin metal’s presence bit into his sinuses, and Meng Yao had to swallow down sharp words of alarm.

Huaisang’s stance shifted again, one hand sweeping up, and the paper seals fluttered as if caught in a sudden wind. Another wave of movement rippled around the room, and when it reached Huaisang again he breathed out hard, driving both hands down.

Abruptly, the heaviness in the air vanished.

“Whew!” Huaisang stepped back, shaking out his arms. “That should hold a little better, now, but I can see why Da-ge wouldn’t want this thing around.”

Meng Yao was impressed. Obviously, Nie Zonghui was correct that Huaisang could bring considerable strength to bear, using talisman arrays. He had an entire summer of teasing to pay back, though, so he observed, “I notice you didn’t actually calculate the angles, either.”

Huaisang shrugged. “I can see where they are. Most people can’t seem to, so I suppose it’s just the eye I have.” And then he snatched at Meng Yao’s sleeve with a grin. “Speaking of which, these are new robes, aren’t they? White over blue, hm? Much lighter texture than usual.”

Meng Yao swatted at him with the sleeve in question. “Oh, hush. It was a gift.” And if he was privately amused by how very firmly some of the older Lan disciples seemed to feel about making sure their sect master’s partner was dressed like a Lan, well that was his business.

Huaisang smirked, but left off and followed him out of the work room. More seriously, as they climbed back upward, he asked, “Do you really think something will happen that’s even worse than burning the Cloud Recesses?”

Meng Yao thought about the terror and disgust that ran underneath even brief reports that came from his informants who were closest to the main branch Wen family. “I’m very afraid so,” he said quietly.

Meng Yao would have given a great deal to have been wrong. Or even a little less right. He sat in the Nie receiving hall beside Xichen and listened to the halting words of Jiang Wanyin, describing atrocity and slaughter, watched his frozen face and lost eyes, and offered silent thanks to the gods he barely believed in that Xichen had escaped the Wen net at Cloud Recesses, that even Wen Xu hadn’t quite been so bold (then) as to seek the wholesale death of Lan’s leaders.

“This atrocity will not go unpunished,” Nie Mingjue declared tightly. “All the sects will join together, for this,” he hesitated and finished, almost gently, “Jiang-zongzhu.”

Jiang Wanyin jerked like he’d just taken an arrow, but mastered himself after a breath and gave Nie Mingjue a bow that only wavered a little further down than another sect master’s should. “Thank you, Nie-zongzhu.”

“A-Yao,” Xichen said softly, under the sound of Nie Mingjue calling for Nie Zonghui, who had taken up most of Meng Yao’s old duties, to arrange rooms for the bare handful of surviving Jiang sect members, “will you please see to Jiang Yanli?”

Meng Yao couldn’t help giving him a rather narrow look, because Huaisang’s teasing about the Lan sect finally having a ‘Lan-furen’ had caught on annoyingly well. Xichen’s mouth quirked in wry acknowledgment, but he added, still very soft, “I think you may be the best suited here to provide what she needs right now.”

Meng Yao cast a measuring look over Jiang Yanli. She’d walked in at her brother’s side and stood with him, quiet and contained. And… rather blank. Meng Yao’s mouth tightened. It was true, he’d seen that kind of blankness before; he hoped very much that hers didn’t have quite the same causes behind it. “All right,” he agreed, and darted out a hand to catch Huaisang’s sleeve before he could sneak away. “You’re coming with me, in case I need anything commanded quickly.”

Huaisang, who had looked extremely pale by the end of Jiang Wanyin’s story, winced, but followed along behind him without complaint. Meng Yao approached slowly and kept his motions clear and simple as he bowed to her from just beyond arm’s length away. “Jiang-guniang?” he asked, quietly.

She blinked and turned slowly to face him. It took a long moment before recognition registered in her eyes, and Meng Yao cursed silently to himself. He’d only been the one who had to handle somebody in this condition once or twice before. “Meng-gongzi,” she finally answered and, after another long moment, added, “Nie-gongzi.”

“There are rooms here for you and your people.” Meng Yao stood aside and slowly swept his arm out in invitation, choosing the least populated path out of the receiving hall. “May I take you there?”

“Oh. Yes, of course…” She hesitated, though, glancing over at her brother. He was currently conferring with Nie Zonghui, and looked drawn so tight he might ring if you tapped on him.

“Your rooms will be beside your brother’s.” Meng Yao would have Huaisang make sure of it, if Nie Zonghui hadn’t already. He gave her a tiny, encouraging bow, arm still held out. If she refused to leave her brother, well, he’d try to herd them both and hope they made it before she started thinking again and (most likely) broke down. Jiang Yanli nodded, though, slow and stiff, and started to walk. Meng Yao stayed beside her, matching his steps to hers and glaring at anyone who looked like they might get in the way. He wasn’t sure she’d start again, if she stopped.

It wasn’t until they approached the smaller western courtyard that she did stop, sudden enough that she swayed. “My brothers,” she said abruptly, “a-Xian.” She looked up at Meng Yao. “There should be a room for our brother, Wei Wuxian. When he’s found.”

Despite her disjointed manner, that reassured Meng Yao. It was family she was focused on, not the security of the rooms. This was the shock of death and loss, he thought, not of an attack on her person. “It will be arranged,” he assured her. “Huaisang?”

“Yes of course,” Huaisang said, and made off hastily. Jiang Yanli blinked after him for a moment, and then at Meng Yao, before finally seeming to understand.

“Oh. Oh yes, of course.” She summoned up a faint smile. “I meant to congratulate you, Meng-gongzi.”

Meng Yao laughed softly, mostly with relief that she was still capable of that much. “My thanks, Jiang-guniang.” He hesitated, old uncertainty nipping at him, but finally added, “The surviving Lan sect also shelters here, off the larger western courtyard. May I call on you, when you’ve rested?”

“I think,” she drew a long breath and let it go, and looked just a bit less as though her very bones ached, “I would like that. Yes.”

Perhaps, Meng Yao allowed in the privacy of his own mind, Xichen had known what he was doing, asking him to do this. He might be reminding Jiang-guniang of her brother, also raised up from the gutter, but right now that might not be a bad thing.

Over the next few days, Meng Yao made time each afternoon to visit Jiang-guniang, and was relieved to see her beginning to return to the steady calm he remembered from the summer lectures. She still had frequent moments of distraction, of staring into space silently, followed by immediately seeking out Jiang Wanyin wherever he was, but Meng Yao thought she was recovering as well as anyone could, from the slaughter of her entire clan. It was only the intensity in her eyes, when she mentioned her missing brother that made him a little nervous.

“Xichen-xiong,” he asked one evening, “is there anything Jiang-guniang can do, in the preparations or the search for Wei-gongzi? I didn’t get to know her well, this past year, but she seemed capable.”

“Is she stable enough?” Xichen asked as he settled behind Meng Yao and reached up to take his hair down, something he seemed to have acquired a liking for. Or possibly he just liked the way it made Meng Yao blush hot every time.

“I think it will help keep her stable to have something to do.” Meng Yao shivered as Xichen’s fingers brushed his neck, but clung to his topic for once; this was important. “Can you really imagine what Jiang Wanyin would be like, right now, if he weren’t concentrating on plans to destroy the Wen sect and find their brother?”

Xichen huffed softly, not quite a laugh. “I’m afraid I can; you make a good point.” After a quiet moment, he asked, “Do you think she would be suited to the kind of work you’re doing? Or does she need more… direct work?”

Blood for her vengeance, Meng Yao translated that. He considered it. “She’s kept her sword drill up, but not with the enthusiasm I’d expect in someone longing for a fight. And she was interested, when I described a little of my network, but I think that was only because there was chance of word about Wei-gongzi, through it.” Which he had promised to search for, and not only because he’d been a little afraid of the intensity with which she’d asked. “What she’s focused on the most, these last few days, is organizing the surviving Jiang disciples, ensuring everyone has the resources and care they need.”

Xichen made a thoughtful sound, drawing a comb gently through Meng Yao’s loose hair. “Logistics, then, perhaps. Or charge of our central encampment, when we need to move forward from Qinghe. I will speak with Mingjue-xiong about it.” And then he drew Meng Yao’s hair aside and brushed a kiss over his nape.

A breathless shiver ran through Meng Yao. “Xichen-ge,” he gasped.

Xichen’s arms folded around him, gathering him back against Xichen’s chest. “Will you come to bed, and leave planning for the morning?” Xichen murmured against his ear.

Meng Yao rested his head back against Xichen’s shoulder, and let his eyes drift closed as the warmth of this belonging settled into him. “Yes, Xichen-ge.”

Jin Guangshan had finally arrived in the Unclean Realm to speak with the other sects about putting Wen down.

Meng Yao was not impressed.

He was more than happy to admit that Lan Xichen was a bit of an impossible standard to hold anyone else to, but after a year at Xichen’s side, a year of watching the quiet, thoughtful grace with which Xichen moved through the world, and now these months of watching the way Xichen and Nie Mingjue worked together, each filling in where the other hesitated, of watching Jiang Wanyin, no older than Meng Yao himself, doing his best to hold together the ravaged remnants of his sect… well, after all that, Jin Guangshan’s cold-eyed pretense of camaraderie as he greeted his peers grated. Meng Yao was more grateful than ever to the chance of fate that had brought him to Xichen’s attention, brought him into Lan.

That didn’t keep him from having to stifle a flinch at Jin Zixuan’s sidelong look, to say nothing of Jin Zixun’s open sneer.

A hand brushed his and he glanced at Jiang Yanli, who stood beside him with Huaisang on her other side. She gave him a brief look and patted his hand again before she faced forward, drew in a slow breath, and straightened, whole body shifting into perfectly poised neutrality. Meng Yao’s eyes widened. In the space of a few breaths, her presence became deeper, her bearing reserved but stately. Her faint smile was still kind, but also very quietly immoveable. Meng Yao, personally, would not have wished to cross her. And it suddenly occurred to him that he’d seen Xichen look a bit like this. Often, in fact. He’d just never observed Xichen becoming this. Meng Yao watched, a little awed, as Jin Guangshan’s gaze veered off from her while Jin Zixuan’s fixed on her as if nailed in place.

When she glanced at him again, there was a tiny sparkle in her eyes, as if inviting him in on a joke, and she nodded encouragingly. Abruptly, Meng Yao remembered his own observation that Jiang-guniang was coping by organizing and taking care of people, and he had to duck his head to hide a laugh. She tapped a toe, and he straightened up obediently, shifting his body and qi to seek a neutral stance while still standing firmly upright and rooted. It took a few breaths, but when he finally slid into it, he felt the flow of his own energies smooth and expand into a sense of readiness and poise that calmed him at once.

“Oh,” he breathed softly.

Her faint smile widened a touch. “There you go. Hold on to that. It helps.”

Nie Mingjue turned to conduct the assembled sect masters into the receiving hall, and Xichen glanced over at Meng Yao, beckoning. Meng Yao took a slow, steady breath. “Thank you, Jiang-guniang,” he murmured. “Your timing was perfect, it seems.” She gave him a steady nod and he walked forward to enter the hall at Xichen’s side.

The balanced, stable feeling, and the still expression that radiated out from it, worked on the younger Jins; he could see that. Jin Zixun, especially, cast him several hooded glances, leaning just a little forward each time, and each time he settled back without speaking. Jin Zixuan merely stopped noticing him in particular. Jin Guangshan, though, raised his brows at Xichen, as if at something improper, and Meng Yao had to concentrate very hard on the sense of his own center to keep rage from knocking him out of this covert stance.

“Lan-zongzhu, your…” Jin Guangshan trailed off on the faintest of dubious notes.

Xichen’s eyes turned opaque and hard, but he smiled as graciously as if he’d been asked for an introduction, effortlessly deflecting Jin Guangshan’s hinting. “My cultivation partner is the one who has created, and maintains, our network of agents within the Nightless City.” Meng Yao inclined his head, silent, spine straight. For all Huaisang was teasing when he called Meng Yao ‘Lan-furen’, he could almost feel the honor of Lan settled over his shoulders like an over-robe, or perhaps a shield. Xichen’s honor. He would not allow this man to disregard it, blood father or not.

Jin Guangshan burst into a smile, such that anyone not on their guard, or not watching those cold eyes, might think they’d never heard that note of doubt. “Of course, of course!”

“Meng Yao is the only reason we’re as ready as we are. Nie and Lan senior disciples are all prepared to move immediately, and I know Jiang-zongzhu,” Nie Mingjue nodded to Jiang Wanyin, “has already started word moving through Yunmeng that Jiang is re-building.” He spread his hands flat against his table, gaze focused intensely on Jin Guangshan. “How many are you prepared to commit to this campaign?”

“Senior disciples, hm? Wise of you to choose only the experienced, I’m sure.” Jin Guangshan smiled like a wei qi player who’d just laid down the final enclosing stone. “Jin can field four hundred.”

Meng Yao saw the lightning-quick glance between Xichen and Nie Mingjue, and the hair on the back of his neck rose.

“That will improve our chances somewhat.” Nie Mingjue smiled a bit tightly.

Meng Yao resolved immediately to extend his network into Lanling, and the Jin sect. If he was right, and Jin Guangshan was committing less than the full strength of Jin’s seniors, then he almost certainly meant to let the other sects bleed themselves dry and come along in the wake of this campaign to sweep up any power and influence the other, exhausted sects might let fall from their hands.

He felt Jin Guangshan’s attention sweep over him like the cold dash of a rain front, and locked his mental hands on the memory of Jiang-guniang’s seamless poise. He lifted his head to look back at the Master of Jin out of the stillness of perfect neutrality, and after a moment, Jin Guangshan’s gaze passed on.

Yes. Meng Yao would see about extending his network immediately.

Flipside

Lan Qiren unrolled the scroll he was reading another turn and sipped his tea before setting it down with a slightly wistful sigh at the heavy taste. He was grateful to the Nie sect for sheltering Lan while they all dealt with the Wen sect, but he did miss his own teas. He entertained a brief, sneaking thought of mentioning this to young Meng Yao, who did seem to have a remarkable network of resources to draw on, now they were all put to it, but he put the thought aside as unworthy. Rebuilding must come first, for Lan; they would re-establish the Cloud Recesses once Wangji had cleared out the interlopers, and provide a proper example of righteousness for the cultivation world once again.

Wangji. He frowned absently down at his scroll. His nephew had flung himself into the campaign to evict the Wen from Yunmeng with a grimness that Qiren couldn’t help worrying over. Dedication to the safety of the sect was only right, but he couldn’t help but wonder whether it was that alone or something more personal that drove Wangji.

Something like finding Wei Wuxian.

Qiren sighed, one hand rising to rub his forehead. He still couldn’t imagine what about that wild, thoughtless boy could have caught his careful and upright young nephew’s attention. He found himself hoping a little that the most likely answer to Wei Wuxian’s absence was the correct one—that Wei Wuxian had been killed in the first rush of the Wen attacks. It wasn’t that he wished the boy harm, but a man had the right to put his own blood first, surely. It would make life easier for Wangji if the likeliest answer turned out to be correct. There might be pain, yes, but a briefer, simpler pain than that of years on end struggling to stay on the right path against the constant influence of someone taking the wrong one.

He’d watched that once, watched his older brother hide himself away, heart and soul wrung out by just such a conflict, and in the end it had been a mere handful of years before he’d followed that woman into the darkness of death. Qiren would not stand by and watch such a thing happen to his family twice.

Resolved to that once again, he turned back to his scroll and let the astringent taste of the black tea wash away pointless speculation.

Wei Wuxian sat in the center of an array. Not a repelling array—there was no point when the very soil that he wrote in was screaming with the voice of the furious dead. No, what he had inscribed was a channeling array.

It was directed outward.

He couldn’t close out the maelstrom of rage around him, not when it was so concentrated, not when his own rage burned so high and wild. That one simple fact had seared into his mind, inescapable, from the moment he’d hit the ground. That being so, the only way to stay whole was to let it flow through him, out of him.

The problem, of course, was that resentful energy didn’t flow. It clung. It dug in to his flesh and spirit like claws. So he couldn’t just let it do anything. He had to direct it.

And the only channel he had for doing that was the path of his own life.

Breath by breath, he pushed with the faint flow of qi left to him, turned his spirit and mind to slide those claws past him, through him, redirecting the wild force outward.

The talismans and arrays helped. They buttressed his redirection, lent more precision and force, but they weren’t enough. Soon he was going to have to find something else, some lever, some tool that would give him at least a moment’s respite from this constant push. He kept thinking he knew something that would work, if only he could have one moment without the dead screaming through his thoughts. Just one moment.

He had to find a way to rest.

Soon.

Becoming the Phoenix – Six

War is on. Meng Yao deals with Jin Zixun and tries to take care of Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen. When Wei Wuxian returns, Meng Yao discovers a certain fellow-feeling, and they make a slightly bloodthirsty deal. Drama with a touch of angst, Porn, I-4

Character(s): Jin Zixun, Lan Wangji, Lan Xichen, Meng Yao, Nie Huaisang, Nie Mingjue, Wei Wuxian

Pairing(s): Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian, Lan Xichen/Meng Yao

Meng Yao was glad that Jin Guangshan had declined to remain in the Unclean Realm or, indeed, to take the field himself. He was very glad he didn’t have to deal with the man’s cold avarice while they were all fighting Wen for their lives, one way or another.

He just really wished that Jin Zixun hadn’t been the one left behind as deputy. Jin Zixun was a nasty little scavenger of the sort he was far too familiar with from his childhood, the kind that followed after a stronger predator and snarled self-importantly at whatever the predator took interest in. Meng Yao didn’t doubt that Jin Guangshan found his nephew a useful tool and distraction. Meng Yao found him a huge annoyance.

“We have information from inside Wen Chao’s household,” he said quietly. “He’s planning to begin a tour of Yunmeng, starting here.” He reached down to tap northern Yunmeng, on the map they were all gathered around, trying to ignore the way both Jiang Wanyin and Lan Wangji came to sharp attention. The increasing bloodthirst both of them showed whenever Wen Chao’s name was spoken was getting a bit alarming. “Apparently he hasn’t said which way he plans to go from there, but if he intends to end back at Lotus Pier he’ll most likely turn west.”

Jin Zixun crossed his arms and glared at Meng Yao. “You really expect us to commit people on such vague information?”

Fortunately, Jin Zixun was also a bit of a fool. Meng Yao gave him a bright smile. “Was Jin planning to take part in this arm of the campaign after all? How generous!”

Jin Zixun opened and closed his mouth, looking less arrogant and more like an indignant fish. Out of the corner of his eye, Meng Yao saw that Xichen was suppressing a smile, and tried not to preen too obviously.

“Very generous,” Nie Mingjue said dryly, “but I’d prefer we keep all of Jin’s cultivators focused on Wen Xu’s advance, at the moment.”

Meng Yao gave him a brief bow of acknowledgment, still smiling. “Of course, Nie-zongzhu.” Jin Zixun subsided into a sulk, across the table, and Meng Yao hoped that would be today’s only annoying outburst.

They settled fairly quickly, after that, on the path Jiang Wanyin and Lan Wangji would take into Yunmeng and how far the other arm of the campaign would let Wen Xu come into Qinghe.

“Hejian,” Nie Mingjue declared with finality. “It’s the most advantageous ground for us.” Even Jin Zixun didn’t protest.

As they were leaving, Xichen laid a gentle hand at the small of Meng Yao’s back. “Is all well, a-Yao?” he asked, soft enough to be just between the two of them. All of Meng Yao’s annoyance over the obstruction they found themselves burdened with and his growing concern over Lan Wangji eased in the warmth of Xichen’s protectiveness, and his whole body softened from the deliberate neutrality he usually clung to during these meetings.

“Yes, Xichen-xiong,” he answered, just as soft, smiling up at Xichen.

Xichen smiled and stroked a thumb down his spine, a discreet caress. “Good.”

Meng Yao carried the calm of knowing his place in Xichen’s heart, and at Xichen’s side, into the rest of his day. It wasn’t until evening, the time he made to work through his sword forms, that he found his calm ruffled again. By Jin Zixun. Of course.

He was working through the slowest of his forms, the one Xichen had taught him to refine his control of his blade, when he became aware of Jin Zixun’s presence at the edge of the courtyard, watching him. His mouth tightened, but he held firmly to his breath control, keeping the shift of qi and muscle together the way Xichen had shown him last summer, and flowed into the next step, sword sweeping up to the side.

Meng Yao had observed that Jin Zixun hated being ignored more than almost anything else, so he wasn’t surprised to hear a scoff from the side of the courtyard. “I guess it’s true about how much your education is lacking,” Jin Zixun called, sauntering forward a few steps. “Is that the fastest you can do those basic steps?”

Meng Yao didn’t bother responding to such an obvious taunt. Jin Zixun wasn’t actually a complete idiot, despite appearances at times; he knew what this kind of exercise was for. That didn’t mean Meng Yao didn’t have to concentrate harder, to keep his movement smooth despite the sharpening prickle of irritation.

“I guess we can’t expect better from a guttersnipe like you,” Jin Zixun continued, propping himself against one of the pillars that edged the courtyard. “What’s the matter? Can’t answer back when your client isn’t here to protect you?” It wasn’t the first reference Jin Zixun had made to his mother’s trade, or even (quite) the most blatant one. Meng Yao still had to breathe out against a flash of rage, and maybe Jin Zixun saw it in how sharply he stepped into the next turn. He kept pushing, at least. “I never would have thought a Lan cultivator would have such low tastes, but maybe that’s what he secretly likes. Someone who never learned any refinement. Someone he can rough up, even. I wonder what the other sects would think, to know Zewu-jun isn’t as pure as everyone believes?”

Meng Yao could hear the glee in Jin Zixun’s voice growing as he spoke, could hear the shadow of the whispering campaign such words might turn into, the kind of thing that was almost impossible to fight, because who didn’t love juicy gossip that wouldn’t have the slightest impact on their lives? It probably wouldn’t live very long in face of Xichen’s reputation, but probably wasn’t certainly, and it was another, another, threat against Xichen. Meng Yao weighed that danger, danger to his sect, to his partner, to his place, and felt the balance finally tip.

He took a cold, steady grip on his gathered qi, whirled on his next step, cast free his spiritual weapon, and lashed forward with it. Jin Zixun had clearly expected it. He was laughing as he drew his sword and swept it up to catch the blow.

He missed.

Because, of course, it wasn’t Meng Yao’s sword that he’d struck with.

It had been at the end of Meng Yao’s first sword lesson with Xichen, that Xichen had found out. He still remembered the sharp bite of fear he’d felt when he’d sheathed his sword and Xichen had tilted his head with a quizzical look.

“Do you carry another spiritual tool?” Lan Xichen asked, brows lifted. “I had thought it was your sword’s presence I felt, but it didn’t change at all, just now.”

Meng Yao froze, hands closed tight around his sword’s sheath, groping for an explanation or excuse. “I… it isn’t…”

Lan Xichen’s surprise gentled, and he laid a hand on Meng Yao’s shoulder. “If it’s a private matter, don’t concern yourself. I was only curious.”

Meng Yao bit down on his lip, thoughts spinning. He hadn’t known the presence of a spiritual weapon could be detected, even when it was quiescent, or he’d never have dared keep it so close. It was a violation of several Lan rules, after all. Lan Xichen had been very indulgent, though, treating Meng Yao’s many weaknesses as an occasion to teach and help. Perhaps he would for this, too? It seemed worth the risk. Meng Yao took a deep breath and bowed his head.

“I’m sorry, Lan-zongzhu,” he said, softly. “I know it’s against the rules. I just…” He reached into his robe and drew out the knife he always carried there, holding it out on his palms, head still bent. “It was from my mother,” he finished, low.

After a long, silent moment in which Meng Yao got tenser, Lan Xichen squeezed his shoulder gently. “If this is your inheritance from her, and your primary spiritual weapon, I can hardly fault you for keeping it close.”

Meng Yao dared a glance up at him and found Lan Xichen looking down at him with a faint, wry quirk to his mouth that caught Meng Yao’s attention at once. Did Lan Xichen, the Master of Lan himself, perhaps not agree with all of his own sect’s rules?

But perhaps he should be wondering, instead, if it was possible for anyone to fully approve and agree with all of them. He’d noted plenty of contradictions on his own read through them. The thought made him relax a little, and he essayed a small, hopeful smile. Lan Xichen smiled back, so kindly that relief made Meng Yao a little light-headed. “May I?” Lan Xichen asked, gesturing toward the sheathed knife Meng Yao still held out. At Meng Yao’s hesitant nod, he lifted it with light fingers and turned it over to see the characters burned carefully into the sheath: Hensheng. After another long moment, Lan Xichen nodded and handed the knife back to him, folding Meng Yao’s fingers gently around it.

“If the blade’s spirit is a loyal servant to you, then keep it near,” he said quietly, eyes holding Meng Yao’s, dark and steady. “As your sword also awakens, let them balance each other. Let them be partners rather than rivals.”

Meng Yao had to swallow hard, wondering at such faith in his cultivation, that Lan Xichen expected Meng Yao to bear two spiritual tools, in time. Just as Lan Xichen did. “I will,” Meng Yao promised, in a whisper.

It had taken more hours of meditation than he really wished to recall, but Zaisheng’s spirit¹ had begun to deepen, and Meng Yao didn’t think it was entirely his imagination that Hensheng’s bitter edge had gained a protective bite in response. That edge sang to him with desire to bite into flesh and blood, now, as he kept it tight under Jin Zixun’s chin, and Meng Yao smiled in answer, slow and cold.

Jin Zixun, backed up against the pillar and holding very carefully still, swallowed. “You wouldn’t dare,” he started, only to break off with white showing all the way around his eyes as Meng Yao turned his outstretched hand a little and Hensheng pressed tighter against Jin Zixun’s throat.

“Wouldn’t I?” Meng Yao murmured, keeping the knife right where it was as he strolled closer. “Ah, but you just said yourself that I had a far rougher upbringing that you did, little flower. Imagine all the things I must be perfectly ready to do to you.” Meng Yao picked up Jin Zixun’s fallen sword and plucked the sheath from his lax grip, sliding the sword home and propping it neatly against the pillar beside him—just as neatly as he chose the right words to trace the outline of Jin Zixun’s fears. “Imagine all the things I must have seen done to pretty flower boys, in my time. Imagine how easy it would be to do them to you, the errand boy with no power of his own.” Just as Jin Zixun stiffened, turning a bit green, Meng Yao straightened up and patted his cheek. “Don’t worry, though. I’ve left all that behind me, and given my heart and hands to Lan. So I wouldn’t do any of that.” He stood back and spread his hands, as if scattering favors from them, all the while keeping Jin Zixun pinned to the pillar by the knife a breath away from opening his throat. “No, the only thing I would do now is let Pan Daiyu know exactly when and where you’ll be on the battlefield, in this campaign.” He smiled brightly as Jin Zixun stopped breathing completely. “Since the Feicheng Pan sect have benefitted so from being your neighbors, they would surely come to watch over you.”

At least for long enough to put an arrow in Jin Zixun’s back while the opportunity presented, if Pan Daiyu ever learned exactly what had happened during the “fever” she’d had while visiting the Golden Unicorn Tower with her father. Meng Yao’s informant had noted, with a certain vicious pleasure, that she was known to be a superb archer.

“How…?” Jin Zixun rasped, and Meng Yao chuckled.

“Did you really think Zewu-jun himself chose me just because I’m pretty? Don’t be foolish.” He paused, considering. “Well, no more than you can help. So let me make this clearer for you.” He stalked back to stand close enough for their robes to brush and spoke each word softly and precisely. “You will not attempt to harm or insult or discredit any member of Lan. You will do nothing that might interfere in the harmony of this alliance, or the success of this campaign. Should you attempt to, I will destroy you.” He reached up to grasp Hensheng’s hilt and scraped the blade’s edge over Jin Zixun’s throat before drawing it back. “Do remember,” he added with a sweet, promising smile, “I always have more than one weapon.”

He turned his back and walked away, satisfied to hear the rustling thump that was probably Jin Zixun’s knees giving way. Personally, he’d have been more than happy to slit Jin Zixun’s throat, dump the body in the mountains, and mention that he’d heard Jin Zixun boast of how little he feared Wen and how ridiculous it was to cower behind fortress walls. But Xichen wouldn’t like that, so he’d just have to content himself with sufficient leverage to make Jin Zixun behave himself, insofar as he was capable.

Really, the more he learned about the Jin sect, the happier he was to be part of Lan instead.

“Meng-gongzi?”

A tap on the open screens of his workroom made Meng Yao look up to see Jiang Yanli in his door. He offered her a smile that was probably just as tired as her own. “Jiang-guniang. Good afternoon.” He started to gather reports to the side, opening a hand toward the cushion beside his writing table.

She shook her head. “Thank you, but I need to get back. The medical supplies finally came in from Jin, and that changes my calculations for how many wounded we can take in here. Again.” She made a face, and Meng Yao couldn’t help a soft snort of rueful agreement. Neither of them were impressed with Jin’s apparent inability to keep a schedule when cooperating with their allies. The only reason it hadn’t caused deaths already was Jiang Yanli’s devout belief in having back-up plans, as she managed the campaign’s supplies, and Jin Zixuan’s equally devout belief in doing whatever it took to defeat Wen cultivators in battle, even if that was cooperating with other sects.

“I just wanted to let you know that my brother and Lan Wangji are back.” She hesitated, hands clasping tight together, and added, more softly, “Still no word about a-Xian?”

Meng Yao shook his head, even as he stood. “Only rumors. Whatever Wen Chao may have done, neither he nor Wang Lingjiao are talking about it.” The whiteness of her knuckles and the darkness in her eyes drove him to offer, “That is what I would expect if he escaped them somehow.”

She gave him a tiny, scraped-together smile, clearly more out of kindness than any comfort in his words. “Thank you.” She took a breath and added, more lightly. “So go on and make sure Lan er-gongzi isn’t being too foolish.”

His own smile tilted wryly. “I shall try.”

Once the Cloud Recesses had been cleared, the Lan elders and children had returned there, guarded by the junior disciples. That included Lan Qiren, which meant that, when Xichen was away, there was no one left in the Unclean Realm who could order Lan Wangji to rest or eat or otherwise not drive himself recklessly. Meng Yao did the best he could in their absence.

As he’d more than half expected, Lan Wangji was not resting or eating or any of the things a sensible person might do on return from the kind of pitched battles that were slowly driving the Wen out of their watchposts and stations across Jiangsu, and now Hubei. Instead, he was in the courtyard outside his rooms, running through his sword forms. Just as if he weren’t rapidly becoming one of the best swordsmen currently living by virtue of the battles he’d burned through like a flame, he and Xichen both.

Meng Yao sighed and leaned against one of the flanking pillars, settling himself in to wait. Once he’d made it clear he wasn’t going anywhere, despite the cold drizzle starting to sift down from the clouds above, Lan Wangji came back to opening stance. He sheathed his sword, and turned to give Meng Yao the shallow bow he’d eventually settled on as the proper response to an age-mate who was also the partner of his brother and sect master. Meng Yao smiled a bit wryly and returned it. “I’m going to find someone to bring food and wash water to your rooms,” he said. “Please don’t let them get cold.”

Lan Wangji just looked at him for a long, blank moment; not as if he didn’t agree, but as if he wasn’t sure of the words he’d heard. Eventually, though he nodded. Meng Yao nodded back firmly and went to go see about that food.

He was starting to agree with Xichen very much about Lan Qiren having mishandled Lan Wangji, and also the depth of Lan Wangji’s fascination with Wei Wuxian.

When he stopped in later that evening, to make sure Lan Wangji actually had stopped and eaten, he was pleased to find Lan Wangji looking dried off, with some mostly empty dishes set aside. He was sitting with his guqin before him, but not playing. Only fingering one slow note at a time. It was a melody, Meng Yao could tell that, but not one he’d heard before.

Before he could withdraw, Lan Wangji stilled his strings and asked, low, “Is there any word?”

“Only rumors, still,” Meng Yao said, as he’d said it to Jiang Yanli earlier, trying to be gentle.

Lan Wangji’s eyes didn’t lift from his strings. “Do you love my brother?”

Meng Yao reared back a little, startled by such an abrupt conversational shift. The question wasn’t sharp, though. It sounded… a bit lost. “I do,” he answered finally, wanting to know where Lan Wangji’s thoughts were right now. “With all my heart.”

Lan Wangji looked up, and there was definitely uncertainty in the pinch of his brows, the no-longer-firm line of his mouth. “Why?”

Meng Yao sighed. All right, perhaps he did know where this was coming from. He contemplated just what he might do for suitable revenge on Lan Qiren, for making him be the one to have such a conversation with his not-perfectly-official brother-in-law. “We match,” he said, at last. “I need things he wishes very much to be able to give. In his own way, he needs what I can give. We fit together.”

Lan Wangji tilted his head, looking thoughtful. He didn’t answer in words, but he did reach out to his strings again, striking a quiet chord.

“Different sounds, and yet they harmonize,” Meng Yao agreed.

“Harmony.” Lan Wangji stilled the strings with an open palm, again. “Thank you.”

Meng Yao gave him their shallow bow, in parting, and made his way back to his own rooms, shaking his head. Xichen had been exactly right about what would come of Lan Wangji’s fascination, though given Wei Wuxian’s disappearance it might have been kinder if Lan Wangji had never realized it.

All those thoughts flew out of his mind, though, when he slid open the door of his rooms and found that Xichen had also returned. “Xichen-xiong!”

Xichen turned with a smile for him, though it looked exhausted. “A-Yao.”

Meng Yao was moving before he even thought, both hands held out, and Xichen caught him up off his feet and held him tight, rain-water soaking from his robes into Meng Yao’s. Meng Yao didn’t care. The feeling of Xichen’s arms around him, having the solid strength of Xichen’s body to lean against, those were what mattered right now.

“A-Yao.” Xichen’s fingers wove into his hair and tipped his head back, and Xichen’s mouth covered his as though Xichen would drink him in. Meng Yao made a breathless sound at the heat of the kiss and relaxed, bonelessly pliant against Xichen.

“I’m here,” he whispered, when Xichen let him, and Xichen smiled down at him, easing his grip enough for Meng Yao to slip down to his own feet again. Meng Yao reached up to lay his palm along Xichen’s cheek and asked, “What do you need?”

Xichen covered Meng Yao’s hand with his own, eyes soft. “I would like very much to think about things that have only to do with life and warmth, for a while. I…” he hesitated for a sliver of a moment that held echos of death in it, “I want my hands to bring only pleasure, tonight.”

That tiny break in Xichen’s voice sent Meng Yao pressing close, rising up on his toes to kiss Xichen. “You know how much I like it when you pay attention to me,” he murmured against Xichen’s lips, gently teasing, trying to coax him out of dark thoughts. He gave Xichen a deliberately flirtatious look from under his lashes and added, “Take care of me tonight, ge-ge?”

Xichen caught him up tight again, laughing softly, just as he’d hoped for. “I will, then.” He only let Meng Yao go, reluctantly, to undress, and promptly drew Meng Yao down into his lap the moment he was seated on their bed. Meng Yao pressed close, straddling Xichen’s crossed legs, and purred at the feel of broad hands moving over his bare skin. Xichen kissed him again and again, slow and gentle, and Meng Yao relaxed into it, arms draped over Xichen’s shoulders, and let Xichen set their pace. Xichen slid his hands up Meng Yao’s back, pressing him closer, and kissed down his throat.

“You’re so beautiful, a-Yao, so very fine,” Xichen murmured against his skin, and Meng Yao tipped his head back with a soft, breathless sound. There was nothing better than knowing he was cherished like this. Xichen’s palms stroked down his ribs, slow and caressing, and large hands settled around his hips.

And lifted him up.

Meng Yao gasped, clutching at Xichen’s shoulders, eyes wide. Xichen just held him up, steady and effortless, a little higher than if he’d knelt upright. A tiny whimper caught in Meng Yao’s throat. He knew Xichen’s strength, but he didn’t often feel it this viscerally.

It felt good.

“I have you,” Xichen said, quiet and reassuring, looking up at him, and understanding settled into Meng Yao’s thoughts. This was what Xichen needed from him.

“You do.” He let himself relax into Xichen’s hold, making no effort at all to support himself, balance shifting as he settled entirely into Xichen’s hands. He watched Xichen’s eyes soften and warm, as he did. “You always hold me safe.”

“You’re so amazing, a-Yao,” Xichen said softly, and bent his head the little bit necessary to take Meng Yao’s cock in his mouth.

“Xichen-ge!” The sudden heat of Xichen’s mouth, the soft rush of pleasure, jolted Meng Yao’s whole body without moving him at all in Xichen’s hold. Xichen held him up, held him still, and sucked on him slowly, and Meng Yao gave himself up to it, shaking in Xichen’s hold as pleasure wound tighter. “Xichen-ge… ge-ge, yes, please!” Xichen’s mouth stayed slow, on him, but the heat of being lifted and held so easily grew, swift and heavy, until it burst down Meng Yao’s nerves like fireworks, sweet and brilliant.

He was panting, whole body limp and wrung out, when Xichen lowered him back down, cuddling Meng Yao into his lap. “Thank you, my own,” he murmured against Meng Yao’s hair.

Meng Yao draped himself against Xichen’s chest with a small, pleased sound. “I like feeling the strength that protects me.” He felt another bit of the tension Xichen carried so often, these days, unwinding, and smiled with satisfaction. Later, he would try to find out if any particular event had upset Xichen. For now, he was content to feel Xichen relax under his hands and know they were together.

When Wei Wuxian was found alive, Meng Yao noticed two things. One was Jiang Yanli’s incandescent joy that seemed to light up the entire fortress until everyone she spoke to went away smiling just from seeing it.

The other was Lan Wangji’s disquiet. Meng Yao wasn’t nearly as good at reading Lan Wangji as Xichen was, but he would almost say that Lan Wangji was alarmed by Wei Wuxian.

Huaisang gave him his first clue why.

“I’m worried about him.” Huaisang paced back and forth through Meng Yao’s workroom, chewing on his lip. “He flinched from me, Meng Yao, from me! Or, no,” he paused, eyes turning distant, “he didn’t flinch. That was the worst part. I reached out, and he shifted—shifted on his center, like we were sparring, like I had a sword in my hand. And if I had, I’d have been past him and down with just that one movement.”

“Wei-gongzi is known to be an excellent swordsman, after all,” Meng Yao murmured, and then smiled wryly at the dire look Huaisang gave him. “No, I know that wasn’t what you meant.” He laid aside his brush with a sigh and laced his fingers together. “You think wherever he was was that dangerous?”

Huaisang sank down onto the cushion beside his writing table, clasping his own hands tight. “I think he’s been fighting all this time. Maybe even fighting spirits all this time. I know I’m not as sensitive to the movement of qi as most everyone else is, but I’ve watched Zewu-jun spar with my brother. The way Wei-xiong moved… it was like that.”

Meng Yao sat back at that, startled. Xichen’s movement, with a sword in his hands, was a perfect flow of absolute mastery, not only of himself but of every element around him. If Huaisang was seeing such a fierce degree of control in Wei Wuxian, now… yes, that spoke of three months of unremitting need for such control. “I see.” He sighed and reached out to pat Huaisang’s shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

What for, he wasn’t sure yet, but he appreciated the forewarning all the same.

By the end of the welcome-back banquet that evening, he still appreciated it; he just wasn’t sure any amount of forewarning would have been sufficient. Not only had Jin Zixun obviously decided that Wei Wuxian was his next target to needle, not only had Yao-zongzhu immediately started to gossip, but Huaisang had clearly been right. Wei Wuxian looked like a ghost dragged out of hell. He stared around at them all as if he wasn’t sure what they were, let alone who. His thoughts seemed to regularly drown out the voices of everyone around him, including his siblings. When he walked out, it was as if they’d all faded into phantoms around him and he thought himself alone. Set against the kind of cutting and complete awareness of his surroundings that Huaisang had described, it slid a finger of ice down Meng Yao’s spine. He remembered again the rumor of guards’ gossip, that Wei Wuxian had been cast into the Burial Mounds, and mentally moved it out of the ‘barely possible’ column and into ‘very possible’.

The next day was not a noticeable improvement, despite Xichen being back again. The meeting of campaign leaders was tense, with Jiang Wanyin obviously on edge and Jin Zixun apparently believing that he was safe to pick at such easy prey just because his slightly more tolerable cousin was present. Meng Yao rubbed at the headache growing between his brows, and let Jiang Wanyin slap the idiot down. They had barely returned to the actual issue, how to deal with the frankly terrifying revenant creatures Wen Ruohan created and controlled with his three pieces of yin metal, when Wei Wuxian stepped through the doors.

The wind that blew in with him curled around hands and arms, enticing as a courtesan’s touch, whipped smoke off the candles and held it drifting in the air, acrid and stinging. Meng Yao stepped back against Xichen and was glad of the warm hand that closed on his shoulder.

Wei Wuxian’s confident assertion that he would be able to curb the yin metal’s influence in a month sent Meng Yao’s thoughts racing again. A month. It made him think about the circles and seals of containment that Huaisang maintained around the fourth piece of yin metal, all of them carefully adjusted, week by week, to take strength from the cycles of the heavens.

Jin Zixun’s scoffing brought him back to the requirements of the moment, and he cut across rude words with a sharp, “Jin Zixun.”

Jin Zixun started to round on him, only to start back a step at the glare Meng Yao leveled at him. He was out of patience for subtlety, today. Jin Zixun snapped his mouth shut and edged back a little further, to the obvious startlement of his cousin.

Xichen touched his arm. “A-Yao?” Meng Yao took hold of himself and looked up at Xichen with a soft smile, trying to reassure the concern in Xichen’s eyes.

“I think I may have some idea of what Wei-gongzi intends. I need to look a few things up, though. Perhaps, then, I may approach him with informed questions.” He cut his eyes briefly at the very tense Lan Wangji, still looking after Wei Wuxian, and a corner of Xichen’s mouth quirked up. He nodded silent agreement to find out what Lan Wangji might know, and Meng Yao relaxed a little. Having a plan made him feel better.

“Do so,” Nie Mingjue ordered. “Tell us what you find. If we have to delay a full month before moving our base forward, there are a few more potential trouble spots in Heibei and Jiangsu I’d like to see to before we turn our backs on them.”

Meng Yao bowed to him. “Of course.”

Instead of his books or reports, though, he made for Huaisang’s rooms and waited for him there. Now it was Meng Yao’s turn to pace.

“Huaisang, you’re the only one I can trust not to immediately jump to conclusions, and you’re more deeply learned in alternative methods of cultivation than I am. Could Wei-gongzi be planning to summon something, or use a moon cycle to power the creation of something?”

Huaisang ran his closed fan between his fingers, eyes dark and serious. “Create something, I think. A moon cycle… that’s a beginning and an ending, the shift from the life of one earthly branch to the life of another another. Create something… or re-create it.” He chewed on his lip and glanced downward. “Meng Yao, you don’t think…”

Meng Yao stood still as all his thoughts crystalized around the memory of the yin metal under their feet—though probably not in the pattern Huaisang feared. “No,” he said, voice distant in his own ears. “Not that, I don’t think.” He took a slow breath and let it go. “Thank you, Huaisang. I think I know what to look for, now.”

“Will Wei-xiong be all right?” Huaisang’s voice was small, and Meng Yao shook off the thought hovering at the edges of his mind and came to lay his hands on Huaisang’s shoulders.

“We’ll do our best to make sure of it.”

Huaisang relaxed and gave him a quick nod, smile a bit tremulous but trusting. Meng Yao nodded back firmly, and took his leave.

He found the report he’d thought he remembered, nearly at the very beginning of the network he’d created among the Wen servants, the tale of how Wen Chao had claimed credit for slaying the legendary Xuanwu of Slaughter. Wen Ruohan had questioned his son about the creature’s body repeatedly before apparently losing interest. That loss of interest would have been, Meng Yao calculated, just about the time news of Xue Yang’s execution might have arrived—the moment that Wen Ruohan thought he knew where the fourth fragment of yin metal had gone. Before that, Wen Ruohan had thought it might have been found with the Xuanwu of Slaughter. Because what, after all, could slay a creature like that? The one Xue Chonghai was said to have controlled?

Perhaps it was only that Meng Yao hadn’t grown up with the tales of Xue Chonghai’s defeat and the founding of the current great sects. That he hadn’t learned the tale of the yin metal being scattered ‘to the four corners of the earth’ young enough to take it literally. But the thought ringing through his mind with the clarity of bells was:

Who said there were only four fragments of yin metal?

The next morning he went to find Wei Wuxian in the rooms Jiang Yanli had so firmly requested be set aside for him months ago. Thinking of her reminded him to keep hold of his poise, which he expected to need. “Wei-gongzi?” he called, tapping on the doors.

It was still a bit of a shock to have the doors open on the Wei Wuxian who had returned, so different from the one of two years past. “Meng-gongzi.” His smile was distant and ironic for a long moment before he shook himself a little and stood aside with a half-sketched gesture of welcome.

Meng Yao took a seat across the sitting room’s table from Wei Wuxian and rested both hands carefully on the surface. “One month,” he said quietly. “One month to forge something new from a fifth fragment?” Wei Wuxian’s eyes narrowed, and for one breath the air had a heavy tang in it—one he recognized from the underground workroom, now he was thinking along those lines. Meng Yao lifted his hands, palm out. “I don’t intend to interfere.”

“Did Lan Zhan say something to his brother?” Wei Wuxian’s voice was low, too, but sharp. Meng Yao still couldn’t help a soft snort, remembering Xichen’s frustration over how little he’d been able to learn from his brother.

“Lan Wangji says very little about you, to anyone. No, it was Huaisang who thought a month was the right cycle for the re-creation of something. I don’t think anyone but me has put the other half of this together, yet.”

Wei Wuxian sat back a little, still watching him closely. “If you don’t intend to interfere, then why are you here?”

Meng Yao thought about the sharp edges that kept slicing through Wei Wuxian’s distance from everything around him, about how close he seemed to be staying to his brother and sister now, and decided that, for once, cold honesty would serve him best. “Because Xichen-xiong cares about Lan Wangji, and it seems Wangji will not leave you. And because whatever you do will be in proximity to Xichen.” Wei Wuxian’s brows rose, and Meng Yao smiled tightly. “I don’t actually care about many people. But Xichen does.”

After a long, measuring look, it was Wei Wuxian’s turn to snort with laughter. “Well. I suppose I can understand that, now.” His eyes burned dark as they locked with Meng Yao’s. “I will protect my family.”

Meng Yao didn’t look away, because he recognized that fire very well indeed. “Then I will make a deal with you. You protect my family, and I’ll protect yours.”

Wei Wuxian blinked, apparently startled out of that moment of ferocity, but then he tilted his head, focus returning, now lighter, more curious. “Exactly what is it you do for the campaign?” he asked.

Meng Yao folded his hands and smiled. “I run the network of informants and gather the information that directs it toward success.”

Wei Wuxian smiled, slow and crooked. “And who do you count your family?”

“Lan Xichen. Lan Wangji.” Softer, because the last thing he’d expected to get out of the summer lectures was anything even resembling a brother, he added, “Nie Huaisang.”

Wei Wuxian nodded, and said just as softly, “Jiang Cheng. Shijie.” He hesitated for a long moment before shrugging silently. Lan Wangji’s name nearly echoed in the air between them, and Meng Yao refrained from rolling his eyes. He didn’t need it said to know it.

“Agreed,” he said, instead.

“Agreed,” Wei Wuxian repeated, and leaned back on his hands with a sigh. “A fifth piece, yeah,” he finally admitted.

Meng Yao tried not to shiver, thinking about the devouring aura the fourth piece had. “If you’ve been carrying it all this while, I imagine you know more about it than anyone else. Except Wen Ruohan, I suppose.”

A laugh cracked out of Wei Wuxian, and his eyes were suddenly distant again. “Oh, more than him. He’s trying to control the yin metal directly, using his own spiritual energy on it.”

Meng Yao remembered the exceedingly abbreviated reports he’d gotten on what happened in Yiling, the mention of altered seals and strange music, and his eyes flicked down to the flute Wei Wuxian seemed to carry in place of his sword these days. “Which you have avoided. I see.” And if it was true that Wei Wuxian had learned such indirect control by way of the Burial Mounds… Meng Yao had to push away another shiver. “Would you be able to complete the process on the move?”

Wei Wuxian made an extremely dubious face, and Meng Yao huffed a faint laugh despite the direness of the topic. “All right, then. Supposing you work here, will it give you any trouble to have the fourth fragment contained so nearby?”

Wei Wuxian froze, eyes fixed on him, wide and dark. “It’s here?”

Meng Yao nodded cautiously, and felt his caution was fully borne out when Wei Wuxian abruptly burst out laughing, a harsh, stifled laughter that left him bent over and shaking. “That explains…” The breath he took sounded like it scraped his lungs raw, even before he lost it on another rough laugh. Finally, he scrubbed both hands over his face and raised his head again, looking unutterably weary. “I should look at how it’s contained, to see if I can work around it or not.”

“Huaisang is the one who’s been managing and adjusting that. How much are you willing to tell him?”

“You said he already guessed some of it,” Wei Wuxian said slowly, fingers sliding along the line of his flute. “And you said he’s family to you. So, some of the truth: say that I’m re-forging an artifact I brought out of the Burial Mounds.” He glanced at Meng Yao, eyes hard. “My family doesn’t know where I was, for sure, and I want to keep it that way.”

“Huaisang can keep secrets. And,” Meng Yao added rather dryly, “he already knows perfectly well that you were somewhere… very harsh.”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth tightened, and he looked down again. “You can tell Lan-zongzhu that much, too. Not the flower peacock or his cousin.”

“I wouldn’t tell Jin Zixun if his robes were on fire,” Meng Yao said calmly. “And Jin Zixuan has no need to know. What of Nie-zongzhu?”

Wei Wuxian was screwing up his mouth dubiously again. Meng Yao was really starting to wonder if some Lan Wangji’s fascination with this man wasn’t simply watching how expressive he was. “Nie-zongzhu seems very… absolute in his morality.”

“To say the least,” Meng Yao agreed. “Will you let Xichen-xiong decide what to tell him, then? Nie Mingjue is his oldest friend, after all.”

Wei Wuxian hesitated, and Meng Yao thought about three months not daring to even rely on his own spiritual strength, and waited patiently. “You believe he’ll weigh it carefully? Even if Nie-zongzhu is his oldest friend?”

“Nie Mingjue is the general of this campaign.” Meng Yao smiled. “Lan Xichen is its ruler. He understands that not everything should be said to everyone.”

Pale fingers clenched and loosened around the black lacquer line of the flute. “All right.”

Meng Yao released a slow breath, feeling the shape of this settle into his mind, their deal and their stories and the strategy they would move forward with. “Very well, then.”

When he left, he went back to their rooms and walked straight into Xichen’s arms. Xichen gathered him up at once, and for a long moment Meng Yao let go of the constant tension of awareness and calculation, of being the one to watch their backs, and let himself sink into the warmth of being sheltered and cherished. “This isn’t going to be easy,” he mumbled into Xichen’s chest.

Long fingers slid gently through his hair. “Tell me,” Xichen said.

So he took a deep breath and told Xichen everything he could.

Flipside

Nie Huaisang stood at the side of the work room that contained the fourth fragment of yin metal and watched Wei Wuxian prowl around it. And it was a prowl; that slow, careful movement couldn’t be called anything else. Wei Wuxian moved like a stalking tiger.

A wounded one.

That was the other thing he’d noticed over the last couple days. Wei Wuxian’s movement, whenever he wasn’t paying attention or didn’t have his siblings around to think about reassuring, was predatory. But it was also halting, disrupted at odd moments by flinches from things no one else saw or heard. It reminded Huaisang very unpleasantly of some of the older chronicles he’d read, the ones that spoke of Xue clan cultivators, under Xue Chonghai, and how their own power, or perhaps the spirits they’d bound, had driven them to mad rages and slaughter.

He hated the thought of such a thing happening to Wei Wuxian, who’d been so willing to play with him, at the last Lan summer lectures, who’d been so much like a touch of sunlight—bright and generous and warm. So willing to reach out and spill across all those around him. So willing to take care of people.

And also beautiful. Huaisang appreciated that, too. But most of what he remembered was the little curl of mischief at the corners of Wei Wuxian’s mouth, and the companionable weight of an arm around his shoulders, and the complete willingness to debate the merits of classical poets long into the night.

So Huaisang stood quiet, now, off to the side, determined not to leave Wei Wuxian alone with this fragment, or with whatever other burden he was carrying.

Finally, Wei Wuxian stopped circling the seal. “This is impressive.” It was almost his poetry-debating tone, which Huaisang took some hope from. “If I do my re-working in range of this, though, there’s going to be a surge in Autumn influence. Can you counteract that?”

Autumn, metal, gathering, ran through his mind, sound and sense and emotion and celestial bodies, associations building one on the next and outward. “The seasonal progression won’t help,” he murmured, tapping his fan against his chin, “but the major stars will; the Fire Star is in the sky the longest, right now. With that… if I add Fire Over Lake to the outer seal…” He nodded decisively. “Yes, I think so.” And then the network of symbols and influences he held in his mind sank in, connected to the context of here and now, yin metal to (almost certainly) yin metal, and his eyes widened. “Wei-xiong!”

Wei Wuxian was watching him, eyes hooded in turn, chin tipped down. “When I saw those seals I wondered if you’d figure it out. They really are very impressive.”

Huaisang crossed to him in a rush and seized his arms. “Wei-xiong, are you…!” Even in the midst of some panic, the back of his mind noted that Wei Wuxian was standing still and letting Huaisang shake him, and Huaisang finished, much softer, “Are you going to be all right?”

Slowly, as if it were a stream breaking out of winter ice, Wei Wuxian’s tilted, ironic smile softened. “I’ll be fine.” He patted Huaisang’s hand on his arm gently.

Huaisang swallowed back tightness in his throat. “All right, then. I’ll hold this, while you work. Just…” he gave Wei Wuxian the scolding frown he used on his brother, when Da-ge trained too long or stayed up too late, “you’d better take care of yourself, Xian-ge!”

Wei Wuxian blinked at him, and finally broke out in a laugh, rusty and brief, but a laugh. “I will.” A tiny shadow of the impish grin Huaisang remembered flickered at the corners of his mouth. “A-Sang.”

Huaisang drew himself up with great dignity and gave Wei Wuxian a firm nod, as if sealing a formal bargain. “Good.” This would work. He would make it work. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was be an importunate little brother.

Look how well it had worked on Meng Yao, after all.

1. I’ve juggled names and weapons a bit, since the drama makes so little of Hensheng. In this timeline, Hensheng is a knife that Meng Yao’s mother gifted him with, to defend himself, which he names 恨生 "to hate" and "life/birth/to be born". This can, in Meng Yao’s case, easily be interpreted as hatred of his birth or the rank/world he was born to. His sword, not a soft-sword this time but a relatively standard jian, is named Zaisheng 再生 "again" and "life/birth/to be born", or "to be reborn". back

Becoming the Phoenix – Seven

The war reaches its climax. Meng Yao refuses to stay back for the final battle, which turns out to be a very good thing, especially when Jin Guangshan tries to grab whatever power he can in the aftermath. Wen Qing calls on Jiang Wanyin to honor his word to her, and ends up in Lan custody while Jiang protects the rest of her clan. Drama with all the politics, Action with some violence, I-4

Character(s): Jiang Wanyin, Jiang Yanli, Jin Guangshan, Lan Wangji, Lan Xichen, Meng Yao, Nie Mingjue, Wei Wuxian, Wen Qing

Pairing(s): Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian, Lan Xichen/Meng Yao

Coordinating an aggressive campaign was extremely wearing. Time to prepare or double check decreased, the Wen commanders became more close-mouthed the worse things went for them, and Wen Ruohan was becoming both less predictable and more isolated, neither of which were conducive to getting information on his plans. On top of that, no one could predict when the appalling new corpse puppets might appear. Meng Yao might be the only one who took the uncertainty as a personal affront, but it was wearing on everyone.

When Jiang Yanli, of all people, arrived at his tent to go over his projected numbers and her supply lists looking downright frazzled, Meng Yao tied his tent doors firmly shut and made them tea. He was absolutely not letting one of the campaign’s pillars of calm snap.

One explanation later, he was sitting with his hand over his eyes, tea gone cold. “So Jin Zixuan accused you, the woman in charge of this encampment, of lying about who brought his food. Allegedly to try to get his attention. And Wei-gongzi punched him.”

“Yes,” Jiang Yanli sighed.

Meng Yao dragged his hand down his face, mentally taking back all his thoughts about Jin Zixuan being less of a fool than his cousin. “Well, at least he deserved it.”

“Meng-gongzi, that’s not the point,” she scolded, though he could see a tiny quirk upward at the corner of her mouth. That was better.

“No, I suppose not.” He folded his hands and added this to the growing pattern of Wei Wuxian’s current temper. “It isn’t actually much of a change, you know. Remember the incident after the lantern-painting, at the lectures two summers ago?”

Jiang Yanli’s eyes darkened again, troubled. “It’s harder for him to restrain himself, now, though. I can see it. His temper is… heavier.”

Meng Yao couldn’t argue with that; it was his own conclusion, too. “It is,” he agreed quietly, “but his reasons have not changed. If you trusted his heart before, I believe you can trust it now.” Which was as close as he thought it safe to come to telling Jiang Yanli that the only thing stopping her little brother from burning down the world to keep her safe was the fact that she wouldn’t like it if he did.

Meng Yao had recognized that weight in the way Wei Wuxian looked at her, with no trouble at all.

Jiang Yanli’s smile softened again, though it also turned a bit rueful as she cradled her cup between light fingers. “I’ve always trusted a-Xian’s heart, to do everything except look after himself.”

“He is one of my allies, here,” Meng Yao offered, and ducked his head at the warm smile she gave him.

“I know you take care of your people.” She patted his arm. “Thank you.”

Not for the first time, Meng Yao reflected that, while he’d learned the politics of the cultivation world from Xichen, it was Jiang Yanli who’d shown him the most about how to turn them to his advantage.

On this point, Meng Yao had to agree with Wei Wuxian: Jin Zixuan really didn’t deserve her.

“Nie and Jin will draw off as many as possible with an attack on the Nightless City from the east. Jiang and Lan will come from the south and make directly for Wen Ruohan’s hall.” Nie Mingjue looked around the table at the gathered leaders of the Sunshot campaign. “This will be our final push.”

Meng Yao felt nothing but a weightless sort of emptiness, hearing it. He was finally done. All the desperate pressure and rush of maintaining communication with his network, balancing who was willing to say what with who worked where, making strategic guesses based on every bit of other information he collected to fill in the blanks before someone was ambushed… it was done.

Except for one thing.

As people started to leave the tent in ones and twos, he turned to look up at Xichen with as much calm as he could muster. “I will be coming with you.”

Xichen took in a sharp breath. “A-Yao…”

“Xichen-xiong,” Meng Yao said softly. “One of the greatest cultivators and one of the best teachers of our age has spent two and more years tutoring me in the sword. I am not defenseless. I’ll stay to the back, if you wish it, but I will not remain behind when you go into such danger.”

“You most certainly will not stay to the back; you’ll stay beside me,” Xichen said, as close to sharp as he’d ever gotten with Meng Yao. Meng Yao smiled up at him and agreed demurely, “Yes, Xichen-xiong.” Xichen sighed and gave him the rueful look of a man who knew perfectly well he was being maneuvered around. “Promise me you’ll keep yourself safe,” he demanded, laying both hands on Meng Yao’s shoulders.

Meng Yao rested a hand on his chest, in turn. “I promise.”

It was a reasonable request. After all, if he wasn’t safe himself, how was he to destroy anything that dared threaten Xichen? He’d collected a good deal of information on Jin Guangshan, by now, and was confident that the threat he would present would appear very soon after the final battle.

As a child, Meng Yao had been used to the often brutal violence that ran underneath the commerce and politics of brothels. He’d liked night-hunts better, once he’d been taken in by the Nie sect, with their element of tracking and deduction, even of trapping. He’d fully expected a battlefield to be a return to the brutality that human conflict seemed inevitably to involve, and he’d been right.

The part that he hadn’t expected was to find beauty here.

The sweep of Xichen’s sword was so clean, so driven by perfect awareness of every movement around him, that even Xichen’s speed seemed unhurried, never pressed despite the multiple attackers that hemmed them in. It was as if he drew a circle around them in white and blue, traced out by the fall of his sword and the flow of his sleeves following after every blow, and within that circle was calm.

In that calm it felt easy to move with Xichen, to find the rhythm Meng Yao knew from their lessons and sparring, and turn his own sword outward without the slightest concern that an attacker’s would find his back.

The relative calm didn’t entirely prevent his attention from catching on odd things, bits of disjointed observation to keep his thoughts busy while his body got on with surviving, and he was momentarily amused to note that he wasn’t the only one encircled by a white wall of defense. Wei Wuxian moved so effortlessly with Lan Wangji, through and inside Lan Wangji’s strokes as Wei Wuxian turned away blow after blow on his flute, that Meng Yao thought they’d probably been doing this for the entire second half of the campaign.

Meng Yao stepped through another half circle at Xichen’s back, aware that the core of this attack—Xichen, Lan Wangji, Jiang Cheng—were moving ever closer to the stairs up to Wen Ruohan’s own hall. The pace was starting to accelerate with each red-clothed cultivator that fell, and Meng Yao thought he could see the end approaching.

Until a wave of palpable, burning darkness rushed out from the hall and swept over the field.

A breathless moment of hush followed, as every person still alive and standing paused, wondering, waiting to see what would come next. Meng Yao resettled his feet and took a breath, feeling the steadiness of Xichen behind him.

What came was the slow rustle of many, many footsteps, as what looked like three times their number of corpse puppets emerged from the south gates and spilled around the sides of Wen Ruohan’s hall. Maybe more than that—they were still coming when Meng Yao had to tear his attention away and do something about the sword coming at him. The battlefield dissolved back into a whirl of bodies pressing in on them, and Meng Yao’s focus narrowed and narrowed again, down to nothing but the angle of his sword, the next exhale, the sharpness of Xichen’s movements. And under it all, as far down as he could push it, the thought that they might not make it out of this courtyard alive.

The piercing note of a flute cut every thought short.

Meng Yao had never before been on a battlefield with Wei Wuxian. Listening to that music, he thought he understood why the people who had been whispered of magic that pried into the soul. The eternal core of rage that lay beneath his daytime thoughts resonated to those notes. To cultivators who thought they were beyond the influence of the blind, bottomless rage of ghosts, Meng Yao had no doubt it felt inexplicable. Perhaps even like possession. But that wasn’t it. It was only Wei Wuxian’s song calling to the malice and fury that living minds tried to bind down or weed out, if they weren’t already mad with it.

Fortunately, Meng Yao had known for some time that he was probably a bit mad, by most people’s standards. He breathed through it, let the rage surge up and channeled it through his next breath.

Except that there was no next attack coming.

The most advanced corpse puppets, the ones that seemed to be able to spread their corruption, turned on their fellows with a roar, leaving the Jiang and Lan cultivators in slowly widening spaces with nothing to fight. Meng Yao backed up to Xichen’s shoulder, looking around, and spotted Wei Wuxian, standing above the battlefield on one of the stone beasts that flanked the stairs. That position, careflly separated from any other combatant, yanked at his attention, and he took in a quick, harsh breath, groping for Xichen’s arm.

“Xichen-xiong. I need to move; don’t follow yet, please. I swear I’ll be all right.”

“A-Yao…!”

Meng Yao thought he would be in for a scolding, later, for ignoring Xichen to dart up the steps on the far side from Wei Wuxian. Xichen waited as he asked, though, so he set all that away in his mind for later. One flight, two, and he dropped his sword and flung himself down to his knees as if struck and perhaps struggling to rise. Just in time, as Wen Ruohan burst out of his doors and glared around.

And, exactly as Wei Wuxian had probably intended, the Wen sect master focused only on him. On him and on the seal Wei Wuxian had forged from the fifth piece of yin metal.

Meng Yao breathed slow and even, as Wei Wuxian baited Wen Ruohan, shifting his focus from his sword to his knife and concentrating his spiritual energy into Hensheng. Breath by breath, he deepened that flow, as Wen Ruohan seized hold of Wei Wuxian and Wei Wuxian let him, smiling as he releasing all the force he had gathered through the Yin Tiger Seal. As every corpse puppet on the field fell, exactly like dropped puppets, in the moment when Wen Ruohan’s attention was split between Wei Wuxian’s taunting smile and the glint of Lan Wangji’s sword coming at him like a bolt of lightning from the steps, Meng Yao cast Hensheng free. He brought it sweeping around from directly behind Wen Ruohan, with all the force he’d been able to concentrate, and drove it into Wen Ruohan’s spine. He almost thought he could hear the meaty thunk and brittle snap of Hensheng stabbing in. For one instant, all was still.

And then Wen Ruohan fell.

Lan Wangji was just in time to catch Wei Wuxian, as he too collapsed.

Which was when Nie Mingjue and Jin Zixuan stormed through the east gates and ground to a halt at the spectacle laid out before them. After a dumbfounded moment, though, the Jin contingent set up a victory cry.

Meng Yao dropped back down to the stairs and buried his head in the crook of his arm, trying to stifle the unstrung giggles that swept him as all the tension in him released in a rush.

“A-Yao?” Xichen’s hand on his shoulder was warm and steady, and Meng Yao took a few deep breaths to master himself.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. Just…” he raised his head and looked up at Xichen with a rueful smile. “Help me stand up?” He wasn’t at all sure he could, on his own.

Xichen helped him up and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Try not to scare me like that too often?” he asked, and his voice was soft but the grip of his hands around Meng Yao’s shoulders was tight.

Meng Yao lowered his eyes, contrite even if there hadn’t really been time to explain. “Yes, Xichen-ge,” he murmured. “I’ll try.”

Xichen’s mouth quirked, probably at the qualified agreement. “All right, then.” He kept a hand under Meng Yao’s elbow as they climbed the last flight of stairs to the three at the top. Wen Ruohan was very clearly dead, but Wei Wuxian didn’t seem too far behind him. Lan Wangji cradled Wei Wuxian close as he looked up at his brother with open entreaty. “Xiongzhang.”

Xichen brushed gentle fingers over his brother’s head. “Let’s get all of the injured down to the Wen guest quarter. That’s where the physicians should be setting up.”

Lan Wangji nodded and gathered Wei Wuxian up in his arms as he rose, turning down the steps. Meng Yao thought the physicians might have to pry them apart to do any treatment, and firmly stifled another fit of helpless giggles. Instead, he knelt and yanked his knife out of the back of Wen Ruohan’s neck, cleaning it on the dead man’s robes. When he stood, Xichen was smiling at him, soft and satisfied.

“I see you’ve found your balance between Hensheng and Zaisheng, just as I thought you would.”

Meng Yao stared up at him, eyes wide, breath suddenly shaking in his chest. At the reminder of Xichen’s faith in him. At the reminder of how clearly Xichen sometimes saw him. At the reminder of how much of him seemed to truly be welcome in the shelter of Xichen’s arms. “Because of you,” he whispered. “Only because of you.”

Xichen touched his cheek, tender as another kiss, and let his hand fall lightly down Meng Yao’s back, sweeping him along as Xichen went down the steps to meet Nie Mingjue. Meng Yao walked quietly beside him, letting the end of this campaign settle into his thoughts, a steady weight of this is accomplished.

Now would come the less obvious campaign.

It took Jin Guangshan three days to show up at the Nightless City, about as fast as one could make the trip from Lanling to Qishan by sword. Meng Yao frankly suspected he’d been much closer, and had only arrived by sword to remind people he still had one. Xichen and Nie Mingjue had gone to meet him, and Meng Yao attached himself quietly and firmly to Xichen’s elbow.

He remembered the coldness of Jin Guangshan’s eyes moving over the gathered alliance, as if tallying up how much he could get for each one of them at market.

Jin Guangshan also tried immediately to insert himself into the circle of the campaign commanders. “No need to trouble yourselves with sweeping up the Wen remnants that escaped,” he declared. “I’ll have Jin Zixun take care of that.”

Nie Mingjue looked absently approving, and even Xichen only a little troubled. Meng Yao’s mouth tightened briefly before he smoothed his expression. This man was good at what he did.

“I hope Jin Zixun will not have made any hasty moves,” Meng Yao interjected. “I will need to speak with the captives to locate my informants. They served us well; the least we can do in return is keep them safe, if they survived the fighting.”

Xichen’s chin lifted at the reminder of just how hasty Jin Zixun tended to be. “Very true.”

Jin Guangshan clearly saw it too, and waved a hand. “Of course, of course.” He gave Meng Yao a tolerant and yet dismissive glance. “But now is the time for deciding policy, not the little details.”

Meng Yao made his eyes wide and earnest. “I do apologize, Jin-zongzhu. If I’d known that was your purpose, I’d have sent someone for Jiang-zongzhu at once, when you arrived.” He felt more than saw Xichen and Nie Mingjue react to that: half a blink, a tiny shift back onto heels. They hadn’t been thinking about the fourth sect master, even after Jin Guangshan mentioned policy decisions.

The image of Jin Zixuan clicked into place, in Meng Yao’s mind. Jin Zixuan commanding Jin forces and taking part in the leadership councils, even though he was still only heir. Still young. The same age as Jiang Wanyin.

That hadn’t been a choice made only out of cowardice or an attempt to assert the superiority of Jin, though Meng Yao thought both of those things still entered in to it. It had also been an attempt to make the more seasoned leaders discount Jiang Wanyin, to forget a little that he wasn’t still heir to Jiang but rather the sect’s master, now. Meng Yao poised himself and waited for his opening. Neither his need to protect Xichen and Lan nor his deal with Wei Wuxian could let this bit of maneuvering stand.

Sure enough, Jin Guangshan chuckled at the mention of Jiang Wanyin, avuncular and dismissive. “Ah, Jiang Wanyin is still very young for all the responsibilities he’s taken on…”

Meng Yao inserted himself neatly into the pause for breath as if it had been a full stop, smiling happily. “I hadn’t imagined that such an experienced leader as Jin-zongzhu would admire Jiang-zongzhu’s staunch sense of responsibility as I do! Truly, it’s astonishing how firmly he’s taken up his duties.” He kept his breath light and even, and his smile impenetrable, as Jin Guangshan’s eyes narrowed, now intent on him.

As the pause drew out, while Jin Guangshan tried to find a way around the block Meng Yao had created without taking back his own words, Meng Yao pounced on the opportunity and turned to look up at Xichen. “Xichen-xiong, shall I go and find Jiang-zongzhu for you, so all the sect masters may discuss policy?”

Xichen’s faintly raised brows quirked up another hair at the delicate emphasis Meng Yao put on ‘all’, and he nodded slowly. “Yes, a-Yao. Please do.” His smile was a little wry but still warm. “What would we do without you to think of these things?”

Meng Yao bent his head, graceful and obedient, and felt with satisfaction how the current of power in the room shifted around his gesture, settled more firmly on Xichen.

He felt, too, the weight of Jin Guangshan’s eyes on his back as he left. That was fine. Let the man wonder whether that had all been deliberate or not.

He found Jiang Wanyin with his wounded sect-members and stifled a sigh. If he was right about Jin Guangshan’s intent to either break or absorb Jiang, they’d need to work on Jiang Wanyin’s political awareness. “Jiang-zongzhu,” he said, with a brief, polite bow, “the sect masters are meeting to consider what’s to be done with the remnants of Wen. Will you attend?”

At least it didn’t take long for Jiang Wanyin to re-focus. “Yes, of course.” He nodded to one of his only surviving senior disciples and stood to follow Meng Yao.

“You need to delegate more,” Meng Yao murmured, as they made their way back to Wen Ruohan’s hall. “You’re about to start having to spend more time with the other sect masters. Jin Guangshan is trying to dismiss and downplay your capability as Master of Jiang.”

Jiang Wanyin’s sharp look turned hot and furious. “He’s what?”

“Be calm,” Meng Yao ordered, just as sharply, not looking around. “Don’t try to engage with him. Leave that to me. What you need to do is defend yourself; demonstrate to Lan and to Nie that you are a responsible leader who can take measured thought on larger matters. Such as,” he added, pointedly, “what should be done with the surviving Wen servants, dependents, and elders. Will you argue for their deaths? Or for mercy? And if mercy, who shall have control of these people, who will have use of any skills they possess?”

Now Jiang Wanyin was looking a little overwhelmed, and Meng Yao couldn’t entirely blame him. It was obvious, to him at least, that Jiang Fengmian had been educating his son gradually, and had put cultivation and character ahead of sect politics. It was really no wonder Wei Wuxian was so fierce in protecting him. Meng Yao thought for a moment, as they started to climb the stairs, and finally asked, “What direction do you wish to lead Jiang in? What is the guiding principle of your sect?” Perhaps that would help Jiang Wanyin focus.

And, indeed, after one halting, almost stumbling step, Jiang Wanyin straightened, head lifting as he looked up the last steps. After one long, uncertain moment, his mouth firmed to a hard line. “To protect.”

Meng Yao paused at the top of the steps and looked back at him. “Then perhaps you have your answers.” He swept a hand toward the open doors, bowing Jiang Wanyin inside.

Jin Guangshan had been busy in his absence, he noted. Apparently he’d called Jin Zixun to come, as well, and bring whatever prisoners he’d rounded up so far along with him. Jin Zixun didn’t stay, though; rather he left his huddled prisoners under a handful of guards and strode off with a smirk on his face. Jin Guangshan welcomed Jiang Wanyin jovially enough, and turned at once to Meng Yao. “You said you will need to review all Wen prisoners to identify your informants, yes?” He waved a permissive hand toward the twenty or so men and women in the middle of the hall. "Go ahead, then."

Meng Yao blinked at him, and turned an innocently confused look on Xichen, making sure to speak to him rather than let Jin Guangshan continue to act as if he directed things here. “I thought the sect masters wished to decide on a general policy of disposition for the prisoners, first?” He didn’t react in the slightest as Jin Guangshan stirred, as if he were so focused on Xichen he hadn’t seen.

“I believe we are agreed that we will all be more settled in mind if we are sure our decisions will catch no allies by mistake,” Xichen said quietly.

Agreed for very different reasons, Meng Yao had no doubt, but so be it. Let Jin Guangshan glean what he could of Meng Yao’s methods, from this. It wouldn’t help him with the network Meng Yao had created within the Jin sect.

He moved out into the hall, to stand near the prisoners and recited, “The high tower is a hundred feet tall.”

Two heads jerked up, both women in the clothing of lower servants. Their voices tangled with each other as they responded over top of each other.

“I raise my head and look at the bright moon.”

“The River Chu cuts through the middle of heaven’s gate.”

The women both stumbled to a halt, blinking at each other in clear confusion. Meng Yao smiled and held up a finger. “From here one’s hand could pluck the stars,” he said to the first, and turned to the second to finish, “You ask for what reason I stay on the green mountain.”

The older woman sagged in clear relief, and the younger pressed her clasped hands to her trembling mouth. Meng Yao nodded and held out his hand. “Come. All will be well.” A cool look at the Jin guards cleared their way. “Go to the Hall of Embers, in the guest quarter,” he told them quietly. “Wait for me there. You will be safe.”

They both bowed to him and made haste out, the younger woman helping the elder along.

“Poetry, eh?” Jin Guangshan’s mouth smiled under cold, cold eyes. “Not something that comes naturally to the lower classes.”

Meng Yao breathed out the surge of rage that wanted to break free, smile smooth and unbroken. “You might be surprised, Jin-zongzhu.”

“Maybe, maybe,” Jin Guangshan chuckled, and beckoned to the Jin guards. “Carry on, then.”

The first knot of prisoners was led off, into the interior of the hall, and another lot prodded inside. Meng Yao let his smile curl just a little wider, perfectly serene. If Jin Guangshan thought he would be able to break Meng Yao’s code, he was very mistaken. Because, of course, there was no code to break—it all depended on Meng Yao’s own memory of lines cut from dozens of poems and matched at random for each new informant he added.

One little group of prisoners after another were brought through the hall, and Meng Yao ran through his individual recognition signals and culled out his informers in ones and twos. Twice, over the course of the afternoon, someone he was fairly sure did recognize the first line of his signal refused to give the counter. He marked them in his mind to check on later, out from under the very public eyes in this hall. Perhaps they had family they would not leave. He would see.

The more knots of ragged, fearful prisoners came through the hall, though, the more he wondered. Xichen’s mouth was getting very tight, and Nie Mingjue had outright pity on his face, by now. They were only settling deeper into the conviction that these people were no threat. There must be something Jin Guangshan hoped to gain that was worth such a risk.

When Jin Zixun returned in person with the last group of prisoners, Meng Yao realized exactly what that thing was with abrupt clarity. Because the woman at the head of this group was no servant. Her cloak was ragged and dirty, and the robes under it torn in places, but they were still a fine, deep red. He recognized her at once from the Lan summer lectures, two and more years behind them: Wen Qing, adopted by the main branch of the clan, Wen Ruohan’s personal physician, a powerful cultivator even without a sword in her hands. Exactly the kind of person who would be the greatest threat to leave alive and the most valuable to control. The parade of other prisoners had been little more than a delaying tactic so that she could be brought.

Jin Guangshan intended to base their prisoner disposition on her example, and based on her, it would be easy for him to argue against leniency, against the compassion that Meng Yao knew Xichen would wish for.

“And were any of your informants from among these?” Jin Guangshan inquired silkily.

Meng Yao did have one piece of information that might serve Xichen’s wishes, here, but he needed an opening to bring it forth. So for now he said only, “There were not,” and spread a welcoming hand toward the little group, as if it were his permission that let Jin Guangshan go forward. Cannily, Jin Guangshan did not step forward to answer it, but turned to Xichen and Nie Mingjue.

“The servants, perhaps, can be released or taken in by other sects,” he declared, obviously having tracked Xichen’s and Nie Mingjue’s thoughts on the previous groups, “but there remain far more dangerous prisoners. Wen Qing was said to be high in Wen Ruohan’s favor! Who is to say what rebellion she might not raise, if left free?” He shook his head, brows drawn together in a concerned frown. “We must take responsible thought, here. The yin metal is recovered, but it is an element of nature and cannot be destroyed. What, then, if someone like her were to lay hands on a piece? We have only just finished subduing Wen, and she might raise it anew!”

Listening carefully for what might be implied, Meng Yao tried not to have a heart attack on the spot. Taken in by other sects, yes, he’d suspected Jin Guangshan might want to snatch up any cultivators still alive to make his own use of, but he hadn’t realized the man might also be aiming for the yin metal!

…and possibly even for Wei Wuxian and the Yin Tiger Seal, if that emphasis on responsible thought meant what he thought it did.

Thankfully, Jiang Wanyin, who had been staring at Wen Qing the entire time, looking pale and shocked, finally stepped forward. “I do not believe she would. After the attack on Lotus Pier, it was Wen Qing and her brother who hid us, in defiance of the orders of her clan.”

Seizing on the opening, Meng Yao nodded soberly. “Indeed. My informant in Wen Chao’s household did say it was on suspicion of not fulfilling Wen Ruohan’s own orders that Wen Chao imprisoned her.”

Nie Mingjue only grunted, eyeing her narrowly, but Xichen smiled. “To withhold your hand from unjust actions, even when it is your own clan that demands them, is not the mark of a small heart.” Nie Mingjue eyed him for a long moment, at that, but finally sighed and nodded his agreement, the straight line of his shoulders softening a touch. Meng Yao gave silent thanks that Xichen knew how to handle his friend, and had also picked up on Meng Yao’s push away from the language of defiance. If he was right, that would only feed into a play to control Wei Wuxian.

He was starting to feel very frazzled, trying to keep track of all this at once.

Jin Guangshan pulled a thoughtful expression. “It is as you say, Lan-zongzhu, but such conviction does not make her, or others who may be equally defiant, less of a danger to leave at our backs.”

Meng Yao was reciting some of the filthiest curses he knew behind a bland smile, and trying to think of some way to cut off Jin Guangshan’s momentum before he really did reach Wei Wuxian, when Wen Qing tossed her cloak back with a sharp gesture and stepped forward herself.

“Enough!” She ignored the reflex jerk of the guards’ swords, head high as her eyes raked over the equally startled sect masters before her. “If the lives of my clan are to be a bargaining chip once again, then I will bargain myself.” She reached into her robes and pulled out a small, scarf-wrapped package, and held it out to Jiang Wanyin with an imperious look. “Jiang-zongzhu. I call on you to honor your word. The lot of you may do what you like with me. But my brother and my clan—them you will protect.” She ignored the immediate protests from behind her and held Jiang Wanyin’s eyes steadily.

He stared back at her, very still, and Meng Yao wondered if her demand—to protect her own, the every thing Jiang Wanyin had just declared a guiding principle of his—was resonating in his heart the way Xichen’s words sometimes did in Meng Yao’s. Jin Guangshan stirred as if to step forward, and perhaps try once again to override Jiang Wanyin, and this time Meng Yao thought Jiang Wanyin caught it. His eyes flickered aside at the other sect masters, and the line of his mouth firmed. In the end, it was he who stepped forward to take the silk packet from Wen Qing’s hand.

“Wen Ning and his immediate clan are under the protection of Jiang,” he declared.

The currents of the room shifted again around that flat declaration, the tight, exclusive circle of attention between Xichen, Nie Mingjue, and Jin Guangshan finally breaking open. Meng Yao almost felt he could reach out and touch the shards of it falling to the floor.

“They will be your responsibility, then,” Nie Mingjue said, as much an acceptance as a warning.

“Perhaps that will be the best approach after all,” Jin Guangshan was quick to agree, calculation flickering in his eyes before being hidden under a judicious expression. “With her brother in the keeping of one of our sects, perhaps she could be trusted in the custody of another.”

That turned out to be a miscalculation (finally!), now that whatever uncertainty had held Jiang Wanyin quiet seemed to have broken, because he rounded on the other sect masters. “Did we fight Wen only to try to take their place? These people are under Jiang’s protection, not hostages!” There was entreaty as well as anger in his voice, but perhaps that was just as well, because Xichen stepped forward to answer it.

“We did not defeat them only to become them.” For all that Xichen didn’t raise his voice, that was a declaration too, and Meng Yao saw Nie Mingjue settle under it and Jin Guangshan ease back, retreating from potential confrontation. “Nevertheless, some form of oversight is needed.” The smile he turned on Jiang Wanyin was kind and understanding, but also held a momentary flicker of warning. Jiang Wanyin’s given word could shield Wen Qing’s brother and clan, but not her, not directly, not when she’d disclaimed it herself.

That gave Meng Yao an idea, though.

“Let the Lan sect take her in, then,” he said, and spread his hands, smiling in his best self-deprecating manner, when everyone’s attention shifted to him. “Jiang has a personal debt to Wen Qing, it seems. In turn, I bear a person debt to Jiang.” Or, at least, to Wei Wuxian and his transparent attempt to keep Lan Wangji out of his confrontation with Wen Ruohan, thoroughly unappreciated as it had been by Lan Wangji himself. Close enough to ring true. “Let her reside with Lan, in an environment with strict oversight that will not encourage any sort of rash action.”

He did not miss Jin Guangshan’s quick, narrow glance at Xichen, or the way his mouth flattened into a hard line when Xichen nodded.

“Lan will undertake to look after her, yes.” His eyes were warm on Meng Yao, and it wasn’t difficult at all to return a soft, grateful smile—perfectly genuine but also another opportunity to emphasize Xichen’s power, here.

“That will be quite acceptable,” Nie Mingjue agreed, and Jiang Wanyin was swift to follow. Meng Yao carefully refrained from gloating at the bow Jiang-zongzhu offered Xichen. It was the perfect touch to cement Xichen’s authority over this matter.

It had been a very close thing, but he thought Jin Guangshan had lost the footing to make a try for the Yin Tiger Seal, at least for now. He was grateful for that, because he hasn’t wanted to use the information his network in Lanling had uncovered, not yet. That was a move he’d only be able to make once, and he would either have to destroy Jin Guangshan in one blow or spend the rest of his life watching his back for a knife. Better, if more stressful, to counter the man by maneuver for as long as he could.

It was very stressful, though, and he was nearly stumbling with weariness when they finally all departed, Jiang Wanyin with his new people in tow, Jin Guangshan speaking tight and quiet words to Jin Zixun, Nie Mingjue toward the inner rooms of the hall after exchanging a firm nod with Xichen. Probably to see to freeing the prisoners who were neither valuable targets nor beholden to Meng Yao.

Xichen beckoned Wen Qing to come along with them. “Wen-guniang, I know you must be in need of rest and some time to recover, but when you have, I wonder if I might impose on your medical knowledge.”

She pulled her attention away from the retreating form of her brother, following after Jiang Wanyin but glancing back at her often, and straightened up with a deep breath. “Yes, I’m sure there are still injured to care for.” She walked steadily behind Xichen’s shoulder, pulling her cloak tighter around her as they reached the guest quarter and came under the eyes of cultivators of the Sunshot alliance.

“In particular, I am concerned for Wei-gongzi,” Xichen said, guiding them both toward the halls that Lan had taken over. “He invoked a great deal of malicious energy, in the final battle, and he hasn’t woken for the past three days.”

Wen Qing stopped short and whirled to stare up at Xichen. “He what?! Malicious…” She pressed a hand to her forehead and made a wordless, furious sound. “That idiot! Take me to him at once.”

Meng Yao couldn’t hold back an exhausted laugh, and Xichen stopped blinking down at Wen Qing to give him a concerned look, one hand coming up under his elbow. Meng Yao shook his head. “I need to see to my informants. Please, go ahead.” He snickered again. “Wen-guniang will surely be welcome aid to Jiang-guniang.” Who had expressed very similar sentiments, albeit in less forceful terms.

The quirk of Xichen’s mouth said he agreed. “Very well. I’ll see you in a little while.”

Mind still half submerged in reading the currents of the sect masters’ conversation, Meng Yao had no trouble decoding that as an order to rest soon. He smiled up at Xichen and agreed obediently, “Yes, Xichen-xiong.”

Xichen stroked his hair back with a gentle hand, and waited until he was at the doors of the Hall of Embers before turning away to guide Wen Qing toward the halls Jiang had claimed. Meng Yao held tight to the warmth of that touch, using it to steady himself as he stepped into the hall and over a score of anxious eyes turned to him at once.

“Be at ease,” he said, with calm he hardly felt himself at the moment. “The campaign is over and you are safe.” He stepped forward and held out his hand toward the open seats in the hall’s wide receiving room. “Come. Tell me what you wish to do, now. If you wish to work for another sect, that can very likely be arranged, as can work in any of the cities of Gusu or Qinghe.”

He set himself to listen to the people who had trusted him with their lives and, in many cases, their revenge, pushing aside his weariness.

He hoped countering Jin Guangshan’s next move would be less wearing, but he wasn’t counting on it.

Flipside

Wei Wuxian was just about to see Lan Zhan out of his rooms, and possibly put on some more clothes, when the door nearly slammed open and Wen Qing, of all people, stalked through it, trailed by Lan Xichen. Her head swiveled, eyes pinning him as if she were sighting down an arrow.

“You.”

Wei Wuxian promptly hid behind Lan Zhan, and was not ashamed in the slightest for doing so. Wen Qing bore down on him, undeterred.

“Is this right, what I’m hearing? Have you been channeling resentful energy? Do you have the slightest idea what that has to be doing to the paths of your qi? What possessed you to do such a stupid thing?”

“It’s not like I had a lot of choice,” he protested from behind Lan Zhan’s shoulder. Lan Zhan gave him a sidelong look, heavily weighted with satisfaction at having an ally, and stepped out of her way, the traitor.

“I did not make sure you would live just so you could kill yourself a different way!” She pointed imperiously at the bed. “Sit.”

Wei Wuxian edged back from her glare. “I really don’t need…” The glare intensified, cutting him off.

“Sit.”

He sat.

She poked and prodded him, listened to his pulse points, and dug mercilessly into his major meridians to gauge the sluggish flow of his qi, ignoring all his winces. Finally, she sat back, glare slightly less fierce. “Well. You’re not as badly disrupted as I was expecting. Quite.” She turned to eye Lan Zhan, who still had his guqin out, thoughtfully. “Have you been trying to rebalance him while he was sleeping?”

Lan Zhan nodded, looking hopeful for the first time since Wei Wuxian had woken up. “I have.”

“I believe it did help. Continue please.” Lan Zhan gave her a respectful bow of acknowledgement, and she returned it with a firm nod.

Wei Wuxian wilted. He’d never escape, not with both of them determined on this. He did protest, though, when she produced several silvery needles from inside her sleeve, because he recognized those. “Oh, come on!”

“Do you want me to get your brother down here to make it an order?” she asked, brows arched in challenge.

All humor dropped away and he gave back a fierce glare of his own.

“I didn’t think so.” She turned to the Lans still hanging in the doorway. “Lan-zongzhu. Lan er-gongzi. I must ask for some privacy during actual treatments, please.” The courtesy was so obviously in form alone that Wei Wuxian rolled his eyes.

Lan Xichen was equally obviously stifling a laugh. “I believe we can do that, Wen-daifu.¹ We will be outside, when you’re done.”

Lan Zhan bowed deeply to her, gratitude so obvious that Wei Wuxian had to huff over it, and followed his brother.

Wen Qing rolled up his sleeve briskly, and said, much lower, eyes fixed on his arm, “My brother is under Jiang’s protection, now. I will be in the care of the Lan sect.”

The remains of Wei Wuxian’s anger collapsed. He didn’t think he’d be a quarter as calm as she was, threatened with separation from his family. “Then he’ll be under my protection,” he promised softly. “I won’t let any harm come to him.”

She looked up at him, mouth tight but eyes soft and sad, and nodded silently.

He sat still and bore the prickle of needles and the uncomfortable yank on the reluctant flow of his qi without complaint. When she was finally done, he ignored the nasty tremble in his limbs to lay a hand on her wrist. “I’ll bring him to visit, whenever I can.”

She blinked back sudden brightness in her eyes and jerked a nod before re-gathering herself and making her way to the doors to meet her… new sect? Or new overseers?

Wei Wuxian slumped back on the bed with a sigh. They had fought tyranny and won. Couldn’t they make something better than all the same mistakes again?

1. Daifu 大夫: doctor or physician. back

Becoming the Phoenix – Eight

More political maneuvering sees Meng Yao trying to take care of Jiang as well as Lan, and very grateful for Jiang Yanli’s accumen. With the campaign over at last, he and Lan Xichen finally have time for ceremonies to formalize their marriage. Nie Huaisang takes a certain glee in assisting. Drama with even more politics, Romance, Fluff, I-3

Character(s): Jiang Wanyin, Jiang Yanli, Lan Qiren, Lan Wangji, Lan Xichen, Meng Yao, Wei Wuxian, Wen Qing, Yao Chenzhuo

Pairing(s): Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian, Lan Xichen/Meng Yao

When Xichen told him that there was to be a victory banquet, of all things, organized by Jin Guangshan of course, Meng Yao buried his head in Xichen’s chest and positively whimpered.

“Does there have to be a banquet?” he groaned, indulging in the luxury of complaining while he could. He could clearly forsee an evening-long political siege, in this.

Xichen huffed a rueful laugh and gathered him closer, stroking his hair. “I’m afraid so, my heart; I’m sorry. As you’ve said, though, better to know what he’s doing than have him start trying to work the smaller sects around behind our backs.”

Meng Yao grumbled under his breath and stretched out more comfortably against the length of Xichen’s body under the luxurious (and admittedly very comfortable) covers of their appropriated Wen bed. Xichen made a soft, pleased sound and settled Meng Yao snuggly against him. The simple security of being held so close, of being able to rest his head on Xichen’s bare shoulder, relaxed him. “Thank you,” he murmured. “For trusting my perception of this.”

Xichen dropped a kiss on top of his head. “I love you, among other things, for your brilliance,” he said softly. “Of course I trust in it.”

Meng Yao smiled, nestling closer and twining a leg around one of Xichen’s. “As I trust the dictates of your heart, above all things,” he offered back, softly. It was the one thing that truly guided him, these days.

Xichen turned, settling his weight over Meng Yao. “A heart that is wholly for you,” he murmured, eyes dark. “Shall I show you how much?”

Meng Yao’s whole body unwound under the shelter of Xichen’s, and he draped his arms over Xichen’s broad shoulders, smiling up at him. “Please do.” He gave himself up willingly to the slow heat of Xichen’s kiss, and left strategy for another time.

When Meng Yao entered the banquet hall at Xichen’s side and saw the arrangement of seats, and Nie Mingjue’s stiff shoulders ahead of them, he had to bite back a snarl. Nie Mingjue had done well by him, and just because the man had more moral rectitude than wits should not mean Jin Guangshan felt free to toy with him. Jin Guangshan had to have known exactly how Nie Mingjue would react to the prospect of being seated before the Wen throne. So now, of course, it would be Jin Guangshan seated there, and nothing to be done about it at this point.

Meng Yao pasted on a polite smile, bowed at Xichen’s side, and set himself to watch Jin Guangshan like a cat watching a grain warehouse for mice. When he found himself seated in front of Yao-zongzhu, for once he was grateful. The man’s gossiping ways would be a boon just at this moment, if Meng Yao could shape them in his favor. As they all milled around and started to settle, he stepped over to the old blow-hard and made his eyes just as wide and doe-like as possible. “Yao-zongzhu,” he said softly, clasping his hands before him as if nervous, “might you lend me the wisdom of your experience? I’m sure it’s only my own youth, but…” he hesitated artfully, nipping at his lower lip before finishing in a rush, “it’s Jin-zongzhu. To seat himself before Wen Ruohan’s throne, isn’t that a little…” He trailed off and cast an entreating look up at Yao Chenzhuo, brows delicately furrowed in concern.

Yao Chenzhuo paused, looking toward the head of the room as if he’d only just noticed, which Meng Yao didn’t doubt in the least. “Hm. Hmph. Well, now.” He was starting to frown, himself, and Meng Yao ducked his head.

“I’m sure it’s nothing. I beg your pardon for troubling you with it.” He brushed just a faint note of doubt over the words, and slanted a troubled, sidelong glance at where Jin Guangshan was seating himself and looking quite helpfully pleased with himself.

Yao Chenzhuo patted his shoulder and Meng Yao firmly restrained the urge to take his hand off at the wrist. “Ah, don’t worry your head about it. We sect masters will take care of matters.”

Meng Yao bobbed a deferential bow to him and slipped back to his seat at Xichen’s side. Xichen was watching him with brows faintly raised, probably at the frankly overdone acting. Meng Yao offered him a wry smile. “One uses the tools that fortune provides in the way their capacity demands,” he breathed, just between the two of them. Xichen glanced over at Nie Mingjue’s still-stiff shoulders, and his eyes darkened. He nodded quiet agreement.

So Meng Yao spent the first half of the banquet waiting for Jin Guangshan to make his move and listening to the increasingly disgruntled whispers behind him with a demure smile.

When the move came, though, even he was caught aback by its boldness, and he felt a surge of genuine moral outrage for once. How could the man broach betrothal when the entire Jiang sect had finally entered their mourning period for Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan? How did even Jin Guangshan have the nerve to usurp a father’s place while Jiang Yanli wore a white sash for her true father? Meng Yao darted a glance at Xichen, and found him exchanging a troubled look with Nie Mingjue. He could see why. Jiang Wanyin was hesitating, his inexperience obvious in his struggle to decide how to respond, but if anyone else intervened, it would only weaken him further.

At least up until Jiang’s very own black-clad lightning rod strolled in, wine jar dangling from his fingers, and threw the decision into his sister’s lap. At which point, Yao-zongzhu spoke loudly enough to be heard through the hall.

“Well said! Jiang-guniang is a capable lady as we all know from the campaign. Let her speak!”

Xichen cast Meng Yao a rueful smile, silent acknowledgement of the success of his tactic, and Meng Yao hid a smirk behind his wine cup. Finally, Yao Chenzhuo was being good for something.

Jiang Yanli stood, quiet and composed if you didn’t notice the fire snapping in her eyes. “I am of Jiang. My duty is to rebuild our sect. I thank you for your consideration,” if those polite words had been any sharper, they’d have drawn blood, “but now is not the time to think on such things.”

A murmur of approval went around the room, and Jin Guangshan yielded with a small toast toward her with his wine cup. Meng Yao took considerable pleasure in the gritted teeth he was pretty sure he could see behind the man’s smile.

Wei Wuxian, mission apparently accomplished, wandered back outside without another word to anyone. The whispers behind him turned disapproving, and Meng Yao sighed. He appreciated powerful allies, but this one was really quite troublesome at times. He composed himself and took care to peer after Wei Wuxian in a concerned manner as he murmured, just loud enough for the minor sect masters behind him to hear, “I wonder if his injuries still pain him very much…”

“Hm?” Yao Chenzhuo interjected, predictably. “Wei Wuxian was injured?”

Meng Yao turned, eyes wide. “You hadn’t heard?” He leaned toward them, as if just a bit excited to have a juicy piece of gossip to share. “It was Wei-gongzi who held back Wen Ruohan’s final, evil sorcery. He fell, after, and didn’t wake for three days! Even now, I hear the physicians refuse to let him resume his training.” Or, at least, Wen Qing did, and everyone else had sensibly refused to cross her word.

Yao-zongzhu and Ouyang-zongzhu exchanged a knowing look, which Meng Yao valiantly refrained from laughing at. Yao Chenzhuo sat back and nodded wisely. “Ah, that will be why he’s always with a wine jar in his hand. Trying to dull the pain, no doubt.”

Meng Yao gave silent thanks that none of the Jiang sect were close enough to hear and, no doubt, burst out laughing. Lan Wangji, sitting just behind Xichen, was having enough trouble keeping his face straight, brows twitching a little as he listened to the sect masters rapidly elaborating on Wei Wuxian’s heroism and injury. The look he turned on Meng Yao was disapproving. Meng Yao took a delicate sip from his cup and murmured, “Every word I said was true.”

Lan Wangji did not appear impressed with this fact, but Xichen was smiling, albeit a bit wryly. “Thank you for looking after him.”

“Mm.” Meng Yao listened to the tenor of the room’s various discussions and watched Jiang Wanyin chatting with He-zongzhu, awkwardness smoothing away as he relaxed. Jiang Yanli sat quietly beside him, straight as a sword, dark eyes moving over the room. Meng Yao watched Jin Guangshan glance at her, and then at Jin Zixuan, who hadn’t looked up from his food and drink for rather a while. Jin Guangshan’s gaze stayed on his son for a long moment before he seemed to snort a bit and settle back on his cushion, attention turning more covertly to Xichen and Nie Mingjue.

Meng Yao glanced back at Jiang Yanli and found her looking straight back at him, eyes hard. He gave her a tiny nod, and she returned it before lowering her gaze, drawing her poise around her like a shield. “I think I’m going to need to speak with them soon about more active measures to defend themselves,” he said softly.

Xichen’s hand rested at the small of his back with such sure and immediate support that Meng Yao couldn’t help leaning into him. “You have my trust, as always,” Xichen murmured, and Meng Yao smiled up at him, knowing his heart was probably on display to anyone looking and not caring. The knowledge of Xichen’s trust was sweet as honey on his tongue. To keep this, to be worthy of that trust, he knew he would do anything.

As the banquet drew on, and drink flowed freely, Meng Yao let himself relax in the curve of Xichen’s arm. Further political maneuvering could wait for tomorrow. For now, he would enjoy the place he had, here.

An invitation to consult with Jiang Yanli about organizing the withdrawal from the Nightless City arrived promptly the next morning, and Meng Yao thanked her messenger calmly, as if this were just another bit of campaign business. As he’d fully expected, both her brothers were waiting in her sitting room with her.

“Jin Guangshan’s target is the Yin Tiger Seal,” he said, once she’d set out tea all around. “So he’s been aiming to control Wei-gongzi, in case that thing is one of the spiritual tools that’s loyal to its master. I don’t think he’ll try to do it through Jiang-guniang again, but he will keep trying.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Meng Yao thought he might have already reached that conclusion on his own.

Jiang Wanyin frowned. “Why would he imagine anyone would let him take custody of it? He only ever showed up in person to a single meeting during Sunshot!”

“Which is why he’s been trying to undermine you,” Meng Yao explained patiently. “If he could absorb Jiang into his own sect, then Wei-gongzi and the seal would both fall right into his control.”

Jiang Wanyin’s expression turned hard and cold, and Meng Yao nodded approvingly.

“He will not have Jiang,” Jiang Yanli said steadily, hands folded on the table before her. “But he could make trouble, couldn’t he? Would it be wiser for me to accept his son and seek to influence them in our favor from inside?”

Wei Wuxian promptly lost his brooding air and flailed upright. “Shijie!”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Jiang Wanyin agreed stoutly.

Meng Yao shared a brief, silent moment of agreement with Jiang Yanli—they were sweet, but so naive. He considered it, but shook his head after a moment’s thought. “If Jin Guangshan or his son were older it might be worth trying, but unless Jin Guangshan suffers a major loss of face, Jin Zixuan won’t be a significant influence within the sect for many years.” His voice turned harder without him quite meaning it to. “And Jin Guangshan is not known for accepting the influence of any woman.”

Jiang Yanli’s eyes widened in realization, and she reached out swiftly to lay her hand on his arm for a moment. “What would you recommend, then?” she asked, brisk tone setting the awkward moment firmly aside.

He accepted her redirection gratefully. “Nie-zongzhu and Lan-zongzhu will probably both be willing to disclaim concern about the Yin Tiger Seal as long as Wei-gongzi isn’t seen to be acting alone too very often. But they can’t support you directly too often without weakening your position at the same time.”

“Hmm.” Wei Wuxian had settled back and had his eyes on the flute he was spinning lightly through his fingers. Slowly he smiled, a fey and edged smile. “If it’s the power of yin metal that Jin Guangshan wants… why not give it to him? It can’t easily be destroyed, after all. So give each of the major sects a piece.”

Abruptly, Meng Yao remembered one of the first things he’d heard Wei Wuxian say about yin metal—that Wen Ruohan was in poor control of it because he tried to use his own spiritual energy to shape it directly. It was the natural approach for any cultivator. He laughed, delighted. “And let him find his own destruction, if he wants it so badly?”

Jiang Wanyin looked like he might approve but didn’t want to say so out loud. Possibly because Jiang Yanli immediately shook her head at them. “Meng-gongzi. A-Xian.”

Wei Wuxian’s smile softened a little. “Well, yes. But I was also thinking of all the sects being better balanced again, if everyone has a piece. I think that’s probably how it started out, after Xue Chonghai.”

“And that’s not a bad thought either. Actually,” Meng Yao turned the thought over and rather liked it, “that could be a very good excuse to keep a closer eye on what the Jin sect is up to.” More, if the rationale was to prevent another Wen Ruohan, it might prevent Jin Guangshan from too openly pursuing his apparent desire to be the next Wen Ruohan.

“Who could be a neutral enough inspector, though?” Jiang Wanyin wanted to know, understandably Meng Yao supposed, if he were thinking about who might wind up wandering around secret parts of his sect compound.

“Nie Huaisang,” he proposed. “He’s the best scholar of our generation, and he already looks after the fragment at the Unclean Realm.” Though that reminded him of something else, and he cocked his head at Wei Wuxian. “Will having a piece at Lotus Pier make things more difficult for you?” He’d seen how strongly Huaisang had had to reinforce the seal on the Nie piece before Wei Wuxian had been able to work on the fifth fragment.

“I’ll be fine,” Wei Wuxian said, so quickly and lightly that Meng Yao couldn’t help giving him an exasperated look.

“Would Wen-daifu agree with that?”

Wei Wuxian stopped looking dismissive and looked briefly hunted. Having been Wen Qing’s escort, a few times, to come and examine him—which always seemed to involve considerable ire on her part—Meng Yao was unsurprised. Jiang Yanli’s mouth crimped up as if she were trying not to laugh. “What about the Hundred Year Magnolia?” Wei Wuxian suggested hastily. “That could suppress a fragment. It’s yang-natured, and the water pool it grows in should disrupt the metal’s advantage in the destructive cycle.”

The subtle tension that had been in Jiang Wanyin’s shoulders and hands ever since Wei Wuxian suggested distribution of the fragments eased, and he finally nodded. “I’d be willing to try that.” He gave Wei Wuxian a sidelong look and elbowed him. “Especially if Nie Huaisang comes and checks your work, to be certain.”

“Hey!” Wei Wuxian elbowed back, grinning.

Jiang Yanli ignored them with ease that spoke of long practice and nodded judiciously. “We will welcome Nie-gongzi’s visit, then. It will be good to distribute more of these responsibilities among our generation, I think. These are the arrangements that will last as long as possible.” She took a sip of her tea, meeting Meng Yao’s eyes briefly over the rim, and he gave her a tiny bow.

“The Yunmeng Jiang sect is fortunate to have you to advise, Jiang-guniang.” Because, of course, that single, eminently reasonable sentence delicately cut Jin Guangshan out of the future of the cultivation world.

He did like having strong allies.

The Sunshot alliance was finally packing up to leave the Nightless City. Campaign friends were bidding each other farewell. Retainers of the larger sects were arguing over who was leaving first and who had to eat whose dust. Jiang Yanli was controlling the final distribution of supplies with a gentle smile and an iron hand. The recovered fragments of yin metal had been given into the keeping of Jin, Jiang, and Lan, and Jin Guangshan had carried his off with such open greed in his eyes that Meng Yao had a small bet with himself on how long it would take the sect master, or perhaps his proxies, to succumb to corruption from working with the stuff.

It was also, he thought, time for him to discuss some of the things he’d been keeping to himself with Xichen. He waited until Xichen had sent Lan Suyin off with instructions to go ahead of the main group and let Lan Qiren know they were coming, and closed the door of their quarters behind her.

“A-Yao?” Xichen asked, brows raised, though he also held out his hands as Meng Yao came to him.

“Xichen-ge, there are some things I need to tell you of.” He laid his hands in Xichen’s and settled beside him as Xichen drew him down at their sitting room table. “There are things I know about the Jin sect that I’ve held in reserve. We may need them still, but…” he hesitated, trying to put words to the growing feeling he’d had. “I think some of them, you would not wish me to wait on.”

Xichen smiled and stroked his thumbs over the backs of Meng Yao’s hands. “Tell me, then.”

Meng Yao laid it out for him, piece by piece: Jin Guangshan’s attack on the wife of an ally, Jin Zixun’s even more cowardly drugging and assault on the daughter of another, the debts that had somehow disappeared after the Lanling merchants who were owed suffered sudden misfortune, the disappearance of the Taishan Gao sect after a disagreement over jurisdiction. All of them traceable back to the Jin sect under Jin Guangshan. He watched Xichen’s eyes darken and bit his lip, wondering again whether he should have kept this to himself.

Xichen seemed to notice; at least he gathered Meng Yao into his arms and held him close. After a long, quiet moment, he spoke softly. “There are none of Taishan Gao left alive to require justice; that we may hold for a time, yet. The merchants of Lanling who have been harmed, I think we might seek new homes and markets for, at least to offer them. They may not wish to leave if they have clan in Lanling, but if they are willing then there may at least be succor for them while we wait. If Madam Qin has not told her husband, I believe we must seek a way to assure her of continued secrecy if that is her final will, after she knows that her cry for justice will be heard, should she choose to raise it.” He paused and looked down at Meng Yao, whose eyes had gotten wide listening to that deep, quiet voice so easily outlining the shape of compassion and ruthlessness, wound together like the fibers of silk thread, breathtakingly strong. “I know a little of Pan Daiyu from Lan Yunru, our best archer among the seniors.” The line of Xichen’s mouth was sober, almost sad, but his gaze was steady and sure. “I believe we may tell her of what was done, and know that she will demand justice in her own time.”

Meng Yao thought distantly that it was possibly a bit inappropriate to feel such a wave of visceral desire response to Xichen’s cool judgement. He didn’t care. “Yes, Zongzhu,” he murmured, a little husky.

The straight line of Xichen’s mouth eased into a smile and he pressed a kiss to Meng Yao’s forehead. “Thank you, my heart, for opening the way to righteousness for us.”

Meng Yao’s cheeks warmed. “It’s you who does that,” he said softly. “I only look for ways to keep us safe.”

“Then I thank you doubly.” Xichen tipped his chin up and took his mouth in another gentle kiss, and Meng Yao gave up arguing. Xichen cuddled him close with a small, satisfied sound.

After a few minutes of quiet, or as much quiet as could be had with several thousand people preparing to travel all around them, Xichen murmured against his hair, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to speak with you about, as well.”

Meng Yao tipped his head back to look up at Xichen. “What is it?”

“It was the Jiang sect that reminded me, when they took up their mourning.” Silent laughter danced in Xichen’s eyes. “Of course, my thoughts went in a very different direction than mourning. But now that the campaign is over, we have time for proper ceremony and observances.” He lifted a hand to cup Meng Yao’s cheek, thumb stroking along his cheekbone. “You will always be first in my heart, regardless, but it would please me greatly to declare that in ceremony and celebration, as well as in actions.”

Meng Yao’s hands tightened in Xichen’s robes, clinging to Xichen as a shock ran through him. “But…” His voice was husky. “But so many of the rituals… we couldn’t… I have no…” His thoughts spun in circles; he’d always known proper ritual would be out of his reach, with his mother dead and no other family that he knew of save his father, never acknowledged and now a political enemy in any case.

Xichen’s brows rose. “Well, if you like, I suppose I could always travel to claim you from the Unclean Realm. Shall I offer Mingjue-xiong betrothal gifts and see what dowry he might offer for you?” There was a tiny, teasing smile at the corners of his mouth, and Meng Yao laughed helplessly.

“Xichen-ge…”

“I’m sure Huaisang would be pleased to challenge my worthiness, on your behalf,” Xichen added, and Meng Yao buried his head in Xichen’s chest with a faint groan, because he could envision that all too easily.

“Xichen-ge.” He could feel the vibration of Xichen’s quiet laughter.

“I’m sure Uncle would quite enjoy your tea brewing—” Xichen broke off, laughing out loud as Meng Yao whacked at his shoulder blindly, and gathered Meng Yao up tighter in his arms. “My heart,” he murmured, soft and intimate, “may I bring you to the Lan ancestral hall?”

Meng Yao thought his own heart might burst out of his chest with the swell of joy he felt, sweet and bright and overwhelming. “Yes,” he whispered. “Please.” He lifted his head to kiss Xichen, lips trembling a little against his. The gentleness of Xichen’s answering kiss promised him that it was all real, all his, and he smiled, breathless with happiness.

“Yes.”

Even a year after repairs had begun, the Cloud Recesses were not fully rebuilt. The core buildings and many of the personal rooms were complete if not as elegantly furnished as they once had been, but the pavilions that had been scattered in various curves of the river were now merely open areas waiting new timbers, and the guest houses were mostly skeletons.

One guest house had been fully restored, however, and Meng Yao had found himself installed in it when they returned. He was fairly certain this was Huaisang’s fault, because Huaisang had arrived only a few days after, to take up residence along with Meng Yao, and had promptly begun planning for just as much in the way of the more light-hearted marriage rituals as could be managed.

Which was why Meng Yao was currently waiting in the guest house’s receiving room, listening to Huaisang challenging Xichen to demonstrate his musical ability, just past the doors. Which Xichen would presumably do as soon as he stopped chuckling.

Really, Huaisang’s and Xichen’s senses of humor were far too alike.

By the time Huaisang finally consented to open the door for them, Meng Yao was smiling helplessly, not quite able to stop. Though he did lose track of exactly what his face might be doing when he stepped forth and saw Xichen. Pale blue robes fell around him like a sweep of moonlit mist, draping finely enough to show the true breadth of his shoulders and chest, flowing around the easy power of every movement. He was stunningly beautiful, but even that couldn’t distract Meng Yao too much from the warmth of his eyes, the tenderness of his smile, as he stepped forward and held out his hands. Meng Yao was distantly grateful for the excellent fit of his own robes, or he might have tripped over himself as he stepped forward under Huaisang’s grin and Lan Wangji’s look of quiet exasperation at the nonsense, to lay his hands in Xichen’s.

Lan Jianghui had all but pounced on both of them, when he’d heard of the upcoming ceremonies—decorously, to be sure, but also very firm in his insistence on befitting robes for the occasion of the sect master’s marriage. Silk whispered around Meng Yao like the wind over the river, white over deep blue, and silver wound through his hair, rising in sleek curves. For once he felt that he at least looked fine enough to be worthy of Xichen. That was a passing thought, though, more habit than true fear any longer, not under the weight of Xichen’s gaze and the possessiveness of Xichen’s hands as he gathered Meng Yao into the curve of his arm and guided him down the walkways toward the heart of Cloud Recesses.

The Lan ancestral hall stood at the foot of a tall peak, flanked on one side by one of the springs that fed the mountain’s river and on the other by a grove of ancient birch, stretching silvery branches over the hall. Inside were rank on rank of tablets, lit more gently than Meng Yao had quite been expecting by graceful blue and green ceramic lamps. Delicate, metal wind-bells hung under the eaves, chiming softly in the swirl of air between the flames of the lamps and the cool of the spring. In that quiet pool of sound and light, Meng Yao knelt beside Xichen to make their bows and, for the first time since his mother’s death, genuinely prayed that he might be welcomed here.

When he rose from his last bow and looked into Xichen’s eyes, he saw all the confirmation that he could ever want.

Xichen gathered him close, tipping his chin up with gentle fingers for a soft kiss. “Are you ready to go to the banquet, my heart?”

Meng Yao pressed close, burying his head in Xichen’s shoulder for a long moment to gather his composure. Xichen’s fingers combed slowly through his hair, perfectly patient, and after a deep breath Meng Yao raised his head again and nodded firmly. “Yes.”

Lan Qiren and Lan Wangji were there when Xichen guided him out of the hall, their only witnesses for the ceremony itself. Lan Wangji still looked very solemn about the whole thing, but he offered Meng Yao their brief bow and murmured, “Xiaoxiong.”¹

Meng Yao had to bite his lip for a moment to keep from laughing, though it was, he supposed, a proper enough choice. “Wangji,” he returned, when he could keep his voice steady.

Lan Qiren was smiling faintly, looking a bit more openly approving. He greeted Meng Yao with his new courtesy name, the one that Lan Qiren had chosen for him after a certain amount of grumbling about propriety and the negligence of jumped up, would-be-noble sects who didn’t take their responsibilities seriously enough. “Ruyan.”²

Meng Yao ducked his head and took a breath for courage. “Uncle.” At least he managed not to squeak, saying it. Xichen’s hand squeezed his shoulder, encouragingly.

The banquet was in the largest hall, the one normally used for lessons. Tonight it was filled with white, with a scattering of darker colors showing where the outside guests sat. Meng Yao looked around, once he was settled beside Xichen, realizing how many of these people he knew, now. Nie Mingjue offered a tiny, private toast to Xichen, and Huaisang, beside him, offered the same to Meng Yao. Lan Suyin, the youngest of the senior disciples, rolled her eyes a little over the giggling group of juniors she was supervising. Lan Jianghui exchanged satisfied looks with his wife, Chen Jinghua. Lan Zhengli, who had led the attacks that cleared Wen occupation out of Suzhou while Wangji retook the Cloud Recesses, was smiling faintly as he ate. Lan Mingxia, the sect’s foremost apothecary, sat with her head together with Wen Qing, obviously talking shop. On Wen Qing’s other side, her brother looked both relieved and excited, and beyond him was Wei Wuxian, both representing Jiang and bringing Wen Ning to see with his own eyes that his sister was safe and well. Lan Meiling was one of the clan elders but still active in searching out new texts for the Lan library, often taking her grandson along on her trips; he sat beside her now.

Face after face, Meng Yao knew now, could put names and lives to. They were his, now.

Xichen’s arm slid around him, and when he looked up Xichen was smiling down at him as if he could hear the thought. “I could not possibly have chosen better, for our sect as well as for myself,” Xichen said under the soft talk and quiet laughter that filled the hall. Meng Yao couldn’t help leaning closer in the curve of his arm, though he blushed at the little coo that ran around the room, especially among the juniors.

At least that caused Lan Qiren to leave off glaring at Wei Wuxian in order to clear his throat meaningfully and make the juniors all straighten up and try to look decorous. During this distraction, Wei Wuxian tossed a wine jar over to Huaisang, who caught it and swept it into his sleeve without a flicker in his mild smile. The look Wangji gave Wei Wuxian was more exasperated than disapproving, even as several juniors broke down into scandalized giggles again. Meng Yao leaned against Xichen’s shoulder, trying not to join in.

His, now. Heavens help him.

It was full night by the time they left the banquet, Xichen’s arm around him guiding him up to the rooms he’d been in only a few times before. Xichen paused in the broad receiving room, looking down at him with a soft smile. “Welcome home, my heart.”

“Thank you, husband,” Meng Yao murmured, rising up on his toes so he could catch Xichen’s mouth and kiss him, open and warm with his certainty of Xichen’s welcome. Xichen’s arms closed tight around him, catching him up almost completely off his feet, and Meng Yao made a satisfied sound.

His, now.

Flipside

Wen Qing was intensely annoyed.

She’d been able to pin Wei Wuxian down for another treatment of his meridians, when he’d visited for the wedding banquet, and while they’d been working Lan Wangji had apologized that he hadn’t been able to finish his research into more efficacious music to help. Wei Wuxian had looked very startled at the idea of Lan Wangji doing such demanding work for the sake of his healing, which had made her roll her eyes. She had no idea what he’d thought Lan Wangji’s solicitous attentions since he’d returned from the Burial Mounds had been about, and didn’t really want to know. She already had a little brother to look out for; she didn’t need to take on another. She was happy to leave that be.

What she couldn’t leave be was anyone interfering in her healing. Through all the madness Wen Ruohan had led their whole sect into, through all the terrifying and abhorrent and plain idiotic things she’d had to do to keep her brother and clan safe, this one thing she’d held fast to: she was a physician. She would let no one stand in the way of her work.

As she stalked through the Cloud Recesses, disciples in white gave way before her as courteously as they did the physicians of their own sect. This was not, she supposed, a terrible place to live. A little damp, but she was a mountain girl, herself; she liked the clear air up here. If she’d had her brother under her eye, she thought she might have been reasonably happy here, wholly free of arrogant asses debauching themselves on cruelty. And at least she did know that Wei Wuxian was looking after her family, which was not a small assurance.

But for that assurance, she needed him healthy!

Wen Qing swept in through the open doors of Lan Qiren’s rooms and seated herself neatly before his writing table. “Lan-xiansheng.¹ We must speak.”

Lan Qiren lifted his brows. “Must we?” He did set down his brush, though. Wen Qing fixed him with the stern look she’d perfected on an active and sometimes mischievous younger brother.

“What’s this I hear about you forbidding Lan Wangji from research to assist with one of my patients?”

Lan Qiren’s face immediately darkened. “Patient?” he snorted. “You are a renown physician, Wen-guniang, but even you can’t heal the darkness of mind that causes that boy to choose a crooked path.”

Long experience with unreasonable sect elders kept her from arguing over Wei Wuxian’s cultivational choices. It was an argument she wouldn’t win, not head-on. Instead she recited flatly, “Wei Wuxian was severely wounded during the attack on Lotus Pier. By the time they left Yiling, I had managed to save his life, but little more than that. He was cast into the Burial Mounds with the paths of his qi still injured, and no sooner did he escape them than he cast himself into the war and stressed the flow of his life almost to the point of destruction. At no point in the past year has he been allowed, or allowed himself, to heal. Until now.” She folded her hands and watched Lan Qiren levelly, waiting for his response to that string of facts.

His expression was still hard and suspicious, but at least he seemed to be thinking about it. “How was he injured?”

“That is his to reveal, not mine,” she said inflexibly, and waited some more. He narrowed his eyes and sat back a little, one hand slowly unclenching to spread against his table.

“If it’s an injury to his meridians that you treat, how does Wangji’s music help?”

“It helps keep the injury from worsening,” she answered promptly, concealing a breath of relief that he seemed to be on the track she wanted. “Without that, I have to spend far more of my own spiritual power before I can even start actual healing.”

And she still had no idea whether she would be able to do more than calm the disorder in the flow of Wei Wuxian’s life, staunch the hemorrhage of his qi out of its proper paths. No one had ever re-generated a Golden Core, that either of them knew of. But his qi was strengthening, now he wasn’t tearing at his meridians with resentful energy every day, and the fact that no one else had ever done it hadn’t stopped her before. One stubborn elder certainly wasn’t going to stop her now.

An elder who was starting to look a little more shrewd than stubborn, finally. “Wen Zhuliu was at the attack on Lotus Pier, wasn’t he?”

Wen Qing kept her face still. “He was Wen Chao’s favorite enforcer.”

“And you think you can heal Wei Wuxian?” Lan Qiren murmured, sharp-eyed and interested, now.

She lifted her chin. “The extent of healing possible is still uncertain. But some has already been accomplished. The more assistance I have, the more I will be able to attempt.”

“Hmm.” His finger tapped a few times against the papers spread over his table. When it stopped, Wen Qing tensed just a little, knowing a decision had been reached. “Very well. Wangji may assist you. Only here in Cloud Recesses, however.”

Only under Lan Qiren’s eye and the influence of maximum possible propriety, she translated that to herself, dryly. “Very well.” She rose and bowed to him, and strode back out. On her way back to Lan Wangji’s rooms, she made a mental note to write to Jiang Yanli and make sure she knew the treatment schedule, so Wei Wuxian couldn’t weasel out of it.

She was going to make this work.

1. Riffing off the very formal "Xiongzhang" that Lan Wangji uses for Lan Xichen, and taking into account Lan Wangji’s covert troll streak, I figured the most likely thing for him to call Meng Yao at this point is "Xiaoxiong" or "little elder brother". back

2. The courtesy name chosen for Meng Yao is 儒烟, Ruyan, "scholar" and "mist". It seemed suitable for the spymaster of Cloud Recesses, and the kind of name Lan Qiren would consider welcoming. Bonus, it’s a homophone of pretty/nice to look at. back

3. "Xiansheng" 先生, all-purpose polite title indicating someone of wisdom or skill, and what most of Lan seems to use for Lan Qiren. back

Becoming the Phoenix – Nine

Lan Xichen agrees to bear his (grounded) brother’s invitation to Wei Wuxian. In the course of this, he and Meng Yao figure out at least some of what happened to Wei Wuxian. Drama, also a dash of Porn, I-3

Character(s): Jiang Wanyin, Lan Wangji, Lan Xichen, Meng Yao, Wei Wuxian, Wen Ning, Wen Qing

Pairing(s): Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian, Lan Xichen/Meng Yao

“Xiongzhang.”

At the sound of Wangji’s voice, Meng Yao looked up from his writing table at one side of the sect master’s receiving room (which he still, months later, had to remind himself was now his receiving room as well). The columns of figures that told of the Lan sect’s once more increasing solvency—thanks in part to the very material gratitude of a handful of ex-Lanling merchants—were very pleasing, but Wangji was a rare visitor to his brother’s rooms. Xichen, at his own table, was giving his brother a welcoming smile. Wangji hesitated on noticing Meng Yao, but finally came all the way in.

“Xiaoxiong,” he added, nodding to Meng Yao, and turned promptly back to Xichen. “I would like to send an… invitation.”

Meng Yao didn’t even need the hesitation over the right term to know who this was about, though he did very privately think that ‘demand’ or possibly ‘kidnapping’ might be closer to what Wangji actually wanted to do. He had not been taking well to the slow pace of Wei Wuxian’s recovery, in Wen Qing’s hands, nor to his own restriction to the Cloud Recesses after his first visit to Lotus Pier had managed to last over two weeks.

“An invitation to Wei-gongzi?” Xichen asked, looking both indulgent and cautious. “We can ask, of course, though from what you described of Lotus Pier after your visit, they all seem quite busy with rebuilding.”

“I would still offer,” Wangji said, low, looking down in a way that Meng Yao was learning to read as stubbornness.

“All right,” Xichen said softly, and gave Wangji an encouraging smile when he looked up. “I’ll take him your invitation.”

Wangji gave him a tiny, relieved smile and left with a lighter step.

Meng Yao looked after him thoughtfully. “Why is your uncle so very set against Wei-gongzi? His method of cultivation during Sunshot was unorthodox, certainly, but if this is simply about pride in the orthodox method I would have expected him to encourage Wangji’s efforts to purify Wei-gongzi’s qi. Instead, he practically tears Wangji away at every opportunity.”

Xichen sighed. “It’s a bit of a long story.” When Meng Yao only raised his brows, expectant, his mouth quirked and he laid aside the accounts he was reading. “All right.” He stood and came to offer his hands to draw Meng Yao to his feet as well, leading the way into their sitting room. Meng Yao waited patiently while Xichen made tea and poured for them both.

“Partly, it’s simply that Wei Wuxian is the son of Cangse-sanren, and she always gave very short shrift to Uncle’s sense of propriety.” A corner of Xichen’s mouth tilted up as he contemplated the cup between his fingers. “Wei-gongzi seems to be truly the child of his mother’s spirit, from what I’ve heard of her. Very intent on the good of those around him, but with a far… broader concept of acceptable tactics to make that happen than Uncle is comfortable with.”

Meng Yao sipped his tea slowly, savoring the depth of the leaves’ virtue as he considered. “That isn’t all, though.” Distaste for a wild and disorderly manner would not, he thought, drive the utter inflexibility he’d seen Lan Qiren show Wangji, on this matter.

“No,” Xichen said softly. “It isn’t.” He took a slow breath and reached over to lay his hand on Meng Yao’s. Meng Yao turned his hand up to lace their fingers together and watched the way Xichen’s shoulders relaxed.

“Your mother,” he guessed. He’d heard nothing about her, in his time here. Not a word about the last sect master’s partner. So much silence surrounded her that it had drawn his attention.

Xichen looked up at him with a painfully tilted smile. “You see through these things so easily, my heart. I… can’t even say that I know that much with certainty. She died when Wangji and I were still very young. What I remember was that we were only allowed to see her once a month. That she lived apart from our father, though in seclusion just as he was. I remember that she never spoke to us about cultivation, about our studies or her own.”

“She was… imprisoned here?” Meng Yao asked, carefully. Because Xichen hadn’t said that, but it was hard to read what he had said in any other way.

Xichen nodded, looking down at the cup he was slowly turning in circles rather than drinking from. “She killed our father’s teacher. Rather than allow any of the clan to seek retribution, he decreed seclusion for them both.”

Meng Yao frowned. “How did she come to kill his teacher?”

“I don’t know.” Xichen looked up at his faint sound of disbelief, smiling wryly. “Some of the things Uncle has said make me think her primary method of cultivation lay in music. I do remember that she had many instruments in her rooms, and she could play all of them. So she may have come to Gusu in the first place as a scholar of musical methodology. There might have been a disagreement over the proper path of cultivation; there might even have been a formal duel. But I don’t know. Uncle has always refused to speak on the subject, and it isn’t recorded in any of the sect chronicles.”

“And now he sees Wangji falling in love with a man who also follows an alternate method of cultivation?” Meng Yao hadn’t thought Lan Qiren was quite that dogmatic, but he might have misjudged the strength of the man’s feelings.

“More than that,” Xichen said quietly. “The consensus of those who were there is that my father fell in love with her when they first met, but that she did not love him. When they first met, I thought Wei Wuxian was drawn to Wangji—at least as much as Wangji was to him. But since the campaign, it’s seemed different. I believe Uncle sees Wangji pursuing someone who does not love him, pursuing someone of unorthodox cultivation and trying to aid him, and remembers what our parents came to: separated and isolated, a source of grief to the clan.”

Meng Yao snorted, which at least made Xichen blink and look up, startled out of his melancholy. “At whose side did Wei Wuxian spend every engagement he fought in? Who did he protect, as fiercely as he protected his brother, during those battles? Who is the only person he accepted aid and healing of, at least until Wen Qing almost literally pinned him to his bed?”

Xichen’s expression had lightened as he spoke. “I suppose that would be Wangji, wouldn’t it?” Meng Yao looked pointedly at Xichen’s cup until Xichen smiled and took a sip.

“I won’t say that his time in the Burial Mounds, or wherever he was, didn’t strip Wei-gongzi’s concern for others down to bedrock,” Meng Yao allowed, remembering the starkness of the deal he and Wei Wuxian had made. “At the very first, perhaps it truly was only his brother and sister he could care for. But he re-learned quickly, from what I saw.” He tightened his hold on Xichen’s hand, still clasped with his. “If you trust in the clarity of my sight, trust in that.” More softly, still a little shy to say it out loud, he added, “Wangji is my own family, now. I would not abide a threat to him.”

Xichen reached out and gathered Meng Yao into his arms. “Thank you, my heart.” He hesitated and added, “Would you come with me, to speak to Wei-gongzi? I would value your insight.”

Meng Yao snuggled into his chest, warmed straight through by the knowledge of Xichen’s trust in him. “Of course.”

This was Meng Yao’s first visit to Lotus Pier, and he had no memory of what it had been like in the past to compare to, but he still thought the air of urgency about the place was probably new. Lotus Pier’s very construction contrasted that air, open and gracious, as free-flowing as the river it overlooked. That matched well with what he knew, second hand, of the previous sect master.

He had to wonder, watching Jiang Wanyin bark corrections as he stalked among the disciples drilling in their sword forms in the first courtyard, how at home in this place the current sect master really felt.

Xichen thanked the very junior disciple who had guided them, and smiled after the boy as he went skipping easily through his seniors to tug on Jiang Wanyin’s sleeve. “I’m glad some of the sect’s children escaped the slaughter,” Xichen said softly.

“I’ve heard that the merchants who favor the Jiang sect’s own pier for selling at took many of them and hid them, when the attack came,” Meng Yao murmured, “though no one survived who knows who first ordered them away.”

“Yunmeng Jiang has always attracted great talent to themselves,” Xichen said, just loud enough for the approaching Jiang Wanyin to hear. The young sect master’s rather hard expression softened into a pleased smile, and Meng Yao had to marvel all over again at how effortlessly Xichen could gentle any situation.

“You are kind to say so, Lan-zongzhu,” Jiang Wanyin said, exchanging bows with them. As he led them inward, Meng Yao kept a running count of people in his head, brows rising as it ticked higher.

“The speed at which Jiang is rebuilding is impressive,” he remarked once they were settled, not in the Jiang formal receiving room, but in a pavilion beside a large lotus pool, a gesture of friendship that had set Xichen smiling. “Of course, I would expect nothing else of an undertaking Jiang-guniang has set her hand to.”

Tightness flickered across Jiang Wanyin’s face, catching Meng Yao’s attention before Jiang Wanyin managed to smooth it away. “My sister has been a great help. I can only be thankful that she’s chosen to remain with us and aid this work.”

Xichen smiled. “And your brother as well, I’m sure, though I hope you will be willing to release him for just a little while.”

The tightness descended much more firmly this time, long enough for Meng Yao to identify it as anger. “Wei Wuxian spends much of his time with the Wen survivors under our protection.” The flat tone also said that this did not please Jiang Wanyin at all. Because of the tiny branch of Wen themselves? If anyone had a right to resent the whole clan, it was Yunmeng Jiang, but this lot were both non-combatants and also the people of Wen Qing, the one Wen who Jiang Wanyin was beholden to—possibly even had feelings for, if he’d been going around exchanging tokens with her. Was it because he felt Wei Wuxian wasn’t doing enough with the rest of the sect? Or perhaps because Wei Wuxian couldn’t yet do more, due to whatever stubborn injury Wen Qing had already spent over four months working on? Meng Yao could believe that; he’d had a nightmare or two about just what kind of wound Wei Wuxian might have received in the Burial Mounds that a physician of Wen Qing’s stature found such slow going to mend.

“Then perhaps this is a good time for our invitation, after all,” he essayed, hoping to find out whether he was right. “Some uninterrupted time in Wen Qing’s care could return him to you in better condition for more vigorous tasks.”

Yes, this time he thought he saw a flicker of hope tangled up with the anger. “That would be… desirable.” Jiang Wanyin’s hands eased and spread open against his knees again, slowly, as if he had to make them. Meng Yao recalled some of the things he’d heard about Yu Ziyuan and wondered if perhaps Jiang Wanyin had inherited her temper. That would not be an easy burden for a leader to bear. “Is it an invitation to the Cloud Recesses you bring, then?”

Xichen nodded, his whole bearing open and unpressing. “With your permission, yes.”

Jiang Wanyin let his breath out slowly, eyes distant for a long moment before he nodded decisively. “You have it.” When his mouth twisted, this time, it was more wry than angry. “If he’ll go.”

Xichen laughed under his breath. “Perhaps I shall say first that it’s Wangji’s invitation, and not mention Wen-guniang.”

Jiang Wanyin’s snort was clearly agreement. He led them back through the walkways until they came across another junior disciple, who was drafted to guide them. The girl perked up at the prospect, only to wilt when Jiang Wanyin said sternly, “And then back here. No playing with Wen Yuan until you’re done with practice.”

“Yes, Zongzhu,” she sighed, which made Jiang Wanyin roll his eyes and stalk off muttering under his breath.

“Thank you for guiding us,” Xichen told her, straight-faced, though it had taken him a minute to regain his composure.

She gave them a sunny smile. “Of course, Lan-zongzhu! Are you here to see Wen-xiong’s clan? Or to see Da-shixiong?”

She chatted happily about what sounded like a new settlement the Wen survivors were making at one inland corner of the Jiang lands, all the way out of the compound and across fields where marsh-grasses gave way to meadows and increasingly large groves of slim tree-trunks. When they emerged at last, past a line of willow trees, Meng Yao saw the beginnings, not of the auxiliary compound he’d been half expecting, but a small village. A handful of little houses were already raised, and the foundations of a few more laid. Two small fields were cleared out of the wild meadow around them, though he couldn’t for the life of him guess what the people in them were growing; he’d grown up as a city boy, before his entry into the cultivation world.

“Da-shixiong!” Their guide yelled, waving enthusiastically. To Meng Yao’s startlement, one of the people working in the fields straightened up and waved back.

Xichen folded his hands in his sleeves and watched as the First Disciple of Jiang, dirt smeared and with his sleeves rolled up, strolled through the tall grass to greet them. “Wei-gongzi. I hadn’t thought Wen-guniang’s restrictions on your cultivation activities were quite this comprehensive.” To Meng Yao’s ear, Xichen was both teasing and also truly disturbed.

Wei Wuxian smiled, and Meng Yao noted with a bit of alarm just how little of it reached his eyes. “It’s work that needs doing.”

Meng Yao drifted a step forward and in front of Xichen, with a surface smile of his own. “I beg your pardon for interrupting, then. Do you have time to speak now, or should we return later?”

Wei Wuxian stilled, looking hard at him, and then huffed out a breath, arms unfolding loosely. “Do you think I forgot our deal?” he demanded, far more genuinely exasperated, now, and Meng Yao relaxed in turn.

“Forgive me.” He offered a brief bow. “I wasn’t sure you would still consider it in force.”

“A-Yao?” When Meng Yao glanced up, his husband was looking down at him with both brows raised. He ducked his head a little, looking aside from those questioning eyes.

“Just a little… personal agreement,” he murmured, and heard Xichen sigh. The hand that came to rest on his shoulder was gentle, though, and he relaxed under it, knowing Xichen wouldn’t press.

A snort of laughter made him look up to see Wei Wuxian watching them with a crooked, rueful smile. “Come have a drink, then,” he said, and turned to lead them toward the largest of the completed houses. Inside, Wen Ning looked up with a bright smile from the pile of herbs he was carefully sorting.

“Wei-gongzi, are you done with the yellow hemp seedlings already?” He got considerably more flustered when he saw the two of them behind Wei Wuxian, and stood hastily, brushing away stems and dead leaves from the table. “Lan-zongzhu! And, um, Meng-gongzi? Won’t you please sit down?” He bustled over to the cabinets and took down a set of simple black cups and started to pour for everyone before hesitating. “Ah, I’m sorry; the Lan sect doesn’t drink wine, do you?”

Xichen smiled up at him, easy and reassuring. “It’s quite all right, Wen-gongzi. I’m grateful for your hospitality.” There was a sparkle of mischief in his eyes, as he lifted his cup in a courteous toast to his hosts, a sparkle Meng Yao recognized from nights when Xichen decided to surprise him. He buried his smirk in his own cup.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes widened as Xichen drained his cup and took another deep sip as soon as it was refilled. “Zewu-jun, you have a remarkable alcohol tolerance, considering Lan Zhan’s.” A ghost of the jesting Meng Yao remembered somewhat from the summer lectures they’d both attended played around Wei Wuxian’s smile. “Don’t tell me that you’re like me—sneaking alcohol into the Cloud Recesses?” No sooner had he said it, though, then he seemed to catch himself back, that dark distance shuttering his eyes again. “Excuse me. That was… inappropriate.”

Meng Yao paused halfway through his own swallow, shocked. He’d never heard Wei Wuxian speak so hesitantly, not before Sunshot and not during it.

“Not at all.” Xichen’s smile was as gentle as it had been when he spoke to the Jiang sect children. “I’m actually using my Golden Core to cleanse the effect of the alcohol immediately. Essentially, I’m drinking fruit juice.”

Wei Wuxian relaxed again, at least somewhat. Now Meng Yao was looking for it, he could see the persistent stiffness in how Wei Wuxian held himself, as if to keep from pulling at some deep scar. Wei Wuxian laughed softly, though, and even shook a finger at Xichen in mock scolding. “Truly astonishing, that Lan-zongzhu himself gets around the rules this way.”

Xichen set his cup down and folded his hands. “To be truthful,” he said quietly, “it was my hope that your friendship could help Wangji think more about which rules are truly important and which should should be minded in spirit rather than in precise word. I believe that has been the case, and I’m glad for it.” His voice was soft, almost coaxing. “Is it only my imagination that leads me to think Wangji’s friendship has also brought you some ease?”

Wei Wuxian leaned back from the table, fully present again and also starting to look flustered. “I… Zewu-jun, what do you you…” His gaze flickered toward Meng Yao, wide and questioning. Meng Yao only shrugged. He suspected Wei Wuxian had been braced for quizzing by a disapproving relative; given Lan Qiren’s behavior, Meng Yao couldn’t blame him. He was fairly sure, though, that Wei Wuxian’s unusual hesitance had actually set off Xichen’s urge to guide and protect, and he could testify from experience that when that happened, you were well advised to not fight it. “Yes?” Wei Wuxian finally said, as if he thought he might be getting himself into trouble by saying it.

Xichen’s smile had a satisfied curl to it, and Meng Yao couldn’t help being amused by how clearly Xichen favored that match, despite his worries. “I’m glad his regard for you is returned. Wangji has asked leave to invite you to stay for some time in the Cloud Recesses, since he is not currently permitted to journey to you. We would be pleased to have you.”

“There’s a great deal that needs to be done, here,” Wei Wuxian protested, though his eyes slid aside as he did. Meng Yao was starting to worry about the shape he was seeing in the things Wei Wuxian avoided, and that Jiang Wanyin was upset over.

“You should go.”

All three of them started a little and looked around to find Wen Ning watching Wei Wuxian with a serious look.

“Well, but then who’s going to look after all of you?” Wei Wuxian demanded, clearly teasing but with enough genuine protectiveness at the edges of his voice that Meng Yao would not have wished to cross him about it.

“I can look after our work, here, and Jiang-guniang will make sure we’re all right,” Wen Ning said earnestly. “Wei-gongzi. You should go.”

Meng Yao noted that Wen Ning probably knew what was wrong with Wei Wuxian. And, as Wei Wuxian chewed on his lip but finally nodded, slowly, that genuine concern for him seemed to be the weak point in Wei Wuxian’s general intransigence.

No wonder Wangji could get to him.

He also noted, as Wei Wuxian said temporary goodbyes all around, that he was clearly both liked and trusted by this little surviving branch of the Wen clan. When Meng Yao thought about just how much nonsense Wei Wuxian had had to put up with from the other sects, during Sunshot, even with Meng Yao managing the situation to keep everyone pointed in the same direction, he figured he had another piece to the puzzle of why the brilliant First Disciple of Jiang was hiding away here and planting medicinal herbs, regardless of how little his brother liked it.

“Wangji will be pleased to see you,” Xichen remarked as the three of them retraced the path through groves and fields to Lotus Pier proper.

“Seems like the Cloud Recesses is full of people who want to fix me, these days.” It wasn’t an entirely friendly comment.

Xichen gave Wei Wuxian a troubled glance, brows drawing in. “Do you not—”

Meng Yao caught as casually as he could at Xichen’s wrist and squeezed, hidden by their flowing sleeves. When Xichen fell silent he said, quickly enough to cover that silence, “Would you not like to have Suibian’s company again? Even when I’m working with Zaisheng, I find I like to have Hensheng near.” He smiled sidelong at Wei Wuxian, inviting him into the circle of people who had to deal with more than one spiritual tool. “Or is your Chenqing jealous?”

“I don’t know.”

Meng Yao stiffened at the alarming implications of a cultivator uncertain of his own weapon, but Wei Wuxian shrugged as if he could shake them off. “I’m sure Shijie’s seen that you have rooms ready. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The moment they set foot over the doorsill of Lotus Pier, he veered off, taking a long drink from the jar of wine that hadn’t left his hand except to be exchanged for another, all afternoon.

Meng Yao clung to Xichen’s sleeve, trying to breathe evenly, until Xichen wrapped an arm gently around him. “Let us find someone to guide us, hm?” he murmured, and Meng Yao nodded silently. He didn’t speak until they were settled in guest rooms, and Xichen took both his hands, peering at him with concern.

“A-Yao? What is it?”

He stepped closer, burrowing into Xichen’s chest until he was gathered in and tucked safe under Xichen’s chin. “He isn’t doing the things his brother thinks he should,” he whispered. “He doesn’t think he can do them. He can’t connect with his own spiritual tools. Months of treatments from Wen Qing, and he still can’t. Xichen, I think,” he swallowed hard, “I think he’s lost his spiritual strength. Almost all of it.”

He felt the shock of the thought run through Xichen. “But,” Xichen protested, voice as low as his, “all through the Sunshot campaign, all the things he did…”

“Without his sword,” Meng Yao said, low, increasingly sure he was right. “By music. By talisman. By the Yin Tiger Seal, and he collapsed for days after using that at strength.”

“All of that.” Xichen’s voice was a little wondering. “All of that without his—” Abruptly Xichen pulled in a harsh breath, arms tightening around Meng Yao, and finished, “his Golden Core. It was Wen Chao’s people who attacked Lotus Pier. And one of his retainers was…”

“Wen Zhuliu,” Meng Yao finished in a whisper. “Oh.” And then he frowned. “But then why keep this secret, even when it spurs fear in the other sects?”

“The Yunmeng Jiang sect was almost destroyed,” Xichen said gravely, one hand lifting to stroke Meng Yao’s hair, protective. “Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin himself are the only two of great strength left. I can hardly fault them for wishing to keep this from the other sects until they are recovered.”

That was it. That was what had been nagging at Meng Yao’s thoughts all this time. “I don’t think Jiang Wanyin knows, himself,” he said, slowly. He felt Xichen draw breath and then let it out without speaking.

“Wei Wuxian,” Xichen finally sighed, with a thread of helpless fondness and a great deal of exasperation. Meng Yao had to agree. He leaned back to look up at Xichen.

“I think we need to say nothing of this, until we know why. Wei-gongzi is,” he hesitated, sorting words, and finally said delicately, “not inclined to permit any interference with his family.”

Xichen smiled, dry and one-sided. “I do remember the shadow of all those things Wangji didn’t say in his report on the death of Wen Chao and Wen Zhuliu. I agree.” He pressed a kiss to Meng Yao’s forehead. “Keep your eye on this for us.”

“I always keep my eye on my allies,” Meng Yao promised, leaning into him.

Xichen laughed softly and lifted a hand to take his chin, thumb stroking gently along the curve of his lower lip. “Because you are another who does not brook interference with what’s his?”

Already rather breathless from his touch, Meng Yao blushed hot.

“That was what your ‘little personal arrangement’ with Wei-gongzi was about, was it not?” Xichen leaned down and kissed him before he could quite formulate an answer, and Meng Yao surrendered with a sigh.

“Yes,” he admitted, against Xichen’s mouth.

“I don’t disapprove,” Xichen murmured, kissing him again, gently. “It relieves me to know my heart is such a capable guardian of our own.”

Meng Yao smiled up at him, helplessly bright and happy with how Xichen valued even this part of him, reaching up to link his hands behind Xichen’s neck. “Yes, Xichen-ge.”

Xichen stroked his hair back, fingers sliding through the loose length of it. “Come to bed, my own?”

The heat of being caught by Xichen, of being seen and known, flared up, and Meng Yao leaned more bonelessly into Xichen’s arms. “Yes, ge-ge,” he purred.

Xichen smiled slowly. “Hm.” He led Meng Yao to their sleeping room and began to undress him, so meticulously careful as he unwound each sash, undid each tie, lifted each layer of robes off Meng Yao’s shoulders that Meng Yao was breathless and blushing over the attention before long. When Xichen pressed him gently down to the bed, he realized Xichen was still almost fully clothed, only his sashes laid aside. His eyes widened as that sense of being laid bare to Xichen rushed back, even more visceral.

“Xichen-ge…” Xichen laid a finger against his lips, hushing him.

“Will you let me have all of you?” he asked softly.

There was only one answer to that. “Yes, ge-ge,” Meng Yao agreed, husky.

Xichen gathered him close, kissing him slow and sure as strong, warm hands stroked over his skin. Between kisses, he murmured to Meng Yao, “My dearest. My brilliant one. So fierce and so relentless. As dangerous with words in your mouth as I could ever be with a sword in my hand.”

Meng Yao clung to him, flushed and wide-eyed, feeling as though Xichen’s words were a hand caressing the very heart of him. “Xichen…!”

Xichen slid a hand into his hair, drawing his head back, and kissed down his bared throat. “Never doubt that I love that sharpness and passion in you,” he murmured against Meng Yao’s skin, and Meng Yao arched up against him with the sweet thrill the words sent through him, all the hotter for being caught in Xichen’s hands like this.

“Xichen,” he whispered, fingers wound tight in the soft silk of Xichen’s robes.

“Fear nothing, my heart,” Xichen said softly. “I know your nature, and I love it.”

“Xichen!” It only took feeling long fingers wrap around his cock for all the heat and need built up in him to break loose and rush through him in a flood wave, wild and unstoppable, shaking him apart in Xichen’s arms. Xichen held him close, fingers sliding gently through his hair as Meng Yao’s body and senses slowly quieted, and he lay against Xichen’s chest, a little stunned. Finally he whispered, “Truly?”

Xichen pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Truly.” He smiled down at Meng Yao. “You’ve shown more of yourself to me than I think you realize, sometimes.” His hand slid down the bare line of Meng Yao’s back, slow and gentle. “I wanted you to know it.”

Meng Yao couldn’t help laughing, burying his head in Xichen’s shoulder for a long moment. “I love it when you do this,” he admitted, at last. Xichen was so gentle in most things, so deliberately gentle, and yet he had a streak of implacability if pressed. Really, you only had to look at the man’s spiritual weapons to see it: the new moon and the cracked ice. Elegant and fine, yes, but also concealment and danger. Sometimes he didn’t know why more people didn’t notice.

But that was why they fit so well.

He snuggled down into Xichen’s arms and the drift of Xichen’s robes around them both, content to be known down to his heart by this man.

When the three of them took their leave, late the next morning, Meng Yao was interested to note that, at some point in the intervening time, Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin seemed to have somewhat reconciled. They were standing close again, the almost constant touching that he remembered from before the campaign making an appearance again as Wei Wuxian admonished his brother to be good, and not to frown so much his face stuck that way, and to not make any of the senior disciples cry, at which point Jiang Wanyin lost his fresh sect master’s gravity and whacked Wei Wuxian in the arm. That seemed to be what Wei Wuxian’s goal was, from the way he grinned.

Even Meng Yao couldn’t tell how much of it was an act, which honestly impressed him.

Jiang Yanli approached him and held out a folded and sealed letter. “Meng-gongzi, may I trouble you to bring this to Wen-guniang, when you return?”

Wei Wuxian eyed them, immediately wary. “Shijie,” he coaxed, sidling up to his sister, “I can tell her, if you have a message.”

She turned a gentle but immoveable look on him, and he promptly wilted. Meng Yao took the letter and bowed to her. “I will see that Wen-guniang receives it,” he promised.

“Traitor,” Wei Wuxian muttered as he tossed his bag over his shoulder and joined them in the narrow river boat.

“I’m far more afraid of disappointing her than I am of disappointing you,” Meng Yao returned, just as low, and Wei Wuxian only held out for a moment before sighing and nodding.

Xichen seated himself as they pushed off, clearly stifling a laugh. “So. Wangji tells me that the two of you have been discussing the musical theory of Lu Liqin?”

“He is absolutely wrong about her use of the twenty-sixth harmonic,” Wei Wuxian declared, sliding down to sit crosslegged at the rear of the boat’s enclosure, one elbow propped on the seat beside him.

Meng Yao settled himself opposite Xichen and resigned himself to a trip full of debate. It was making him think that Wangji had his own version of Xichen’s rebellious streak, that he was apparently in love with someone so cheerfully contentious. Thinking about that, and about Lan Qiren’s bad habit of adding rules to the Wall whenever something irritated him enough, Meng Yao couldn’t help a quiet smirk.

Xichen met his eyes, across the boat, and for a single moment, his own smile turned just as pleased and sharp.

Flipside

Wen Qing sat back from her patient with a sigh of frank relief. “I think we did it. You’re going to have to start over as if you were a child, but your meridians are open again and there’s no new scarring. According to everything I know of qi, you should be capable of re-forming your Golden Core from here. As long,” she added, with a fierce glare, “as you don’t do anything outstandingly stupid, like using your own meridians to channel resentful energy!”

Wei Wuxian held up his hands. “I haven’t been! I won’t! Talismans only, I promise.” She positively glowered at the implicit assumption he was still going to be working with resentful energy at all, and he quailed back against the bed and amended, “And my sword. First of all. Of course.”

She eyed him narrowly for a long moment, because she knew that Wei Wuxian’s promises lasted only until someone else was in danger, but there wasn’t a great deal she could do about that. “You’d better not.” She started putting her needles away, movements sharp with irritation. Maybe she could get a-Ning’s help; if he knew it was for his favorite friend’s own good, he might at least give Wei Wuxian disappointed looks. She did not discount the effectiveness of those. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

“That you won’t be digging into my qi every other day?”

That was only worth an eye roll. “Yes, my most troublesome patient will finally be mostly off my hands. We should celebrate.” He only gave her a sunny smile, and she snorted, ignoring the answering smile that tugged at her mouth. “No, I mean that you need to start telling people.”

“No.” It came out like a spinal reflex, which she thought it might be, by now.

“People are going to start figuring it out,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Your sister is getting close, judging from the questions she had in her last letter, and Lan Wangji may suspect already.”

He crossed his arms, whole face going shuttered. “Jiang Cheng can’t know.”

She looked at the stubbornness written all over him and did not mention any of the arguments based on reason. Nothing about Do you think he won’t notice you training at a child’s level. Nothing of He’s not actually an idiot. Not even Do you really think your sister will help you keep it from him. Instead, she said quietly, “I tried to keep what I was doing secret from a-Ning, too. And look how that ended.”

It was an argument from the heart, not the head, and it got through, just as she’d thought it would. Wei Wuxian, the man standing in her place now, taking care of her little brother while she was stuck in the Cloud Recesses, winced and lowered his head.

“I…” He bit his lip and finally said, softly, “I need to recover just as much as I can, before he knows. Otherwise it will be… bad for him.”

She tied her needle roll snugly and raised a brow at him. “So, is that you asking me to dig into your qi some more, after all?”

He looked up, eyes steady and serious on her. “Would it help?”

Wen Qing pursed her lips, considering. “Maybe. There are certainly techniques to help concentrate qi, and that’s what you need now.”

“Then yes.”

She nodded, unsurprised. “Many of the things Lan Wangji has been researching would also apply well to this.”

He groaned and flopped back across the bed. “Qing-jie hates me,” he complained, pouting outrageously, and she smacked him with the cloth roll in her hand.

“Try that on your own sister, brat. Or better yet on Lan Wangji, who for some forsaken reason seems to think it’s cute.”

Wei Wuxian laughed, bright and open again. “He does not.”

Wen Qing shook her head and gathered the last of her things to leave. Neither of them was actually her little brother, she reminded herself firmly, and it was not her job to manage Wei Wuxian’s love life or future prospects. Thank the Heavens.

Though she might just drop a word of warning, when she wrote back to Jiang Yanli. Someone responsible should probably be keeping an eye on the course of Wei Wuxian’s truly absurd courtship.

Becoming the Phoenix – Ten

Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian are courting, to everyone’s amusement and/or exasperation. Jin Guangshan is still maneuvering for power, and Meng Yao and Lan Xichen work to stymie him at the Phoenix Mountain night-hunt. In the background, Nie Huaisang plays matchmaker a bit for Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan (who needs all the help he can get), and Wei Wuxian has a long-overdue discussion with his brother. Romance, Drama, Action with some violence, I-4

Character(s): Jiang Wanyin, Jiang Yanli, Jin Guangshan, Jin Zixuan, Jin Zixun, Lan Qiren, Lan Wangji, Lan Xichen, Meng Yao, Nie Huaisang, Wei Wuxian

Pairing(s): Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian, Lan Xichen/Meng Yao

Meng Yao was almost, a little bit, starting to sympathize with Lan Qiren on the subject of Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian.

Just a little bit.

Because he seemed to be tripping over them everywhere, no matter what corner of the Cloud Recesses he’d sought out, usually for some quiet. He’d found them in the river pavilions.

“Lan Zhan, you cannot possibly tell me that this piece was meant to be tuned that high, not with that many overflowing sounds in it! It’s got to be a lower tuning.”

He’d found them in the library.

“Lan Zhan, you didn’t tell me that Lan has a copy of Songs of the South, and I just said the other day how bored I was! Now, was that nice?”

He’d found them around back by the waterfall.

“Honestly, Lan Zhan, what’s the point of rules that constantly contradict each other? It’s not like you even can obey all of them!”

“The point is to reflect on the contradictions.”

“All right, then, what kind of personal enlightenment are you supposed to get out of embracing the entire world when every other line is telling you what to reject?”

He found them in the forest.

“Look how many there are, now! You take such good care of them, Lan Zhan.” Wei Wuxian held up one of the, admittedly copious, rabbits, apparently so it could rub noses with Wangji, and Meng Yao turned right around in his tracks and made his way back down the path. He’d take the long way around.

“Can’t Wangji just kiss him already and have done?” he asked Xichen under his breath, as they both watched Wei Wuxian and Wangji chase each other over the roofs. Wei Wuxian really did retain remarkable control of his qi, for a man they suspected of a losing encounter with Wen Zhuliu.

“I’m not entirely sure Wangji knows that’s an option, yet,” Xichen admitted ruefully.

Which at least succeeded in quashing Meng Yao’s sympathy for Lan Qiren, whose fault that probably was.

So when Meng Yao heard their voices around the corner, as he was looking through one of the library pavilion shelves for a history of the Nie sect that he wanted after a rather alarming mention of tombs in Huaisang’s latest letter, he just sighed to himself, resigned, and kept looking. If he was fortunate, perhaps he could escape with his book before the horseplay really got started.

At least until he heard Wangji say, low and serious. “Wei Ying. Your Golden Core—was it wounded in the Burial Mounds? Or did it happen earlier?”

Meng Yao froze and peeked around the corner just in time to see Wei Wuxian try to laugh off his own frozen moment with an airy wave of one hand.

“Why would you think anything ever happened to my Golden Core?”

Wangji just looked at him for a breath, perhaps noticing that Wei Wuxian hadn’t actually denied it, and then he spread a hand toward the books of tablature spread open on the table beside him. “When Wen-guniang asked for the music of concentration, rather than of cleansing, it became clear to me.”

Wei Wuxian dropped his laughing front like shrugging off a cloak, leaving him darker, almost the grim edge he’d had during Sunshot. “You can’t tell anyone else.” When Wangji didn’t answer at once, he stepped forward, seizing Wangji’s arm urgently. “Lan Zhan!”

Wangji bent his head just a little, voice steady when he answered, “I will not.”

It cut through the desperation running under Wei Wuxian’s anger, and left uncertainty clear to see, hope and hesitation tangled together. “Really?”

Wei Wuxian still hadn’t let go, and Wangji laid a hand over his. “You have my word,” he said, so openly earnest that he almost looked like Xichen. “I did not understand your reasons, during Sunshot, yet you still had them. If you ask this, you must have a reason now.”

“Lan Zhan.” Wei Wuxian’s voice had gone soft and his eyes as wide as if Wangji had just proclaimed his love in the main courtyard. “You… really?” The hope so clear in his face was fragile, this time, but when Wangji nodded he broke into a genuine smile, brilliant and sweet.

Perhaps that was what emboldened Wangji. “May I ask a different question?” At Wei Wuxian’s nod he edged a step closer and asked, “What am I to you?”

Wei Wuxian’s smile quieted into something softer. “Before all this,” he pressed his free hand to his chest, “I thought maybe you would be the one who understood.” He looked down as if he couldn’t hold Wangji’s eyes any longer. “Who knew me, heart and soul.”

“I am. I will be.” Wangji’s voice was soft, but the words rang through the air like a declaration, like a vow. Wei Wuxian looked back up, searching Wangji’s face. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to find at least the promise of, because he wet his lips before matching Wangji’s tiny step forward.

“Then… what am I to you?” he asked, low.

Calm seemed to settle over Wangji. “You are the question and the answer.”

Wei Wuxian stared at him, lips parted. “Oh.”

They stood together in the soft light of the library, still holding on to each other, and didn’t say another word. Meng Yao carefully tip-toed out with his book, closing the door silently so as not to disturb them.

He wondered, smiling to himself, if all Lans fell so completely, when they fell in love.

Of course, with Wangji and Wei Wuxian just possibly starting to sort themselves out, something else had to come up. On reflection, Meng Yao couldn’t imagine why he might have thought it would be otherwise.

He leaned over Xichen’s shoulder to read the handsomely written letter that had arrived, grandly inviting them to attend a gathering of cultivation sects for a night hunt at Phoenix Mountain. This gathering was hosted, the invitation told them, by the Lanling Jin sect, who hoped the sects could come together in good fellowship and friendly competition, as it should always have been between them. “Does he expect anyone, besides perhaps Yao-zongzhu, to buy this?” Meng Yao asked, flicking his fingers dismissively at the fine paper. “I cannot be the only one who notices just how hungry he is for power.”

Xichen smiled crookedly. “I’m afraid you’re one of the few, my heart.” He huffed a soft laugh at the disbelieving look Meng Yao gave him. “I’m sure I’ve told you before that your perception is beyond the ordinary.”

Meng Yao’s cheeks heated. “Well, yes, but… he’s not even hiding it!”

Xichen tossed the letter onto his writing table and reached up to tug Meng Yao forward, tumbling him down into Xichen’s lap in a flurry of white and blue. Meng Yao went willingly, perfectly confident that Xichen would catch him, relaxing into the curve of Xichen’s arm behind his back and smiling up at him. “I will not have you discount your abilities, a-Yao,” Xichen said, gentle but firm about it. “Jin Guangshan is skilled at talking people around to his way of thinking, and doing so in terms he can deny at once, should he need to shift his ground.” He cupped Meng Yao’s cheek in one broad hand. “Your clear sight is an extraordinary gift, and I expect to rely on you to know if and how we should move to counter Jin, at this event.”

Meng Yao turned his head into Xichen’s hand and pressed a kiss to his palm. “Yes, my husband,” he murmured, savoring again the warmth and satisfaction of how Xichen knew and valued him, giving back the assurance of how he belonged to Lan, now. Xichen made a satisfied sound and caught his chin, lifting it so he could kiss Meng Yao, slow and possessive.

At least until someone cleared their throat, in the open screens of the receiving room, and they both looked up to see Lan Qiren pretending to examine the windchimes beside the entrance. Xichen grinned, positively impish for a moment, and lifted Meng Yao easily out of his lap, setting him lightly back beside the writing table.

The casual show of strength only flared the heat running through Meng Yao higher, and Xichen was perfectly well aware of how Meng Yao responded to such things. Meng Yao gave his husband a look that promised revenge when they were alone again, before straightening his robes and putting on an attentive expression.

“Yes, Uncle?” Xichen asked smoothly, with only a bit of a feline curl at the corners of his mouth.

Lan Qiren entered, giving them a stern look. “On the topic of appropriate behavior within the Cloud Recesses,” he said, “I have observed Wei Wuxian taking up some sword training again.”

“It seems Wen-guniang’s treatment has been successful.” Xichen’s tone was agreeable, but Meng Yao noted that his words weren’t quite, and focused his attention.

“Mm.” Lan Qiren stroked his beard. “I was willing to wait on her success or failure, but now we know which it is, and Wei Wuxian’s disrespectful and wild ways still require curbing. You are sect master here, Xichen. It is your place to ensure our ways are upheld.”

“To be sure.” Xichen was wearing his faint, public smile. “But Wei-gongzi is not part of our sect. Surely it cannot be our place to dictate his behavior.”

“Then dictate your brother’s.” Lan Qiren’s voice was growing sharp. “Wangji gives that boy far too much leeway. He should know better than to tolerate anyone who insists on disorderly ways, who would lure those around him into questioning what is righteous!”

The more Meng Yao’s focus on the exchange sharpened, the more clearly he felt the balance of power in the room, and it was tilting more and more heavily toward Lan Qiren. When he saw Xichen’s faint sigh, he also felt that balance start to tip all the way over, and his hand flashed out to close on Xichen’s wrist. Xichen blinked and paused in the midst of drawing breath to speak, glancing over at Meng Yao. Meng Yao met his eyes, lips tight. If Xichen trusted his perception, if he was Xichen’s eyes in this, then he could not let this tipping point pass by. No matter how annoyed Lan Qiren might be at him later.

His first loyalty was to Xichen.

“Zongzhu,” was all he said, almost a whisper between them. Xichen’s brows jerked up, and slowly drew down into a frown.

“Now?” His voice was barely a breath. Meng Yao bit his lip, not entirely sure what fire he might be touching off, but certain of what he saw. If Xichen were not to spend years wresting the Lan sect out of his uncle’s hands, he needed to act now. Meng Yao nodded, quick and faint but determined.

Xichen closed his eyes and let his breath out. As Meng Yao watched, it almost seemed that Xichen grew larger, his presence in the room flowing outward, weighting the air around him. When Xichen opened his eyes they were sharp and level as his sword blade, and when he lifted his head the simple movement commanded attention like a shout.

Meng Yao was glad he was already sitting, because it made his knees weak just to see, sent heat pooling low in his stomach.

“Uncle,” Xichen said, quiet and courteous but utterly certain in a way Meng Yao had rarely heard, “I have attended to Wei-gongzi’s discussions with Wangji, and I am satisfied that his heart is dedicated to what is just. If he leads Wangji to question what the Discipline of Lan truly means, that is well. Wangji will reach a deeper understanding of his way than unthinking obedience would yield.”

Lan Qiren stood very still, eyes fixed on Xichen, and Meng Yao could see how his jaw tightened, as if he’d clenched his teeth on a demand for obedience—an approach Xichen had just neatly closed off. “Wei Wuxian still walks too near a crooked path,” he finally said.

“Does he?” Xichen’s question sounded genuine rather than rhetorical, and when Meng Yao remembered what Xichen had told him about Xichen’s mother, he thought he knew what other question was hanging in the air between Xichen and Lan Qiren.

Is it his feet you see on that path, or hers?

Lan Qiren’s face darkened, but his gathering ire broke against Xichen’s bottomless calm like wind against stone. Meng Yao shivered at the unmoving weight of that calm, and the choice it presented Lan Qiren with—to yield or to openly start a fight with his nephew. And with his sect master. In the end, Lan Qiren spun on his heel, lips tight, and swept back out of their rooms without a word.

Xichen let out a long breath and reached for Meng Yao, pulling him in and holding him tight. Meng Yao pressed close, arms sliding around Xichen. “I’m sorry,” he said, softly. “I know you didn’t want to—”

“No,” Xichen cut him off, face still buried in Meng Yao’s hair. “I always knew it would have to come some day. If you think it had to be now, then I trust your judgement.”

Meng Yao sighed, curling up in his lap so Xichen could hold him more comfortably. “If it hadn’t been, if you’d let him continue to dictate Wangji’s course, or try to, you’d have had to truly fight to turn it around later.” He hesitated and added, softer, “Or else Wangji would have fought.”

Xichen straightened with a sigh, though his smile had returned to dance at the corner of his mouth. “My brother is not skilled at compromise of any kind. Better it be me who stands firm now than him who shatters things into pieces later.”

Meng Yao had to pause simply to admire the understatement. That undeniable fact brought up another, though. “If Wangji isn’t comfortable with compromise… will he choose to go to Jiang?”

Xichen’s expression was briefly both appalled and full of stifled hilarity. “Not soon, I hope. I doubt Wangji would find that an easy fit.”

“Well, Wei Wuxian does seem to enjoy challenges,” Meng Yao murmured, mischievous. “Perhaps he will choose the Cloud Recesses instead.”

Xichen broke into his rare, open laugh, catching Meng Yao close. “Uncle would add a new rule to the Wall every week!”

Meng Yao snuggled close with a soft snort. “Well, that’s one way to reduce its importance.”

Xichen looked down at him with a secret gleam in his eye. “There’s the clear vision that I love. I will rely on it, at this Phoenix Mountain hunt.”

Meng Yao smiled back, slow and sharp. “Yes, husband.”

At the opening of the Phoenix Mountain hunt, Meng Yao sat quietly at Xichen’s side, on the shaded platform that had been erected for the sect masters, and listened to Jin Guangshan’s fulsome welcome. He had a private bet with himself regarding the archery targets set up to one side, and was waiting to see if he was right.

“In the spirit of friendly competition,” Jin Guangshan declared, with the kind of smile that made Meng Yao wonder yet again whether he could really be the only one who saw how it never reached the man’s eyes, “let us have a shooting match to decide what path everyone will take into the mountain!” He swept a hand out at the targets. “Each target has seven rings, one for each major path. The closer to the red your arrow strikes, the more advantageous your entry!”

Meng Yao absently awarded himself a win; anyone who knew Jin Zixuan’s reputation as an archer might have seen it coming. Though he was still just a bit surprised that Jin Guangshan seemed to be ignoring Wei Wuxian’s reputation. Perhaps he didn’t believe it because he hadn’t seen much evidence of it during Sunshot?

Jin Zixuan stepped forward at his father’s genial wave to begin. Meng Yao was an indifferent archer, himself, but even he could see that Jin Zixuan’s form was clean and correct, if a bit stiff during his showy leap to release from the air. The arrow flew straight and true to the center of one of the targets, and a murmur of approval went through the ranks of Jin sect cultivators and a few of their allied sects as well. Jin Zixuan lifted his chin and remarked, “Not difficult at all,” as he strode back to his place.

And then Jin Zixun stepped forward, which made Meng Yao straighten, interested. Did Jin Guangshan have a bit of intimidation planned, here? With a disdainful sidelong look in Wei Wuxian’s direction, Jin Zixun declared, “Does anyone dare challenge that? Step right up if you do! I want to see anyone who thinks they can shoot better than my cousin.” He swept his habitual sneer over the entire gathering. “Who else?”

Meng Yao clapped his sleeve over his mouth to hide the grin he couldn’t help. Was Jin Zixun really going to be this stupid? Perhaps it wasn’t a planned gambit after all, but just Jin Zixun’s inability to keep from making a fool of himself. Huaisang’s eyes met his, wide with anticipation, and Huaisang snapped open his fan to hide his own amusement behind.

When Wei Wuxian promptly turned to Wangji and asked for the loan of his headband, Meng Yao had to bite back actual laughter, shoulders shaking. It was probably a good thing Lan Qiren had stayed home; hearing this might have given him an actual stroke from sheer rage. Xichen sat beside him, the image of serenity despite Nie Mingjue’s own sidelong glance and raised brows, and Meng Yao hid another chuckle at that silent statement of support for Wangji and Wei Wuxian. He didn’t think it would be lost on any cultivator who was friends with a Lan disciple.

Wei Wuxian huffed a bit over Wangji’s exasperated, if silent, refusal, and strolled down the range, unwinding one of his cuff wrappings instead. Meng Yao restrained a gleeful sound as Wei Wuxian raised the ribbon of black and bound it over his eyes. This was going to be even better than he’d hoped. By the time Wei Wuxian drew five arrows, Meng Yao was glancing around to appreciate the shocked expressions surrounding him, and most especially Jin Guangshan’s. He looked like a man in the path of a runaway wagon who knew it was too late to run.

All five arrows sang home into the centers of the targets, and the crowd of cultivators burst into applause, led enthusiastically by Nie Mingjue. Wei Wuxian sauntered back to his place, with a bright smile for his sister, who was very obviously laughing behind the painted silk of her fan, and a grin for Wangji, who refused to smile back openly but did look quietly satisfied.

Meng Yao did not clap much, being too busy trying to bury his helpless snickers in Xichen’s shoulder. “What did they expect?” he gasped, blotting tears of laughter on his sleeve. On his other side, Jiang Wanyin snorted with what sounded half exasperation and half agreement. When Meng Yao looked, though, he was smiling, habitually tight expression brightened with pride.

Jin Guangshan finally managed to smile too, albeit with a very tight jaw. “Excellent show! Both Zixuan and Wei Wuxian will take the most direct path. Who shall be next?” Meng Yao didn’t miss the sharp gesture, down by his side, that made Jin Zixun step back, glowering. Jin Guangshan was not terribly intelligent, he reflected, but the man was cunning, and he knew how to adjust his strategy on the fly.

Other cultivators started coming forward, many with a laughing air of being well content to come in second best to a display like that, which Meng Yao suspected was not what Jin Guangshan had been after. As little groups broke up and started up the mountain, he noticed Jin-furen drawing Jin Zixuan aside for some fiercely whispered words, after which Jin Zixuan came to stand below where Jiang Wanyin and Jiang Yanli were seated, looking just faintly hangdog. “Good afternoon, Jiang-guniang.” Apparently feeling his mother’s glare on his back, he bowed briefly. “I would be honored to escort you, if you wish to see the hunt.” He didn’t sound particularly honored, but the way his attention stayed fixed tight to her suggested that there might be true desire there, under the considerable awkwardness.

Jin Guangshan was ignoring the byplay completely, which suggested he didn’t think an alliance with Jiang would be to his benefit any more. But his wife did. Interesting. Meanwhile, Jiang Wanyin was making irritated ‘go ahead’ gestures at Wei Wuxian, who was hanging back at his gate, Wangji beside him. Wei Wuxian made considerably more violent gestures in Jin Zixuan’s direction, and Jiang Wanyin rolled his eyes and shrugged impatiently. Jiang Yanli seemed amused by them, at least. She’d stopped looking uncertain and started smiling, which in turn had made Jin Zixuan brighten. Meng Yao wondered if Madam Jin was concerned enough with her son’s happiness to not care about the politics, or if perhaps she was building her own strength within Jin, courting an ally and binding the sect’s heir to her in the process. She was close-mouthed, even in private; even Meng Yao’s information from his network couldn’t tell him which was more likely.

“Perhaps we could walk for a little while,” Jiang Yanli agreed, and rose to let Jin Zixuan assist her down from the platform. Her voice was soft, but her body language was reserved. Meng Yao thought that she hadn’t, herself, decided about Jin Zixuan yet; he would refrain from trying to interfere, then.

It wasn’t as though she lacked for people to look after her interests, after all. Beside him, Jiang Wanyin spread his hands sharply, miming the most irritated helplessness Meng Yao had ever seen across the grounds at Wei Wuxian, who was now sulking. Meng Yao was fairly sure he saw Wangji roll his eyes before drawing Wei Wuxian away with a word or two. As the last archers took their shots and the sect masters started to stand, Xichen smiled down at Meng Yao and held out a hand. “Shall we, my heart?”

Meng Yao laid his hand in Xichen’s, blushing a little at such open solicitousness. “It should be an interesting afternoon,” he murmured, which made the corners of Xichen’s mouth curl up.

“Indeed.”

It was quite a pleasant afternoon, actually. Meng Yao was proud of the skill he’d learned under Xichen’s tutelage, but it still delighted him to walk in Xichen’s protection, to know without doubt that he didn’t need to attend to the haunts and spirits around them unless he chose to. It was also helpful, today, because much of his attention was on political affairs rather than hunting.

Jin sect members were scattered over the entire mountain, keeping watch, readily assisting any cultivators caught alone with prey a little beyond them, obviously keeping Jin benevolence on everyone’s mind.

Wei Wuxian and Wangji tore through swaths of the mountain with an ease that clearly reminded more than one person of just who had won some of the harshest battles of the Sunshot campaign… at least when the two of them could be bothered to take their eyes off each other and notice the prey. Meng Yao heard more than one party laughing (or even cooing) as the two wandered by.

Yao-zongzhu was strolling with Ouyang-zongzhu, gossiping more than hunting. Meng Yao paused to drop a word in their ears about how many Jin cultivators were hanging about, and how he hoped they didn’t intend to steal anyone’s credit. Both of them liked the juicy possibilities of that gossip, and Meng Yao chuckled with them, conspiratorially, before parting ways again. He felt the weight of Xichen’s eyes on him the whole time, and the quiet certainty of Xichen’s nod, as they walked on, warmed him.

Jin Zixuan, when they crossed his path, seemed to be dealing with his uncertainty in Jiang Yanli’s presence by lecturing endlessly on the ghosts and monsters of the mountain. If Meng Yao was any judge, Jiang Yanli found it equal parts amusing and annoying.

Jin-furen was subtly shadowing the pair, and appeared to have a headache.

Jiang Wanyin was taking out his temper on every spirit that had the misfortune to be in his way, and might just come out of this hunt with the highest tally of anyone.

He didn’t see anything to be concerned about until they ran across Wei Wuxian and Wangji again, this time in the middle of an altercation with Jin Zixun.

“…still don’t bring your sword!” Jin Zixun was declaiming, more to their audience than to Wei Wuxian himself. Meng Yao stiffened when he noticed that the audience included Yao-zongzhu and Ouyang-zongzhu. They were exactly the kind of people Jin Zixun’s words could easily stir up fear in. “Such a grand occasion, and yet you still show no care for courtesy, no respect for other cultivators! Is this the measure of the Yunmeng Jiang sect?”

Meng Yao started forward, and Wangji immediately laid a hand on Wei Wuxian’s arm, obviously knowing the weaknesses of his temper well by now. This could get ugly very fast.

Both of them stopped short, though, when Wei Wuxian tipped his head back and laughed. “My sword? I wasn’t going to, to be fair, but I suppose if you really insist…” He closed his eyes, still smiling, fingers raised as if to summon a sword that he obviously wasn’t carrying.

One moment passed. Another.

And just when Jin Zixun was starting to recover himself from his own startlement and draw breath to attack again, cries of shock started echoing up the flank of the mountain, closer and closer, until a dark-and-silver streak flew through the trees and halted, hovering before Wei Wuxian.

He opened his eyes, smile curling wider, and reached out to wrap his fingers around the hilt. “There. Happy?”

While everyone stared, Jin sect cultivators started scurrying into the clearing. “The loose monsters!” one of them cried. “So many of them, so fast!”

“What?” Jin Zixun snapped. “Make sense!”

Another, who had sensibly stopped to catch her breath, straightened and bowed quickly. “Just now, a sword flew up the mountain and struck down many of the un-caught monsters on the way!”

Wei Wuxian smiled wider as every eye turned to him, and spun his sword casually in his hand. “I wanted to wait, so everyone would have a fair chance.”

Yao-zongzhu broke into guffaws of laughter. “Fair enough, fair enough! At least you didn’t steal anyone else’s prey. Well done!”

Part of Meng Yao was pleased that the gossip he’d seeded earlier in the day, the suspicion that it was Jin who wanted to steal everyone’s glory, was bearing such fruit now. Most of him, though, was leaning back against Xichen, weak-kneed. “Three months,” he whispered. “Barely more than three months since Wen-guniang declared him healed, to regather that much spiritual strength.”

Xichen squeezed his shoulder, and satisfaction was heavy in his voice. “Wangji has found a good match.”

Indeed, Wangji was watching Wei Wuxian with a very smitten look on his face.

Jin Zixun, on the other hand, was scowling, face dark with something approaching hatred. “We need to turn this around a little further, to be safe,” Meng Yao murmured.

“Very well.” Xichen stepped forward, strolling into the clearing with a light smile. “Wei-gongzi, so that was you? Congratulations on your tally of monsters.” His light tone did the trick, and Meng Yao watched everyone relax, save for Jin Zixun, who slunk back a few steps. Meng Yao followed along and cast his eyes down demurely as everyone greeted them, watching under his lashes as the weight of the confrontation thinned and blew away like smoke before the breeze of Xichen’s easy smile. Jin Zixun obviously saw it, too, because he turned on his heel and stomped away into the trees. Wei Wuxian watched him go, just as closely as Meng Yao.

At least until Jiang Wanyin stalked into the clearing. “Wei Wuxian! Your damn sword dropped this on me!” He brandished a sheath at his brother, who burst out laughing and then promptly ducked behind Wangji for shelter. Wangji looked disapproving, but Meng Yao noted that he didn’t move aside. The knot of cultivators broke up, most of them chuckling.

When they all got back to the Jin guest quarter, Meng Yao found Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan walking through the pools and flowering gardens of Golden Unicorn Tower while he explained eagerly why a rose went better in some particular nook than irises would have. She looked considerably more entertained by this than by the lectures on hunting. Meng Yao also noticed Huaisang standing in a nearby archway looking smug, and strolled over to him.

“How did this happen?”

Huaisang flicked open his fan and smirked behind it. “Did you know that Jin Zixuan gardens?”

“I did, actually.” Meng Yao made a small face. “It’s his hobby, as much as he’s permitted to have one.”

Huaisang’s eyes turned hard for one moment as they flickered over Jin Guangshan, in the stream of returning hunters. “Mm. He was out planting some new cuttings, the first time I visited to check on how that Golden Swords array of theirs is containing their yin metal fragment. By the time I talked him down from challenging me over having seen, he’d admitted that he designed almost all the gardens, here.” The smug smile returned. “So, when I ran across them on the mountain, I just asked whether he’d shown Jiang-guniang yet. She smiled, and that was really all it took.”

They both looked over at where Jiang Yanli had bent to take in the scent of a prettily pruned gardenia bush. Her smile did indeed make Jin Zixuan light up, so pleased by this small thing that Meng Yao moved ‘making her son happy’ higher on his list of reasons Jin-furen might be pushing this match.

“I was thinking of redoing the water lily pool in the third courtyard,” Jin Zixuan told her, eyes bright. “I could put lotuses there. I mean.” He glanced aside and his words started to stumble. “If you’d like to see it. If you visit, I mean.”

Jiang Yanli’s smile softened, and before he could reverse completely, she said quietly, “I’d like that.”

The raw hope in Jin Zixuan’s face, when he raised his head again, was almost painful to see.

“That seems like a job well done,” Meng Yao murmured to Huaisang. “Shall we leave her to take care of the rest?”

Huaisang closed his fan, beaming. “Let’s.”

As they strolled back to join the stream of returning guests, they passed Jin-furen, so clearly relieved that she actually returned Meng Yao’s bow with an absent nod instead of ignoring his existence as she normally contrived to.

The banquet that evening was very full. Jin Guangshan had managed to fit every visiting sect master and any spouse or heir that had come along into the long, blue and gold draped hall, and there wasn’t a great deal of room left except in the center. Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian sat close enough to elbow each other whenever Wei Wuxian got his brother to forget his dignity for long enough. Wangji sat on Wei Wuxian’s other side and attempted, with middling success, to distract him from his teasing with a discussion of cultivation theory. Jin Zixuan sat across the hall, frankly mooning over Jiang Yanli, who was smiling a private, satisfied sort of smile. A little ways down from him, Yao-zongzhu and Ouyang-zongzhu were on their way to being drunk while Qin-zongzhu shook his head over them. Xichen quietly discussed the day’s hunt with Nie Mingjue over Meng Yao’s head.

It would have been quite pleasant if Meng Yao hadn’t felt the need to stay alert in case Jin Guangshan intended to add any refinements to a day that had already netted him a reasonable amount of good will.

In the event, it was Jin Zixun who moved first, clearly still smarting from being routed on the mountain, earlier. “Lan-zongzhu! Hanguang-jun!” he called across the hall, lifting his wine cup. “Let me offer a toast to you, for your kind assistance during today’s hunt!” When neither Xichen nor Wangji reached for their own cups, both looking a bit startled at the very idea, Jin Zixun’s smile showed his teeth. “Surely you won’t refuse my sincere respect?”

Yao-zongzhu laughed in an inebriated and drew breath to speak, and Meng Yao sighed. The problem with Yao Chenzhuo’s usefulness was that he was useful to absolutely everyone. Meng Yao widened his eyes just as ingenuously as possible and cut in neatly before Yao-zongzhu’s words. “Surely Jin hospitality does not require a guest to violate his family’s ways?” He cast a look of innocent uncertainty at Yao-zongzhu and Ouyang-zongzhu, watching to make sure they both reversed into drunkenly thoughtful frowns before he turned the same look on Jin Guangshan.

Jin Guangshan looked almost equally annoyed at both Jin Zixun and Meng Yao before he pasted on a smile and tried to wave the whole thing aside. “Of course not!”

“Of course it would!” The words rang out hard and clear from the doorway, and most of the room turned to see a young woman standing there in austere, green robes, with fury burning in her eyes. The heat of it trailed after her like a cloak as she stalked into the hall. “Jin Zixun would dare demand anything, for the sake of his convenience and his desires. And if it isn’t given, he’ll try to take it!”

“Pan Daiyu,” Xichen murmured, beside him. When Meng Yao glanced up at him, his brows were drawn in, troubled. “Alone, it seems. So this was her choice.”

To come alone so that whatever she did today could be disavowed by her sect, if necessary? Meng Yao took a slow breath. She had chosen to seek blood, then.

Jin Zixun had recovered from his frozen moment of shock, on seeing her, and apparently decided to bluff. “What are you talking about?” he scoffed. “Pan Daiyu isn’t it? What could I possibly want from such a scruffy little sect?”

“What you took after you drugged me unconscious while my father was visiting here, both of us under the hospitality of the Jin sect.” The quiet in the hall dissolved into shocked whispers, and she lifted her chin, mouth a hard line.

“You would accuse me of something you weren’t even awake for?” Jin Zixun looked around with a bark of laughter, inviting the guests to mock the accusation with him.

Pan Daiyu’s flat voice cut through the rising murmurs. “Call for the servant Zhao Shuang, then, to ask what happened after she brought me tea you had interfered with.”

Jin Zixun jerked back, eyes suddenly wide, and the murmurs in the hall picked up an edge. Everyone had seen him react. Pan Daiyu drew her sword and pointed it straight at him. “Draw your sword and answer me for your crime, or I will cut you down where you stand, coward!”

The murmurs became a roar and Jin Zixun leaped back, sword flying to his outstretched hand barely in time to block her lunge.

The two of them spun around each other, in the open center of the hall, steel flashing between them, but Meng Yao didn’t pay the duel much attention; there was nothing he could do any more, there. Instead, he watched the responses of the guests. Qin Cangye was angry and troubled, both, probably knowing Jin Guangshan well enough to know how likely the accusation was. Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian shared a tense frown, eyes flicking now and then toward Jin Guangshan; beside them, their sister sat dangerously still. Across the way, Jin Zixuan stared at the fight, openly shocked. He Su and Nie Mingjue both looked sternly approving of the duel, while Yao Chenzhuo and Ouyang Qiang both looked stunned. Sun Jingfei and Yu Qingzhao whispered urgently together, frowning at Jin Guangshan, while Tang Guotin and Xu Jinhai looked like they might cheer Jin Zixun on.

Jin Guangshan himself sat almost as still as Jiang Yanli, and Meng Yao saw calculation in his eyes.

Jin Zixun forced Pan Daiyu back, and back again, and finally smashed her sword out of her grip entirely. He laughed again, breathless, yanking her in close with his sword poised beside her throat. “Try to strike me now, and you’ll kill yourself, too! Did you really think—”

Silver flashed and his words cut off with a choked sound.

Ignoring his arm still locked around her neck, Pan Daiyu made another tight summoning gesture, and the point of her sword emerged from his chest, sliding past her ribs without more than a hair’s breadth to spare. “Did you forget who I am?” she asked through bared teeth. “I can hit a bird flying above the clouds. It doesn’t matter how close I am to you.”

She wrenched away from him and he fell heavily to the floor, blood starting to stain his robes back and front.

And Jin Guangshan shot up to his feet, pointing a trembling hand at her. “Murderer! Right here in my own hall!”

Meng Yao’s focus sharpened as the fading roar turned into uproar. Wei Wuxian’s head was coming up with a darker look than Meng Yao had seen in months, and neither Jiang Wanyin nor Wangji looked inclined to stop him this time. Yu Qingzhao was scowling and He Su drawing breath to argue, but Qin Cangye was nodding, whatever doubts he might have set aside to support his ally—Qin-furen must have chosen not to speak. Ouyang Qiang was looking to Qin for his own cue, and several of the other small sects likewise. That was a dangerous rallying point. If enough of the minor sects gathered with Jin, against the other three major sects, Jin Guangshan could present himself once again as one who stood against the tyranny of brute force.

And Pan Daiyu said nothing, standing straight and still in the middle of the hall, apparently satisfied to give her life for her vengeance. Jin Guangshan’s eyes were gloating over his scowling mouth.

Meng Yao looked over at Xichen, finding Xichen’s eyes already on him, questioning, and he bit his lip. “She won’t speak on her own behalf, not in time, and before long it will be dangerous for the major sects to override the accord of the smaller ones forming around Qin,” he whispered. “Should I speak?” There were, after all, a number of other crimes by Jin that he could lay open for the other sects to see, though he didn’t look forward to the results if it wasn’t enough to take Jin Guangshan all the way down.

Xichen’s gaze turned inward for a breath, and then he shook his head. “No. There was righteousness in the path she chose, if not a very measured kind. I would not have us look away from that. This time, let me.” Gathering himself, he rose and stepped forward into the hall.

Just as when Xichen had faced down his uncle’s ire, his bearing became silently imposing, demanding attention without a word spoken. One head after another turned toward him, and voices fell in face of Xichen’s grave quiet. When there was finally silence, he bent to pick up the black sheath that had fallen beside his table when Pan Daiyu cast it aside, and paced slowly, gracefully forward to stand beside her. By now the silence was so deep that his soft words carried clearly, when he spoke.

“Jin Zixun still lives.” He held out the sheath to Pan Daiyu. “Pan-guniang, will you sheathe your sword again and stand down, so that he may be tended to?”

She hesitated, clearly not having expected this, but finally gave him a small, respectful bow. “I am satisfied. I will stand down, Lan-zongzhu.” She made a sharp circling gesture, summoning her sword with a little wrench to free it of Jin Zixun’s body, and stooped to wipe it, fastidiously, on the hem of his robes before sheathing it. Jin Zixun groaned faintly.

At that, Jin Guangshan, who had been caught in the same silence as everyone else, drew a quick breath and started to gesture sharply to the Jin attendants. “Seize—”

Xichen turned his head to look at him.

He made no other gesture, but the cool, distant look in his eyes cut off Jin Guangshan’s words like a garrote. Meng Yao shivered, feeling the weight of Xichen’s presence and power sweep the room like a ripple over water. He could see one sect master after another sit back under the force of it, either cowed or respectful, each one remembering exactly who stood before them.

The Master of Lan.

The Lord of Wild Brilliance.

The guiding hand of the Sunshot Campaign, and the one who was served by both Lan Wangji and Meng Yao himself.

Finally, Jin Guangshan sank back into his seat, jaw tight.

“Mingjue-xiong,” Xichen said at last, not looking away. “Will it please you to see Pan-guniang to safety so this matter may be discussed with all due consideration?”

“Yes, of course,” Nie Mingjue rumbled, pushing up to his feet. He gave Pan Daiyu a short bow and swept a hand toward the door. She returned it silently and walked ahead of him out of the hall, back straight, head held high. Meng Yao observed with some satisfaction that Nie Mingjue’s hard smile of approval made Tang Guotin flinch back as they swept past.

“Now perhaps Jin Zixun’s injury can be seen to.” The very mildness of Xichen’s words was cutting, and pointed up the fact that Jin Guangshan’s first action had not been to see to his injured nephew.

Jin Zixuan shot to his feet, face as white as the tile of the room’s floor. “I’ll take him.” He hurried to turn his cousin over, careless of the blood that soaked into the knees of his robes. One of the Jin cultivators came to help him lift Jin Zixun, not hesitating though her shoulders hunched a bit under Jin Guangshan’s glare. Meng Yao noticed that the carved jade of Jiang Yanli’s expression softened just a bit, watching. She still favored Jin Zixuan, then.

Xichen stepped aside for them to take Jin Xizun out of the hall and directed a brief, graceful bow at Jin Guangshan. “Jin-zongzhu. While the end may have been marred by these serious matters, this gathering has been a fine opportunity to meet in peace and renew our friendships. I thank you for hosting it.”

Meng Yao did not think it was his imagination that the quiet weight of authority Xichen had gathered around himself lent his words the air of a ruler thanking one of his nobles. He didn’t think Jin Guangshan missed that, either, given the way he was grinding his teeth when he returned Xichen’s bow. Meng Yao reached over to tap two fingers on Wangji’s table, drawing his attention, and both of them were on their feet when Xichen reached them, with the kind of attentive obedience that would solidify the sense of Xichen’s ascendency, among those watching.

“Let us take our leave for the evening,” Xichen said softly, and glanced down at Huaisang with a tiny smile. “Will you walk back to the guest quarter with us, Nie-gongzi?”

Huaisang looked up at him for a long moment before rising and bowing deeply to Xichen. “I would be pleased to; thank you Lan-zongzhu.”

Meng Yao bent his head to hide a smile of pleasure that Huaisang would support their move this way.

Wei Wuxian popped up to his feet, too, and offered Xichen a courteous bow, almost as deep as Huaisang’s. “What he said. Thank you.”

Xichen’s mouth quirked. “How should my sect make any claim to righteousness if I stood aside and let nothing more than hasty emotion decide this situation? I believe ‘uphold the value of justice’ is one of the few rules you and Wangji have not debated over, after all.”

Wei Wuxian’s serious look turned into a bright grin before he looked down at his brother and sister. “Shijie, do you want to…?”

Jiang Yanli rose, smoothing her robes around her. “Jin-gongzi must be very troubled by this.”

Meng Yao took a long, slow breath, impressed all over again and remembering exactly where his first lesson in immoveable poise had come from. If she meant to fan Jin Zixuan’s disquiet, she might be able to use this lever to separate Jin Zixuan from his father’s plans and policies. Possibly even to support Jin Zixuan to take control of the sect. “I believe he will be,” he agreed, meeting her eyes. “He’s never had occasion, before, to think about the uglier things his cousin does.” Or who might have ordered or permitted them.

She nodded faintly and held out a hand to Jiang Wanyin, who promptly took it on his arm. “A-Cheng, will you escort me to say good evening to Jin-furen?”

He agreed, glancing back and forth between them a bit warily. Meng Yao left it to his sister to explain the power base she intended to build in Jin. Wei Wuxian sighed heavily, apparently resigned to whatever part of that he’d caught, and trailed after them.

As they left the hall in the wake of the Jiangs, Huaisang strolled at Meng Yao’s side. “So,” he murmured, furled fan gesturing toward Xichen for just a moment. “Chief Cultivator?”

Meng Yao smiled. “I think so, yes.”

Huaisang flicked his fan open with a graceful turn of his wrist. “All right. I can support that.”

“Thank you,” Meng Yao said softly, letting himself relax into the knowledge of what powerful support he had these days. Once again, he gave silent thanks that he had come into Lan’s hands, rather than Jin’s.

Everything had followed from that.

Flipside

Wei Wuxian trailed Jiang Cheng back into their rooms, having dropped Shijie off for whatever discussion she was about to have with Jin-furen. Quite possibly about how she was going to take over the Jin sect, given the steely glint under her smile. Shijie was going to be occupied for a while, was the point. Which meant now was probably the time for Wei Wuxian to say something he’d been avoiding.

He didn’t want to. Everything was fine, now, why did he have to say anything? Even thinking that, though, immediately brought the memory of Qing-jie’s glare to the front of his mind. Even worse, these days it was joined by the memory of Lan Zhan’s troubled look. He didn’t push or nag, just looked quietly concerned, and that was worse. Wei Wuxian slid down cross-legged by the guest room table and flopped across it with a faint groan.

“Did you eat too much?” Jiang Cheng needled, over his head, and he huffed a soft laugh.

“Didn’t really have time to.” He pushed himself upright with a sigh. “Jiang Cheng. There’s something I need to tell you.”

The rustle of his brother getting out of his formal over-robes stopped abruptly. “Is this about Lan Wangji? Or about whatever Wen Qing has been working on?”

Wei Wuxian couldn’t help snorting. “I am never talking about Lan Zhan to you, don’t worry.”

Jiang Cheng came back to sit on the other side of the table, face tight with worry. “What is it, then? What happened? Why didn’t you say anything? I had to get some idea of how serious whatever-it-is was from Zewu-jun!”

Wei Wuxian winced a bit. “Sorry?” Jiang Cheng huffed at him.

“Just tell me now.”

Deep breath. Start at the easy end. “So, you saw me use my sword today. The reason I didn’t before is… I couldn’t.”

“You couldn’t? Why? Wait, but if that was the reason… all that…” He could see Jiang Cheng adding up time—more and more time, all the way back to their reunion over their mutual prey. As soon as he had that remembered thought, tinged with the darkness of ghostly rage, he pushed it away. It was getting easier, these days. “That was why?” Jiang Cheng’s voice had gone thin with horror, hands utterly still on the table before him. “All that time, you were… because you couldn’t…?”

“Mm.” Wei Wuxian looked down, stomach twisting tight as he came closer to the bit he really didn’t want to say. “In the Burial Mounds… They were drowning in resentful energy. I had to figure out some way to control it.” He smiled, so tilted it felt more like a snarl. “I figured out very quickly what talismans worked and what didn’t. But that still wasn’t enough.” He shrugged, examining the grain of the table’s wood, tracing it with a finger the way he’d traced the paths of life through himself, to redirect the rage of the Burial Mounds. “All energy needs a channel.” He looked up at the hissed intake of breath, and winced again at the shock and alarm on Jiang Cheng’s face. He shouldn’t have said that much. This was why he hadn’t wanted to start talking at all!

“The Burial Mounds,” Jiang Cheng repeated. “They really did cast you in there? But if it was then, was it…” He reached across the table to catch Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, hand tight with far-too-late panic. “Was it Wen Zhuliu? Ge!”

Wen Wuxian’s breath caught and his eyes went helplessly wide; Jiang Cheng hadn’t called him that in years. “I…” He swallowed hard. It would be so easy to say yes. It would answer all the questions; it would make sense, given what Jiang Cheng thought he knew.

He couldn’t do it. Not with that urgent, half terrified ge ringing in his ears.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and let it out, and at the bottom of it he said, very softly, “No. It was before that.”

Jiang Cheng eased back just a little, frowning. “Before…? But you weren’t injured while we hid. Were you?” The last words were low and uncertain, and Wei Wuxian reached up to take Jiang Cheng’s hand from his shoulder and fold it between his own hands.

“I’m okay, now,” he said firmly, squeezing the hand between his. “I need you to remember that. Okay?” Jiang Cheng nodded slowly. “Okay. So.” Another deep breath. “When you went up that mountain, it wasn’t Baoshan-sanren you met. It was Wen Qing. She transplanted my Golden Core into you.”

Jiang Cheng stared at him, shaking his head slowly as if the words didn’t make sense. “…what?”

“I found a theory in one of her medical texts. She worked out how to do it, in practice. And when Song Lan mentioned what had been done to restore his eyes, I thought… well, if I really did know where she was, Baoshan-sanren probably would have helped you.” Wei Wuxian tried a smile.

“You… She…” Jiang Cheng jerked his hand out of Wei Wuxian’s to press his palm just over the arch of his ribs. “That’s not possible.” White was showing all the way around his eyes, now, and Wei Wuxian patted at the air soothingly.

“Well having someone re-constitute your Golden Core in three days is pretty impossible too, isn’t it? And Wen Qing really is a genius at what she does. I mean, she healed me again, too.” Probably best if he kept that point at the front of their minds.

“But how… I mean, why… If she could do that, then why would you even think of doing something so…?” Jiang Cheng shoved his fingers through his hair, disordering it thoroughly, starting to look panicky again.

“Because your core was destroyed.” Wei Wuxian flatly recited the facts Wen Qing had explained, back then. “It was burned away, and your meridians were cauterized. She had to cut things away before the graft took, and she said it only worked in the end because my Golden Core was as strong as it is. She thinks maybe my willingness had something to do with it, too.”

“Willing?!” Jiang Cheng’s voice is rising. “Willing to be… to be mutilated? Why…?”

Wei Wuxian reached over to catch Jiang Cheng’s wrists, the way he used to do a lot once he’d realized how easily Jiang Cheng could hurt himself in a temper. “Anything to save you,” he said, low and steady, “even if it costs my life. Isn’t that what your mother said?”

“She shouldn’t have!” Jiang Cheng yelled, and both of them stopped still, maybe equally startled by the words. Jiang Cheng was shaking, in his hands. “She shouldn’t have,” he whispered, choked. “I heard that, in my head, when they were about to find you. It’s why I went, to try to draw them off. And look how that ended!” The last sentence was nearly a scream, and Wei Wuxian scrambled around the table, wide-eyed, to haul Jiang Cheng into his arms, holding him tight as Jiang Cheng broke into harsh sobs. Jiang Cheng’s hands fisted tight in his robes even as they pushed against him.

Wei Wuxian stared blindly at the wall, over Jiang Cheng’s bent head, remembering. He had almost been found, hadn’t he? Right before they ran off after someone else. And then he’d come back to their rooms and found Jiang Cheng gone. “A-Cheng,” he sighed softly, since Shijie wasn’t here to say it, and held him closer when another rough sob tore out of him. “Thank you,” he whispered against Jiang Cheng’s now very messy hair. “And see? She wasn’t that wrong. That’s just what families do for each other, isn’t it? So you saved me, and then I saved you, and Wen Qing probably saved both of us, so I guess you really do need to get it together and marry her, huh?” Jiang Cheng pummeled his shoulder with a wordless sound that was finally more embarrassed than wrecked. Wei Wuxian smiled. “I’m glad that my strength can serve you. It’s what I promised, isn’t it?”

Jiang Cheng scrubbed his sleeve roughly over his face and sat straighter, scowling at him. “That isn’t what you promised at all! You promised you’d be with me. So…” he poked Wei Wuxian roughly in the chest—or rather, just below the chest. “You’d better be recovering.”

Wei Wuxian laughed softy and took Jiang Cheng’s chin to wipe his face dry, a bit more gently. Jiang Cheng let him, worried eyes fixed on his. “I am. Promise.” And then he grinned. “But you do know, right, that if you really want me to be with you always, you’re going to have to get used to having Lan Zhan at Lotus Pier all the time?”

Jiang Cheng choked, looking completely horrified in a very different way this time, and when Shijie returned it was to find the two of them throwing pillows and blankets at each other.

And even though Jiang Cheng made him explain it all again, to Shijie, the warmth of knowing what Jiang Cheng had done for him, as family, burned deep and steady in his chest.

Becoming the Phoenix – Eleven

In the wake of Phoenix Mountain, everyone starts to settle into the futures they’ve found for themselves. Drama, Romance, Porn, I-4

Character(s): Lan Wangji, Lan Xichen, Meng Yao, Nie Huaisang, Wei Wuxian, Wen Ning, Wen Qing

Pairing(s): Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian, Lan Xichen/Meng Yao

Ruyan,

We’re all back home at the Unclean Realm with no difficulties. I know you worried, since Pan-guniang came with us, but there were no bandits, no issues with the road, no cultivation business along the way at all. Jin-zongzhu apparently decided to quit while he could, which does seem to be the way he goes about things. Every Jin cultivator we saw on the way out pretended they didn’t even see we had an extra rider with us. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a scandal swept out of sight so quickly. Perhaps Jin Guangshan has a bright future cleaning floors, if he finds the business of leading a sect isn’t working out for him?

Pan-guniang is doing as well as can be expected. I know she told her sect to think of her as dead, when she left, but I’m pretty sure that was when she expected to actually be dead at the end of this. I’m not sure she quite knows what to do with having succeeded and still being alive to possibly cause trouble for her sect.

Although, just between you and me, I don’t think that’s the only reason she agreed to stay with the Nie sect for the time being. It sounds like her father didn’t entirely approve of her plan, but Da-ge certainly does. I’ve walked in on them discussing moral philosophy twice already.

This is going to have some interesting effects, though. Jin Zixun won’t be able to show his face, even if Jin Guangshan doesn’t bother to actually do anything else to punish him. I won’t be surprised if Jin-zongzhu tries to get him out of sight and out of mind, somehow. Sending him abroad maybe? Everything he used Jin Zixun to do is poisoned, now, all those aggressive maneuvers and attempts to bully or overawe, so I have to wonder what other path to power he’ll look for.

I think I might take an escort along, for my next round of inspecting everyone’s fragments. Just in case.

Huaisang

Yanli-jie,

How do you manage with these two? I thought I was prepared. I know perfectly well how stubborn Wei Wuxian can be, and I didn’t imagine he got that way by having a compliant family. But I honestly thought Jiang Wanyin was the less reckless of them!

I suppose that isn’t entirely fair. Wei Wuxian would undoubtedly still take the prize in any contest of recklessness. But really! When the Master of Jiang comes to the exiled remnant of a defeated clan, one step up from a prisoner, and bows his head to the ground before her, and declares that his entire sect bears a debt to her, without even bothering to close the screens first…

How have they both survived this long? Didn’t anyone teach Jiang Wanyin how to manage his responsibilities to his sect? I feel as though I should send him to the Library pavilion to copy out the Shenzi and meditate on the responsibility of a ruler to suspend judgement so that a path can be seen.

Please don’t think that I would deny his gratitude. It’s not that. It’s just that I’m feeling once again that nobody around me thinks even once before leaping with both feet. I was content to have us be even, if he could only protect my clan. For him to offer me the protection of Jiang, not even a full year since the Sunshot Campaign… This can’t really be a good idea, can it?

You think more calmly, and see more clearly. What is the reasonable path, here? If you say it, then I’ll trust that it’s said in wisdom. With the utmost respect,

Wen Qing

Jie,

I hope you’re doing well. The clan is fine, although we all miss you. Auntie Hong sends her greetings and specifically said to tell you that Jiang-zongzhu has a temper just like yours but is far more yielding, and so that should be a good match.

I’m just saying what she said, Jie.

The plantings are mostly doing well, though there are a few things we’re having to put in tall beds so they get enough drainage. The soil is much wetter, here, than in the mountains. Wei-gongzi figured out that our senna needed sulfur in the soil, down here, and now it’s doing much better. Wei-gongzi knows a lot of things; I think he must have read every book in both the Jiang and Lan libraries. Although I don’t know when he’s had time, considering how hard he trains in the physical arts, too. He’s kept helping me with my archery. I’ll show you, next time we visit!

He’s been much better since he went to you for intensive treatment. I’m really glad. Even when he was having trouble, he still looked after us. Lately, he’s been bringing the youngest Jiang disciples over to play with a-Yuan. Or maybe I should say, so a-Yuan and the Jiang disciples can play with him. I think they’ve climbed every tree between here and the main compound, and little Jiang Bingwen is teaching a-Yuan how to set kites for shooting practice. I wouldn’t have expected it, but Wei-gongzi is good with children.

In your last letter, you said you’d found some good books on healing, in the Lan library. It’s good that they’re treating you well, but don’t get too caught up in research while there isn’t anyone there to bring your meals. I’ll worry, if you do. Wei-gongzi says he’ll take me along again when he goes for his check-up next month, so I’ll see you soon. And maybe you’ll join us here soon? We’d all like that. Your loving brother,

Wen Ning

Mingjue-xiong,

I understand and agree with your reasoning, that the position of Chief Cultivator could and should be one that sets an example, provides a center for our sects to find their way from. I only question whether the one to take up that place should be me.

Not that I believe it will do me the smallest bit of good to protest, should both you and a-Yao think so, but I would have you consider first what example will best serve us, now.

My uncle would, no doubt, say that my example would be one of righteousness, though he might say it more grudgingly now than he would have a few years ago. I daresay Jiang Wanyin would think that my example is one of calm and consideration. Both those perceptions, though, are colored deeply by the nature of the viewer, and by the things they themselves need of me.

You are firm enough in your own thoughts, and know me well enough of old, that I will trust your perception of me to be truer.

If both you and a-Yao, who has seen more of my heart than any other, say that I am the best choice for this task, I will believe you.

Lan Xichen

Jiang-guniang,

I trust this letter finds you well. The work on Golden Unicorn Tower’s new lotus pools has been completed. Should you wish to view it, we will receive your visit.

Jin Zixuan

[written small on the blank end-paper]

Jiang-guniang,

I’m sorry he’s like this. Thank you for your patience and forbearance, and if it isn’t an imposition please come. He’s been driving everyone to distraction over this project. He emptied the lily pond completely and scrubbed it down to stone before planting the lotuses, and then he wasn’t satisfied with their placement so he started all over again, and he won’t let anyone else help. Everyone who has anything to do with him begs your gracious indulgence to please visit, if it will not inconvenience you.

Luo Qingyang

Lan Zhan,

Can you believe this? Shijie is going to visit the Flower Peacock! And she won’t let me or Jiang Cheng go with her! She says I’m not allowed to scare him off. I really don’t know what my wise shijie sees in that brat.

So I’m stuck here with nothing to do but worry. Please, please tell me your uncle will let you out of ~~pris~~ the Cloud Recesses long enough to visit. Or, if not, Jiang did get a request from a family in Shitai, and you know there’s no sect there right now. We could meet up in Chizhou and head south from there. You could say with perfect truthfulness that you were going to answer the call for a cultivator.

Lan Zhan, do you ever think about how many places don’t have sects nearby? How many places are like Qishan now, just on a smaller scale? Small enough that maybe no one really noticed when the local sect or clan died out? Qishan, Yueyang, Taishan, Shitai, Jiaozuo… those are the ones big enough that we know about them. How many others?

I think about how we met my lineage uncle, sometimes, about he and his friend traveling the country wherever they think they can help. I found that admirable. Did you?

Let me know if you can meet me at Chizhou. I miss you.

Wei Wuxian

Wei Ying,

I will go with you.

Lan Wangji

Meng Yao looked up from his chart of buildings yet to be restored as Xichen sighed over one of his letters. “What is it?”

“You were right.” His husband smiled at him, soft and rueful. “Mingjue-xiong agrees that it should be me.” And then his smile quirked a little. “So does Pan-guniang, apparently.”

“I’m not surprised. She had the very closest of views, of you bringing half the cultivation world to a halt simply by standing and taking no action. Even if she were shaky on her philosophy, that would have been a bit hard to miss.” He laid aside his own papers and reports and crossed the room to kneel by Xichen’s writing table. “Would it make you unhappy, to do this?” If the answer was yes, then he’d find someone else.

Xichen lifted a hand to cup his cheek gently, and Meng Yao smiled and turned his head into it. “I hope it will not. I think it will not. But I will need you beside me, to be my passionate heart and my clear sight.”

“You have me,” Meng Yao promised, lifting a hand to lay over Xichen’s. “I’ve been yours since the day you reached out your hand to take me up. You will always have me.”

Xichen reached out to gather him close, so apropos that Meng Yao was laughing softly as he curled into Xichen’s lap. “Then I shall fear nothing.” Xichen smiled down at him and leaned down to kiss him, slow and sure.

“Mmm.” Meng Yao snuggled into his arms and teased, “Not even scandalizing our sect, if anyone comes to ask you something and sees this?”

“Let them see,” Xichen murmured, watching him with dark eyes. “Let them know that all is well with us.” His fingers tipped Meng Yao’s chin up for another kiss, deeper still and tasting of Xichen’s desire for him in a way that made Meng Yao breathless. When long fingers stroked down the line of his bared throat, he moaned into Xichen’s mouth, fingers tightening in the heavy silk of Xichen’s robes.

“Xichen…” He gasped as Xichen’s mouth moved down, hot and wet against his throat. Heat turned to a sharp tingle as Xichen sucked, marking his skin above the collar of his own robes, and his eyes went wide. “Xichen!” Xichen almost never left marks where anyone else would see them.

“My own,” Xichen said, low and fierce against tender skin, and Meng Yao’s eyes slid closed with the surge of want that rolled through him.

“Yes.” When Xichen lifted his head, Meng Yao reached up to touch his fingertips to Xichen’s headband, wetting his lips. “May I?” If Xichen needed to mark how Meng Yao belonged to him, needed the reassurance that Meng Yao was and always would be his… then let there be no restraint between them.

Xichen smiled slowly, and his eyes on Meng Yao were heated. “Of course. Whenever you wish.”

Meng Yao reached back to undo it and let the ribbon of white silk slide through his fingers to coil on Xichen’s writing table, silver plaque clicking softly against the dark wood.

The moment he let the ribbon go, Xichen caught him close, kissing him deep and demanding, and Meng Yao relaxed willingly into his hold, answering each kiss with hot, open hunger. “Mmm.” A shiver of want ran through him as Xichen lifted Meng Yao in his arms and carried him into their sleeping room, not even pausing to close the outer doors.

Their clothes wound up scattered across the bed and floor, stripped away by impatient hands, Xichen’s and, increasingly as he was caught up in the urgency of Xichen’s kisses, Meng Yao’s. Meng Yao purred into Xichen’s mouth at the feel of Xichen’s body wrapped around his, sleek and bare and powerful; he always loved how completely Xichen could enfold him, and it was even better when Xichen held him this breathlessly tight. “Yours,” he murmured, nuzzling under the corner of Xichen’s jaw. He moaned out loud as Xichen’s fingers slid between his cheeks and pressed into him, slow and sure.

“Mine,” Xichen agreed, low and velvety. “My heart. My joy. Mine for all time.” He kissed down Meng Yao’s throat and across his chest, scattering love-bites as he went. Meng Yao gasped, breath catching each time at the edge of Xichen’s teeth or the pull of Xichen’s mouth on his skin, light-headed with the burning heat of his response to that forthright possessiveness, to the feel of Xichen’s fingers worked him open relentlessly.

“Xichen,” he whispered, voice husky, “please. Now.”

Xichen caught his mouth again, kissing him deep and intent, and Meng Yao answered him with all the passion Xichen’s fierce need had built in him. The easy strength of Xichen’s hand sliding under him, lifting his hips up off the bed, made a breathless thrill twist tight in his stomach.

“Is it all right, like this?” Xichen asked against his mouth. “I want to see you.”

Meng Yao wrapped his legs around Xichen’s waist and relaxed, deliberately trusting, into the support of Xichen’s hand holding him up. He smiled at the way Xichen’s breath caught, and murmured, “Oh yes.”

The slow, hard stretch of Xichen’s cock pushing into him burned down his nerves, sweet and sharp as the feel of Xichen’s teeth marking him had, and he moaned, words breaking into gasps. “Yes… oh yes… ge-ge, you feel so good…” The hand at the small of his back tightened and Xichen kissed the words off his lips.

“So do you, my own.” Xichen eased back and drove into him, hard and deep, and Meng Yao groaned with the surge of sensation, arms tightening around Xichen’s neck.

Xichen didn’t pause, and Meng Yao stopped thinking, gave himself up willingly to the pleasure of Xichen’s body moving against him, inside him, and the branding heat of Xichen’s kisses, voice going hoarse and breathless as Xichen fucked him hard. When Xichen’s mouth closed on his throat again, wet and hot and hard enough to mark, the thrill that sparked down his spine spilled him right over the edge, and he gasped, voice cut off with the force of pleasure raking through him, sweet and intense.

Xichen groaned and caught Meng Yao up tighter against him, driving into him faster, and still hard enough to push soft whimpers out of him as the thickness of Xichen’s cock worked the tightness of his hole. When Xichen stilled, Meng Yao let his whole body fall lax, only supported by Xichen’s hand, and the small sound of satisfaction he made wound together with Xichen’s.

Slowly, Xichen settled them both against the bed, not letting go of him, and Meng Yao snuggled close, perfectly content. “I’m here,” he said softly, against Xichen’s shoulder. “I’m yours. All that I am is yours.”

Xichen’s arms tightened around him, more gently now but still wonderfully enveloping. “Thank you, my heart. My treasure,” Xichen said against his hair. For long moments, they simply lay in each other’s arms, quiet and at peace.

A rustle from the receiving room made Meng Yao lift his head to see a very quickly retreating flurry of white. He glanced up at Xichen, prepared to tease, only to find Xichen wearing a small, satisfied smile. “Xichen!” he laughed.

“You did want me to set an example for the cultivation world,” Xichen murmured, fingers sliding into Meng Yao’s hair so he could tip Meng Yao’s head back for a kiss. “What better example than happiness?”

Meng Yao melted into pliancy against him, feeling the words ring in his heart. “If that’s what you wish,” he agreed.

Xichen smiled down at him. “I think it is, yes.”

Meng Yao smiled back, and spoke from the perfect calm within him. “Then it will be so.”

He would not have thought of it, without Xichen to say it, but this happiness he had found was something he could wish for more than himself, now he was sure it would not be taken from him. "You make the world so right," he whispered to Xichen, pressing close.

"Only with you by my side," Xichen said softly, against his hair.

The thought came truly clear for the first time, that what he gave to Xichen was the same thing Xichen gave to him, and Meng Yao felt like his heart might overflow with that understanding. "Then I will always be there," he whispered.

For this, he would do anything.

End

The River’s Grace

Wen Qing isn’t used to being the one protected, but somehow Jiang Yanli keeps managing it. Drama, Fluff, a touch of Romance, I-3

Character(s): Jiang Wanyin, Jiang Yanli, Wei Wuxian, Wen Ning, Wen Qing

Pairing(s): Wen Qing/Jiang Wanyin

This story picks up immediately after the Flipside of Chapter Seven, Becoming the Phoenix.

Wen Qing left Wei Wuxian grumbling under his breath about finally being able to get dressed and stepped out of his rooms with a tired sigh. Imprisonment by the Sunshot alliance had not been restful, surrounded at all times by the simmering hostility of cultivators who hated her very name, and that was coming on the heels of several years of steadily increasing tension and fear as her kinsman and sect master went slowly insane. And now, to top it off, was yet more of Wei Wuxian’s self-sacrificing idiocy. Perhaps she’d look forward to being locked up in the Cloud Recesses, after all; it was certain to be quiet, at least. If only…

Three sets of eyes landed on her with palpable weight, and she stiffened her spine against a flinch.

“Wen-guniang!” Jiang Yanli took a quick step toward her, hands reaching out. “A-Xian, is he all right?” The near-frantic worry running under that soft voice, worry for her little brother, rang so hard and true against the feelings Wen Qing was trying to quiet in her own heart right now that she flinched after all. Jiang Yanli blinked, startled a little out of her intensity, and Wen Qing took a quick breath to master herself again.

“He is badly injured,” she said, clasping her own hands tight at her waist. “The progress of it is halted, for now. Improvement will be more difficult.” She couldn’t help the way her voice caught in sympathy with the faint, wounded sound Jiang Yanli made. “Some improvement is possible. How much, I don’t yet know.”

Jiang Yanli took a long breath of her own and visibly pressed back her crowding worry for her brother. “Thank you, Wen-guniang,” she said, quiet and earnest, and reached out to close her hands gently around Wen Qing’s white knuckles, so gentle, so careful with one of the clan that had killed her own that Wen Qing’s eyes went helplessly wide at the touch and she had to bite her lip hard to force back the prickle of water in them. Jiang Yanli tilted her head and studied Wen Qing for a long moment before turning to Lan Xichen. “Lan-zongzhu,” she dropped him a small, courteous bow, straight-backed, “may I trouble you to leave Wen-guniang with me for a little time? Jiang will take responsibility, of course, and I will see she is escorted back to you.”

Lan Xichen smiled as if they shared a secret. “Of course, Jiang-guniang.” He nodded courteously to both of them and turned away down the steps, gathering up his own little brother as he went. Lan Wangji glanced back at them, but followed obediently.

The corners of Jiang Yanli’s mouth tucked up in a satisfied manner. “There, now. Lan-zongzhu told me that a-Cheng brought your brother and people here to our halls. Let’s go find them. And perhaps afterwards you and I can talk for a while.”

Wen Qing’s next breath shook as she pulled it in. “I…”

Jiang Yanli wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Come,” she urged, gently. “You didn’t get a chance to speak with him, earlier, did you?”

Wen Qing shook her head and finally managed to unlock her muscles and move, following where Jiang Yanli guided her. They went down the stairs and through two courtyards that looked considerably scruffier and more lived-in than the guest quarter usually did, dark wood rails draped with drying laundry along one side. Jiang sect cultivators frowned at the crimson of her robes, but stepped back out of their way and bowed as Jiang Yanli swept her on by. Wen Qing’s heart clenched with how much it reminded her of Wen cultivators giving way before her as she glared them out of her brother’s path.

Finally, Jiang Yanli knocked lightly on the door of one of the guest halls and pushed it open, and there was a-Ning turning to look at her, face brightening. “Jie!”

Wen Qing strode forward and caught him in her arms, holding him tight for a long moment before she could make herself lean back enough to look at him properly, hands patting gently over him and stroking back his hair. “A-Ning. Are you all right?” She barely noticed the soft rattle of the door closing behind them.

He gave her the reassuring smile that she’d learned a long time ago not to always believe. “I’m fine, Jie. Jiang-zongzhu told everyone that no one is allowed to do anything to us.” His smile tilted a little. “He’s gotten kind of scary since he got better.”

She pressed a finger to his mouth. “We can’t talk about that,” she whispered, soft and stern. “On your honor. For Wei Wuxian, all right?” He nodded soberly and she reflected on the unforeseen advantages of her little brother’s idolization of Wei Wuxian. “Good. And yes, I suppose he isn’t completely useless. He stood by his word, at least.” A-Ning gave her an alarmingly knowing look, and she huffed at him. “Oh cut it out. Anyway, we’re going to have to be apart for a while, but I’ve just been to look at Wei Wuxian, and he promised to look after you and bring you with him to visit when he can.” She couldn’t keep her hands from straightening his robes a little, which was when she realized that he was wearing fresh clothes.

Jiang Wanyin really did stand by his word, it seemed.

“Jie.” A-Ning’s hands settled on her shoulders, and when she looked up he was giving her a small, earnest smile. “We’ll be all right. Jiang-zongzhu will make sure we’re not hurt. And Wei-gongzi will be there.” His hands tightened. “So you have to take care of yourself, too, okay?”

She blinked back water from her eyes, lips pressed tight together to keep them from trembling. It took a long moment to wrestle her voice back under control, but finally she could say steadily, “I will. I promise, a-Ning.”

He smiled for her, sweet and true, and she felt the world settle back into place a little.

When she stepped back outside, she found Jiang Yanli sitting on the steps as if at her own writing table, at least three different tallies of some kind spread across her knees. She looked up with a smile as Wen Qing emerged.

“A little better, now?” she asked, folding her lists back away neatly.

“Were you out here all this time?” Wen Qing had meant to thank her, but startlement had always sharpened her tongue. She took hold of herself, reminding herself sternly of how precarious her family’s position still was, and folded her hands. “Excuse me. We are, yes. Thank you, Jiang-guniang.”

Jiang Yanli stood, eyes dancing, and Wen Qing couldn’t help feeling that she was amused by the attempted formality. “I can do my work as well here as anywhere, at least until we start preparing to leave. This made sure no one interrupted.” She held out her hand. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up, hm?”

Wen Qing blinked down at the hand, feeling a bit of vertigo. The gesture was so very familiar, but not from this side. She genuinely thought she might kill for a proper bath right now, though, so she pushed the disorientation aside and reached out to take Jiang Yanli’s hand, and let herself be led deeper into the guest quarter.

The bathhouse made her feel human again. The weight of steam in the air opened her lungs all the way down, and the lap of hot water against her skin whispered to her that she was a full person in other people’s eyes again. Jiang Yanli came in with her, a silent, reassuring presence. When Wen Qing made a frustrated sound over all the tangles in her hair, gentle fingers took the comb out of her hand.

“Here.” She drew Wen Qing’s hair back and started working the comb through it bit by careful bit.

Breath caught in Wen Qing’s throat; her grandmother used to do this, and that was another person she couldn’t see any more. “Jiang-guniang…”

“Yanli,” Jiang Yanli corrected her. “A-Cheng took responsibility for your family. That makes you my responsibility as well. I know you understand how that goes.”

Older sister to older sister; yes, she did. Wen Qing pressed wet hands over her face. “I can’t tell you the cause of Wei Wuxian’s injury,” she whispered. “I promised that I wouldn’t.”

“I would not wish you to break a promise you made to a-Xian,” Jiang Yanli said, quiet and steady as the tug of the comb through her hair. “Tell me, instead, of what he’s feeling now.”

Wen Qing let out a shaky sigh, relaxing a little now she knew she would not be pressed to break her word. “He’s in pain,” she said, low, looking down at the reflection of diffuse daylight from the high windows on the water. “It’s as though he tore a muscle. If he tries to do that same thing again, the pain will be very bad, and even when he doesn’t, it will always be there.”

Jiang Yanli’s breath hitched, but her voice was still steady when she asked, “Is there anything that can be done to heal him? You said some improvement was possible.”

“If he rests, if he can be kept from trying to bring his qi to bear, that will help some.” She couldn’t help the rather dubious edge to that particular prescription, knowing Wei Wuxian, and his sister’s faint huff from behind her only confirmed it. “Repairing the damage…” Her voice slowed even as her thoughts sped, sorting through her learning, her knowledge of the body and spirit. His meridians, at least, she could probably heal. “I believe I can repair what pains him now, the damage he did himself on top of the original wound. But that wound…” She slapped a hand down onto the water, all the more frustrated because this was a wound of her own making, however he’d insisted on it. “I just don’t know.”

Hands folded over her shoulders, gentle. “Shh,” Jiang Yanli said against her ear. “You’re willing to try. That’s all I need to know. Thank you.”

“Of course I am; I’m a physician.” Wen Qing tried to ignore the tightness in her throat, the same tightness that had been there when she’d watched Wei Wuxian toss his own anger and pain aside to comfort her about her brother. She scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to pretend the wetness there was only water from the bath. “He’s such an idiot,” she muttered.

Jiang Yanli’s soft laugh was a little unsteady, but true. “Sometimes.” She straightened up, hands squeezing Wen Qing’s shoulders for a moment before falling. “I think all the tangles are out, now.”

Wen Qing pushed her uncertainty aside with the prospect of having really clean hair again.

There were also clean robes for Wen Qing, when she got out. They weren’t any of her own robes—the fabric was rougher and the red was darker—but they were still Wen robes, with flames stitched at the shoulders in subtle, same-color thread. That little kindness was, finally, the last thing she could take, and she slid down to her knees, robes clutched to her chest as she bit her lip fiercely and tried not to drip tears on them.

Jiang Yanli knelt beside her, only half dressed herself, and gathered Wen Qing into her arms. “It’s all right,” she said, soft and certain. “We’ll take care of you and yours. All of you will be safe.”

Long months of strain and terror and knowing there was almost nothing she could do any more to protect her family snapped all at once, and a harsh, frightened sob ripped out of Wen Qing’s chest as if it had been waiting there since the day her little branch of the clan was first imprisoned. “A-Ning!” she gasped against Jiang Yanli’s shoulder, “Grandmother…!”

“Yunmeng Jiang will protect them,” Jiang Yanli said, still soft but unbending as iron. “You endangered yourself to care for my family. I will hold your family safe.” She held Wen Qing until she quieted, exhausted by the day’s wild rapids-ride of emotions. Eventually Wen Qing managed to sit up again, rubbing the back of her hand over sore eyes and trying not to blush with embarrassment because it made her raw cheeks sting. Jiang Yanli just gave her a small, indulgent smile and stroked her still-loose hair back. “There, now. Let’s get you dressed.”

Wen Qing felt a little more composed when she was properly dressed, but still flustered by the brisk, gentle hands that helped settle her sashes and section her hair back to be bound up. She wasn’t used to it being this way around, any more, but she also couldn’t quite find any words of protest. When Jiang Yanli took Wen Qing’s hand on her arm to guide her back through the guest quarter halls, she walked quietly alongside, sheltered by Jiang Yanli’s presence and her calm, unwavering smile, marveling a little at the feeling.

When they reached what seemed to be Lan territory judging from all the white robes, Jiang Yanli turned and rested both hands on Wen Qing’s shoulders. “If you wish to see to a-Xian, or visit your brother, send word to me and I will see that it happens. All right?”

In face of her calm certainty, Wen Qing felt the rising knot of tension in her chest ease again, and she nodded slowly. “I will, Jiang-gu—” Jiang Yanli’s brows rose, and Wen Qing found herself blushing again. “Yes, Yanli-jie,” she murmured. The hands on her shoulders tightened briefly in an encouraging little shake.

“Good.”

Wen Qing couldn’t help wondering, as Jiang Yanli led her up the steps to deliver her back into Lan Xichen’s care, if this was where Wei Wuxian had really learned that unbending certainty that made seemingly impossible things happen—from watching his sister, when something was truly important to her.

Personally, she would bet that it was.

Ten Months Later

Wen Qing let Jiang Wanyin hand her off the river-boat and onto the pier, and tried not to feel like a woman at the end of her bridal journey, because she most certainly was not. She was, in fact, still a little dubious about the wisdom of this step. It was more than sanctuary he had promised her, this time; it was the full weight of the Yunmeng Jiang sect, to do as she wished with.

Which was a ridiculous thing to promise a refugee from a defeated sect, and if she actually had any affection for him, she should probably make him take it back. Or better, have Yanli-jie make him. But Yanli-jie had refused to, so here she was, at the landing of Lotus Pier.

“Jie!” Her brother was nearly bouncing, were he stood between Yanli-jie and Wei Wuxian, and she huffed a soft laugh and went to him. “You’re here,” he said against her ear as he hugged her tight. “You’re really here for good?”

“I think so,” she answered, low. “One way or another.” He slanted a hopeful, sidelong glance at Jiang Wanyin, as they drew apart again, and she rolled her eyes. A-Ning was such an invincible romantic.

Meanwhile, Wei Wuxian had sidled up to his own brother and draped an arm over his shoulders. “Jiang Cheng, you should have told me you were wanting to court Qing-jie! All those times I was at the Cloud Recesses for check-ups, I could have so easily carried your love tokens back and forth. Just look at all that time the two of you wasted!”

Wen Qing whirled around to smack his arm. “As if I’d take such a thing from you!”

In the same moment, Jiang Wanyin elbowed him off with an exasperated, “Wei Wuxian!”

Wei Wuxian slid out from between them, open hands held up, grinning back and forth. “See? You’re of one mind already.”

A-Ning was nodding, apparently earnest if you didn’t notice the smirk at the corners of his mouth. “Auntie Hong did say…” He laid a hand over his mouth when she glowered at him, a promise of silence that she didn’t believe for one moment. Especially not when he and Wei Wuxian were so obviously entertained by this and egging each other on.

“All right, you two, stop teasing.” Yanli-jie sounded far more indulgent than scolding, but the teasing did quiet as she came and wrapped an arm around Wen Qing’s shoulders. “Let’s get you settled, hm?”

Every now and then, over the last year, Wen Qing had wondered if she’d imagined or mis-remembered the sense of shelter she’d felt in Jiang Yanli’s presence. She’d wondered if it had been wishful thinking, or perhaps just the stress of the moment making her overestimate the protection of the one who’d been kindest to her. The feeling of safety that settled over her now, though, was just the same. It was a feeling that had been vanishingly rare, for her, for a very long time. Cautiously, she let herself relax into it, and was gathered in a little closer, settled more comfortably against Yanli-jie’s side. It felt… nice. So nice she thought she might willingly stay for this alone. “It has been a long, trip,” Wen Qing admitted.

Yanli-jie smiled as if she knew Wen Qing was talking about more than one river journey. “It’s good that it’s over, then.” She shooed the boys ahead of them, up the path from the pier, keeping Wen Qing at her side. Wen Qing looked around curiously as they walked. Merchants apparently set up on the Jiang sect’s own pier, and greeted them cheerfully as they passed. She liked to see that; she’d always thought it foolish, the way so many Wen cultivators, and especially Wen Ruohan’s own family, held themselves aloof from the day-to-day business of farming and crafting and selling. It was just asking to be swindled.

When they reached the gates of Lotus Pier itself, Jiang Wanyin looked back at her once, openly anxious, before he straightened and swept an arm toward the first courtyard, welcoming her in. Wen Qing stepped neatly over the door-sill and stopped short, looking around.

She had never been inside Lotus Pier before. The height of the outer wall had made her think it might be a little like the Unclean Realm, full of tall, straight buildings. Instead it opened out around her like… well, like a flower. Curved walls and walkways swept out gracefully from the gates. She stepped out into the courtyard, turning to see the courtyards to either side. Everywhere, water lapped against warm, honey-colored wood and light spilled through glass and paper panels. “It’s so warm,” she said softly. She hadn’t expected that, beside a river, but it was true. The lightness of the place around her felt a little like Yanli-jie’s arm around her shoulders.

“You are welcome here.” Jiang Wanyin’s voice was almost as soft as hers had been, and when she looked back at him she could see a tangle of hope and loss and longing, so plain on his face that she wondered a little how he would ever manage diplomacy between the great sects. She folded her hands tight, not sure she could actually answer all of that, or that she wanted to try, and was very grateful for Yanli-jie’s voice falling gently between them.

“There will be time later, to discuss things.” Yanli-jie took Wen Qing’s hand to lead her onward, and patted her brother’s shoulder as she passed, which seemed to be enough reassurance for now. The tension in his whole body eased, at least. Yanli-jie led the way to a set of rooms on what Wen Qing thought was the landward side of the complex; they already held Wen Qing’s things, sent on ahead when she’d finally agreed to come. Seeing them here made her feel more as though she’d committed herself to this path, and Wen Qing took a slow breath to calm herself.

“You are not a prisoner here,” Yanli-jie said quietly, behind her.

“I’m a prisoner wherever I go, for now,” Wen Qing said flatly, as much to remind herself as to remind Jiang Yanli. “A very gently held one, and I’m grateful for that, but the fact remains that the four great sects can’t let the highest ranked remaining Wen cultivator wander free.”

Yanli-jie’s tone didn’t change in the slightest, still quiet, still so very certain. “You are under the protection of the Yunmeng Jiang sect. If you choose to be under that protection in Hebei, or Jiangsu, or even Shaanxi, then you shall be.”

Wen Qing spun around to stare at her, and found Yanli-jie smiling a gentle and utterly immoveable smile. “Yanli-jie!” she protested, “I can’t possibly just… just run off to wherever! The Jiang sect’s reputation…!”

Yanli-jie laughed softly and came to lay a gentle hand against her cheek. “Wen Qing, listen to yourself.”

Wen Qing blushed hot against the cool of her palm. Jiang Wanyin had just laid Jiang’s reputation in her hands like a flower; of course she thought about it! “It’s because you say reckless things like that,” she muttered. “You and Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin; all of you.”

“All of us, who are Jiang,” Yanli-jie agreed. “This is the core of us: to know with absolute certainty what we will and will not do, or allow to be done.”

Which actually sounded very familiar from years on years when keeping her brother and clan safe defined the absolute boundaries of her world. She nodded reluctant understanding, even if it still bewildered her that the principle could be applied as broadly, as freely as she’d seen Wei Wuxian and Yanli-jie do.

“Yes, I thought you’d probably understand,” Yanli-jie murmured, reaching down to take her hands. “A-Cheng is still finding his own certainty. Perhaps, if yours is changing now, the two of you can help each other along.”

Wen Qing chewed on her lip. She did appreciate Yanli-jie’s thoughtfulness, in finding something she and Jiang Wanyin might actually talk meaningfully about, something that would tell them of each other. And she couldn’t deny that, with her entire clan here under Jiang’s protection and her now, too, there was probably a certain logic in actually becoming part of Jiang. And it was certainly the case that Wen was dead as a sect, as a school of cultivation. It was just…

Yanlie-jie smiled and shook her head. “Nothing will ever change the fact that you are Wen Qing, any more than I will become other than Jiang Yanli, even when I go to take over the care of the Jin sect.”

It was absurd, Wen Qing told herself firmly, to feel bereft when Yanli-jie hadn’t even left yet. “No, I know that,” she said, low. “I just don’t know if…” she finally found the words, and smiled wryly as she said them, “if this is something I will or will not do.”

Yanli-jie’s smile turned bright and approving, and she squeezed Wen Qing’s hands gently. “Then take your time to think, and be sure of your way.” Just as gently, she let go. “I’ll send someone to let you know when dinner is ready.”

Alone in her new rooms, Wen Qing walked through them slowly, noting all the little things she’d accumulated in the past year at the Cloud Recesses—the green and white blanket Lan Wangji had brought her a few days after she’d first found herself coughing in the damp; the apothecary chest Lan Mingxia had insisted on stocking up for her before she left, apparently convinced that Lotus Pier wouldn’t have so much as a jar of ginger root; the graceful iron and blackware tea set that she’d managed to keep with her through all her moves, and which Meng Ruyan had brought her about a month after her arrival, recovered from Yiling; the chest of new robes in deep crimson that no one had ever said a word of reproach over.

For a moment, the urge to return there was almost overwhelming, despite the way that the knowledge of her political imprisonment had always hung over her shoulder, there. At least that was a familiar weight. The weight of Jiang’s obligation to her was new and a little alarming, in comparison.

Yanli-jie had said she was free to leave if she wished, though, and Wei Wuxian was the last one she’d expect to try to influence another person’s choices, and this was the sect that had cared well enough for her brother to make him tease her over the possibility of joining it. So she took a breath and sat down firmly at the writing table in her new receiving room and used the very fine ink laid out there to start writing a brief letter of assurance that she’d arrived safely, which Lan Mingxia would want to know.

A-Ning appeared well before dinner to show her the way to the miniature village that their clan had created on a corner of Jiang land. There was a rather nice wooden walkway through the fields and woods, to reach it.

“When the children started going back and forth so much, Jiang-zongzhu said there’d better be a path, so they didn’t track mud all over the compound every day.” A-Ning’s tone was more wry and knowing than she quite expected, and she felt a sharp pang at not having been here to see what made it that way. “And then he did half the construction himself. Wei-gongzi said he’s just like that.”

“And this is the person you want to set me up with?” she asked dryly. Her own tongue was sharp enough; she wasn’t at all sure adding another would make for a good partnership.

He ducked his head and gave her an appealing look. “I’m just teasing, Jie.” She sighed and reached up to wrap an arm around his shoulders.

“I know. And he did put his sect’s reputation on the line to honor his word and shelter our clan. That’s a good basis for an alliance.” She ruffled his hair briskly. “But you know perfectly well how long I’ve been fending off marriage offers!”

“All right, all right, I’ll stop!” he laughed. “I’m not sure Auntie Hong will, though.”

Wen Qing looked up as they came out of the trees on the edge of a handful of houses and gardens, heart lightening at the sounds of excitement and welcome as people noticed them. She smiled as her clan gathered to greet her, and held out her hands to them.

Perhaps she wouldn’t mind a little teasing.

Dinner surprised her. Instead of eating in any of the halls, they gathered around a common table, just Yanli-jie, her brothers, and Wen Qing and hers. If she’d really thought about it she supposed she might have expected, but even knowing what that worm Wen Chao and his equally repellent mistress had done to Lotus Pier, it was still hard to remember when living voices rang over the water all day. Now, though, with just the five of them around a table, it came home to her again—they, too, were the survivors of a destroyed sect.

With that thought weighing on her mind she asked, quietly, “Is it going to be all right for me to walk around Lotus Pier?”

Jiang Wanyin lifted his head from apparent concentration on his fish. “You are welcome to every part of Lotus Pier,” he declared firmly.

“Even wearing this?” She tugged at the collar of her crimson robes.

She could see how he wavered, at that, mouth flinching into a tight line, and she sighed. She hadn’t expected it to be that easy, no. Not here, not once she really thought. Across from her, Wei Wuxian stirred, and she gave him a sharp look to quiet him. She already knew what he would say; now she needed to know what everyone else who lived here thought. Yanli-jie had a hand on his wrist, too.

Jiang Wanyin’s hands were tight on the edge of the table, but his voice was even. “Even so. There are a few people I’ll probably need to speak to, to make sure they understand the weight of Yunmeng Jiang’s debt to you.” The hard line of his mouth flickered with a momentary smile. “I can’t say it wouldn’t be easier if you were less obviously Wen, but… you’ve refused to abandon your sect with the same conviction that led you to such lengths to heal me, and then Wei Wuxian. It… it’s an admirable thing, to have that.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, casting a thoughtful eye around the table. That matched well enough with what Yanli-jie had called the core of Jiang. From the way both Jiang Wanyin’s siblings beamed at him, though, she suspected this was a new sentiment for the now-Master of Jiang. Perhaps one that his attraction, and then obligation, to her had drawn him toward. No wonder they approved of his bringing her here. No wonder Jiang Yanli had so delicately prompted her to discuss this very thing with him.

“All right.” She set her bowl down and folded her hands, glancing over at Yanli-jie. “I can see why you think I would be good for him. Now tell me why he’d be any good for me.” If everyone was going to be thinking about this alliance, they might as well have it out in the open.

Both of the Jiang boys choked and sputtered at her bluntness, even Wei Wuxian, who should know better. A-Ning, at least, merely spooned up more of his soup and looked on calmly.

Yanli-jie folded her own hands, smiling, and gave her back equally blunt truth in return, which she appreciated. “Your sect threatened your family, to have the use of your abilities. Would you not enjoy a sect that protects and cherishes you, instead?”

Wen Qing hesitated. Her first instinct was to ask what the price of the protection would be, which… rather made Yanli-jie’s point for her. “I would,” she admitted, slowly. “I think anyone would.” She looked back over at Jiang Wanyin, who had certainly protected her clan, so far. But cherish, really? “I’ll think about that,” she allowed, at last.

“No one would wish you to do otherwise.” Yanli-jie served a-Ning more soup with a tiny smile.

“Wen-guniang.” Jiang Wanyin leaned toward her, earnest. “I wouldn’t…” He hesitated at her arched brows, and rephrased. “I do not intend to press for any such thing.”

She smiled; he had that much self-awareness, at least, to know he might do it without intending. “I believe you. And thank you for that.”

They got through the rest of dinner calmly enough, and afterwards Wei Wuxian offered to show her around Lotus Pier. His penitent expression said it was an apology for teasing, so she agreed.

She was not surprised in the slightest when his tour of the place included two back ways into the kitchens.

He smiled when she paused at a pavilion that was out over the water, shaded by willows. “Shijie likes this spot, too.”

“I’m not surprised.” Wen Qing would bet her copy of Essential Prescriptions that Jiang Yanli was born with more than one fixed element of water. If there were ever a woman who had both water’s placid and dangerous natures, it was her. To Wen Qing, though, this space felt very calm. She leaned against one of the corner pillars, watching the river flow steadily past. She hardly noticed when Wei Wuxian slipped away, unusually tactful.

He was trying to make her comfortable. They all were, even Yanli-jie, who she was fairly sure was also trying to make her think about her future. So she supposed the question she had to answer was: could she be comfortable here?

For now, of course, the answer was yes. She had her clan here, safe under her eye. She had a debt of honor owed her, balancing out the power Jiang held over her as her custodian in the eyes of the cultivation world. She had a friend, in Wei Wuxian, and another in Jiang Yanli. Those, at least, might last even beyond the weight of the other sects’ attention and suspicion, beyond the time when she and her little clan had to stay under someone’s protection. And if her clan were eventually able to return to their ancestral home, if that much weight could be lifted from her heart… she supposed there might be room for the grace and welcome of this place to settle there.

She also had a man who thought he was in love with her, and that made her sigh, because it had never really gone well for her.

As if the thought had summoned him, Jiang Wanyin spoke from the walkway behind her. “Wen-guniang? Wei Wuxian mentioned you might still be out here. Do you know the way back to your rooms?”

“Mostly, but a guide would probably be helpful.” She turned to see him standing at the entrance of the pavilion, robes dark in the lengthening shadows as the sun dipped behind the trees. He looked quite handsome. She was sure there were plenty of young women, in the cultivation world, who would be happy to sigh and giggle over him, quite likely without ever speaking to him for more than a minute or two. Very like men got about her. She turned back to look out over the water. “Jiang-zongzhu, who do you think I am?”

“Well… you’re a genius physician, obviously,” he said, a bit hesitantly. She heard slow steps approaching, and he stopped at the rail, almost double arm’s length away, looking out across the water along with her. “I know you honor your commitments and responsibilities, from the way you’ve made sure your family is taken care of. I think you must value compassion over power, after the trouble you took to keep people safe from Wen Ruohan and his sons.” More softly, he added, “I know you have great courage. And I know that, by all rights, you’re the Master of Wen, now. If you wish to hold fast to that, and not to be the Lady of another sect, I could hardly blame you.”

With each sentence, she felt a little more tension drop away, as if the river were washing it away, bit by bit. Those were not the words of someone who saw nothing but a pretty face. Good. “I hardly know what I want to be, now,” she said, low, trading him truth for truth. “It’s been so long since it was even a choice. I chose to hold fast to being a physician; that and my brother were the things I would not give up. Everything else followed from those things.” She glanced over at him, thoughtful. “If you could do anything you wished, would it be this?” The boy she remembered somewhat from the Lan summer lectures three and more years ago hadn’t seemed to have leadership of his sect particularly on his mind.

Jiang Wanyin took a while to answer, hands working against the smooth wood of the rail. When he did finally speak, there was an edge of wonder in his voice. “I think it would be. Our sect, our tradition… being able to carry those on is important. And I’ve always loved Lotus Pier itself. If I could go anywhere… I think I would still be here.”

The way he phrased that made Wen Qing smile a little. She thought he probably cared more about the land and the people involved than about the school of cultivation. Which might not be a bad thing, considering the stupidity some sects could display over their pride in their own techniques. “So is Lotus Pier the thing you won’t give up?”

“Yes,” he said, quiet and sure. “Lotus Pier, home of the Yunmeng Jiang sect.”

Her brows rose and she turned to look more closely at him. There were more subtleties in his answer than she’d expected. Some pride in his sect after all, but far more protectiveness of it. Ambition, but for roots rather than for power—or, perhaps, for the power that deep roots brought with them. Above all, she thought, a home; a place to belong. That had never been a driving desire of hers. Necessity had taught her to be more warrior than guardian, to be the striking hand, not the guarding arm. But those two in combination were a good match. “And if I wished to travel?” she asked, barely louder than the river under their feet. “To research and to heal and to repair the name of Wen by carrying it in a healer’s hands?”

He turned to face her, eyes wide in the deepening dusk; she could see his robes stir as if he held back a step toward her, his hand lift from the rail before it curled and fell to his side. “Then the power and protection of Jiang would go with you and guard your path. Whatever choice you make.”

The hasty qualifier, and the very way he moved, made her think that the heir of Jiang had not been very used to people telling him yes. No wonder Yanli-jie wanted someone steady in place, to watch over her brothers, before she went off to wrangle the Jin sect. Wen Qing could understand that, and it was certainly something she knew how to do.

And the power and protection of Yunmeng Jiang was not a small thing, even now. To be Wen Qing, the Lady of Jiang, premier physician of the cultivation world… she had to admit, she didn’t dislike the thought. To be the partner of the young man standing a careful, courteous distance from her right now and chewing on his lip uncertainly, who thought her courageous and compassionate…

“I might like that,” she said out loud, and straightened up from the rail, smiling a little. “So. Show me the way back to my rooms.”

For one breath, it was as though her words didn’t make sense to him, and then he brightened like a tiny sunrise in the dusk. “Yes, of course!” There was such breathless wonder in his voice that when he shyly offered her his arm, she only rolled her eyes a little, and laid her hand on it lightly.

The next morning, Yanli-jie visited and brought breakfast along with her. “I was hoping we could have a talk, just the two of us,” she said, as she set out tea and dumplings on the sitting room table.

Wen Qing sighed and picked up her cup. “Yes, I’ll take care of them.”

Yanli-jie smiled as she laid her tray aside and settled on the other side of the table. “I thought you probably would, once you had a chance to think about it. I wanted to talk about how I can take care of you, though.”

Wen Qing nearly choked on her mouthful of tea, and stared at Yanli-jie, startled. Yanlie-jie sighed and looked penitent. “Yes, I was afraid you might have forgotten that part, when I pushed you so quickly to think about what it would mean to partner with a-Cheng. I’m sorry, a-Mei.”¹

The endearment Wen Qing had only seen in letters until now made her cheeks warm. “Please think nothing of it,” she murmured.

“Of course I’m going to think of it.” Yanli-jie took a delicate bite of her own breakfast. “You’re my family, now, on top of being my responsibility. So I want you to be happy.”

“I wouldn’t have agreed to let him court me if I didn’t think I’d probably be happy with the results,” Wen Qing said a bit sharply, fingers tightening on her cup. She’d been taking care of herself for a very long time, and that had included fending off men ever since she’d lost her baby fat. It was just about the only thing she’d liked about being taken in by Wen Ruohan, that it had eliminated a fair bit of that nonsense.

She hadn’t agreed to consider Jiang Wanyin just because he had a nice jaw-line and good shoulders.

Yanli-jie reached over to lay a hand on her wrist. “Dearheart, listen to what I’m saying, not to the words someone else burned onto your heart,” she said, quiet and firm.

Wen Qing’s breath caught, thoughts jarred out of that familiar old track.

I want you to be happy.

“Oh.” She swallowed a little hard and turned her hand up to clasp Yanli-jie’s. “Yes. Sorry.”

Yanli-jie smiled, rueful. “I know how that goes.” She squeezed Wen Qing’s hand, and let go with a gentle pat.

“It would make me happiest if you were still here,” Wen Qing admitted softly, “but everything I’ve heard about Jin Guangshan is… very familiar. And Jin Zixuan is a skilled enough cultivator, but I never saw him show the smallest glimmer of political awareness.”

Yanli-jie laughed, sweet and bright. “He does rather need someone to look after him, at the moment. But just because we live in different places doesn’t mean we’ll never see each other.” Her smile turned rueful. “Just look at a-Xian and Lan er-gongzi.”

“I’d rather not,” Wen Qing said dryly, scooping up a dumpling at last. “I might see more than I’d prefer to.” She chewed and thought, while Yanli-jie sipped her tea, clearly hiding a smirk. “I want my clan to be able to go home,” she finally said. “Jiang has protected them. I’m grateful. But my clan belongs on our ancestral ground.”

“That should be easily enough done, now.” Yanli-jie tapped a finger on the table, eyes distant and calculating. “We will need to think about what means of communication they will have, in case someone tries to use them as leverage against you, once they’re out from under Jiang’s direct shelter. I’ll speak with Meng-gongzi about this.” She nodded firmly and looked at Wen Qing, brows raised expectantly, as if the biggest single trouble in Wen Qing’s life were already solved and Yanli-jie wanted to know the next one.

It took Wen Qing a moment to shake off her shock. If that was so easy… she supposed she was left with the more nebulous desires. She traced a finger down the curved side of her cup and said, very softly, “I want to be known for what I really am. For what my strength truly is. Not that I’m related to someone powerful, or that I could manipulate people with my looks if I wanted to.”

“But rather, for your brilliance?” Yanli-jie supplied, and only smiled when Wen Qing lifted her chin with all the hard pride she’d earned. “Well, you have a start on that, here. It’s one of the reasons a-Cheng is so smitten with you, and a-Xian certainly respects you as his equal.” She tilted her head, eyes steady on Wen Qing’s. “Do you want to start planning for your work around the Golden Core transfer to be publicly known?”

Wen Qing’s hands clasped tight on each other. She felt a bit as though the ground had just lurched beneath her. “Is that really possible?” She’d assumed political considerations would make that a post-humous monograph that she’d have to leave to be released after the death of everyone involved.

“You’re my family, now, a-Mei.” Yanli-jie’s smile was a little terrifying in its gentle, immoveable calm. “Anything is possible.”

Wen Qing swallowed hard against the sudden lump in her throat. She’d always had to be the one trying to make things happen against the odds. No one had ever offered to do it for her. “I…” She swallowed again and bit her lip hard until the huskiness was gone from her voice. “I’d like that.”

“Then we shall.” Yanli-jie sipped her tea, quite composed. “So tell me what else you’d like.” Her smile turned bright and laughing again, coaxing Wen Qing to laugh with her. “The Lan Sect seems to have taken decent care of you, but I want to know the little things. What do you like best to eat? What kind of blankets do you really want? What kind of lamps do you prefer, those nights you’re staying up far too late, reading?”

Wen Qing ducked her head a little at that last one, grinning. “I actually like candle lanterns best.” Which everyone from the servants at the Nightless City to Lan Qiren had disapproved of her profligate use of, but she’d never cared. She found the scent comforting, and it was one of her only extravagances. They could deal with it.

“Then you’ll have them,” Yanli-jie promised, and Wen Qing couldn’t help a soft smile.

This seemed to be the shape her life was taking, now.

It was Wei Wuxian who came to find her out in the little pavilion over the river, that evening.

“So.” He hopped up to sit on the pavilion rail, swinging his feet casually. “You’re gonna stay?”

“I wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t been planning on that,” she said rather dryly. He tucked his chin down and looked at her with wide and appealing eyes.

“Yes, but… really stay? I mean, be at home here?”

She reminded herself that he was brilliant in his own right, an absolute menace, and a frequent threat to her sanity, not an uncertain little boy.

All right, not just an uncertain little boy. Wen Qing sighed.

“I’m thinking about it.”

“That would be really nice.” His smile was wistful. “I’ve been thinking I might travel, with Lan Zhan. But it would be really nice to know everyone would be here, when we come back.”

“Well it’s not as though I can just leave you to your own devices, obviously,” she grumbled. “Just look at all the trouble you get into.” He grinned at her and she glowered more fiercely. “Look at all the trouble you drag me into.” His grin brightened as if it had been a compliment, and she swatted at him. He leaned precipitously aside to avoid her, so far over the water that she wound up snatching his sleeve to pull him back upright instead. “If you’re trying to make your brother look less troublesome by comparison, you can stop now!”

His smile turned crooked for a breath. “Jiang Cheng has always been less trouble than me.” She gave him a long look and leaned her elbows on the rail, looking out over the slow, inexorable flow of the river.

“I’m thinking he probably makes less trouble because you were always looking after him.” She slanted a glance at Wei Wuxian, and found him blinking at her, as if startled someone had noticed. “Thought so.” She smiled, almost as crookedly as he had. “No wonder you’re so bad at letting anyone look after you.”

“Kind of like you, Qing-jie,” he said softly.

He sounded so much like a-Ning, when he thought his sister needed comforting, that she couldn’t help laughing. It seemed she was getting a new family out of this, one who wouldn’t bother to wait on a wedding or any other formality. One who had already neatly included a-Ning, which would have been her first concern. She was still a little uncertain about being Jiang-furen, but being Qing-jie, being a-Mei… those she rather liked already.

She pushed back from the rail. “I always missed star-gazing, when I was stuck in the Nightless City,” she declared, “and I had to climb for the best views, in the Cloud Recesses, to get above the mist. Show me the best star-gazing spot here.”

Wei Wuxian smiled, so sweet and bright and happy with this simple thing that a fierce little burst of protectiveness flickered through her heart. He jumped down lightly from the rail. “It’s on the roof of the library hall. I’ll show you.”

She let the open sky and graceful walks wrap around her, as she followed along, like she’d let the stone of her mountains and the sharpness of their air, let herself settle into them as if into new robes, testing the fit across her shoulders.

She thought it might be a good one, in the end.

End

1. a-mei 阿妹 is a diminutive prefix plus ‘younger sister’. Considering how given Jiang Yanli is to the a- diminutive as an affectionate gesture, this more or less comes out to “my dear little sister”. back

Ink Burns

Fanfiction by Branch

Lodestone: All In One

Becoming the Phoenix – One

Flipside

Becoming the Phoenix – Two

Flipside

Becoming the Phoenix – Three

Flipside

Becoming the Phoenix – Four

Flipside

Becoming the Phoenix – Five

Flipside

Becoming the Phoenix – Six

Flipside

Becoming the Phoenix – Seven

Flipside

Becoming the Phoenix – Eight

Flipside

Becoming the Phoenix – Nine

Flipside

Becoming the Phoenix – Ten

Flipside

Becoming the Phoenix – Eleven

The River’s Grace

Ten Months Later