#untamed fanfic

[guqin-and-flute]

Holding Me Holding You–Ch. 7 [3zun Raise Jingyi Prequel]

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6]

[Ao3 Link]

[Holy shit, how has it been 2 years since I last updated this fic?? ANYWAY HELLO HI I MISSED YOU. We're keeping the baby, guys. CW: Disjointed, slightly nonlinear narration; negative self talk; more talk of battle aftermath, bodies (gross but no more graphic than prev chapters), and death; focus on lots of trauma to do with death and grief; general Twin Jade parental trauma; vaguest mention of child death, in that he repeatedly tells himself there isn't one and remembers part of his nightmare about Wangji/A-Fu dying]

Who are you?

‘Wen Baiqi.’

What must be done for you to rest?

‘Say goodbye. Tell her goodbye.’

It’s raining in Qishan. It’s nothing like the rain in Gusu.

Who are you?

‘Hei Xuecen.’

What must be done for you to rest?

‘All my fault all my fault ALL MY FAULT--’

This rain isn’t crisp, but disconcertingly warm. It doesn't bring life. It soaks into the ground, milling the dirt back into the blood and gore bloated mud of that night, sucking at their feet. Reeking of putrefaction. It coats Xichen’s tongue and throat.

Who are you?

Each time, there is a chance he will receive a reply from the Yiling Patriarch himself. 

‘Ye Qian.’

He never does.

What must be done for you to rest?

‘Never apologized--’

What would he do if he did?

Who are you?

What would Zewu-jun do? Clan Leader Lan?

What must be done?

Would he soothe his spirit?

Who are you?

Ghostly fingers pluck at his sleeves constantly. 

Who are you?

‘Nie Zixing. Never knew him, tell them--’

When he had first arrived, the bodies of Wei Wuxian’s Wen contingent still hung from the gate to the battleground. Or what remained of them. After scavengers, time, and the elements had had their turn. Swaying in the warm, wet breeze along with carrion birds’ cries and the distant tunes of the guqin language. Grisly pendulums. Dripping.

There is no small boy among them. He had hoped against hope, but now he knew for sure. This secret is tucked deep, deep down beneath his heart.

Who are you?

The corpses on the ground are Wen. They are Lan. They are strangers. They are Da-ge, lying bloody on the floor of the Scorching Sun Palace. They are A-Zhan.

"We should burn them like they did to our people. Scatter their ashes, so they will never rest." A venomous whisper from his own disciples, a young man, face twisted in rage.

(“They’re killing everyone,” he had choked his sobs into A-Yao’s arms. “My people--my family are all dead and I did nothing.”)

A-Yuan had been so, so pale against the sheets. So tiny compared to the infirmary bed.

“These people?" Xichen’s voice is quiet. "These cultivators that studied healing? Miles and miles from Qishan?”

Silence.

“Did they destroy our home? Did we fight them in Sunshot?”

Too little, far too late.

There is no small boy among them. There isn’t.

A-Zhan, gray and slack, eyes glassy, head lolling--

He pushes the dream-memory away.

Who are you?

‘Jin Mingni. 

My father--’

"We will bury them and hold the proper rites, as we have the rest of the fallen. And I will ask you to swear yourselves to secrecy regarding their exact resting place. In case anyone later shares your thinking.”

‘Zhou Sanniang. Never wanted to come. Save me.’

“Help me bring them down.”

There may be no small boy among the Wen, but he sees corpses all day, every day. They're in his dreams. He cannot stop seeing them. And he cannot stop seeing a boy (Afuyuanzhan) among them, from the corner of his eye.

He can never quite catch the face before he realizes there is no one actually there.

A skeletal hand is unearthed when they lift a body--a remnant of the Sunshot Campaign, years before. There were plenty of partial skeletons from that time that the Yiling Patriarch had raised to fight them. It seems some didn't have the strength to fight their way out from the mud. The death here has layers. A slow growing mountain of violence and dead and blood instead of stone. The building of the Burial Mounds’ successor.

Do the Burial Mounds have as many crows? Is it a feasting ground, as this has become?

They carry the quiescent dead, cover them with cloth, lay them in rows. Those whose spirits have passed on easily. They lie with their Sect members--when they are able to discern who they are. Still, fields of undyed cloth mounds, waiting to be retrieved by their loved ones, if they still live. Somewhere out there, there must be people still alive, families whole and happy, living in the sunshine. Somewhere.

Who are you?

His fingertips bleed from days playing Linhai and Liebing.

What must be done for you to rest?

Even those here that are living shamble like the dead--the rogue cultivators, his Lan disciples, the handful cultivators from other Sects, all here for the same goal, all hollow eyed and pale. He is supposed to be here for morale. 

They work deep into the night, far from familiar, ingrained rules about schedule and tidiness, here. Adrift.

What must be done--?

The fierce corpse is not a powerful one, merely tenacious. Shuoyue snakes out. It crumples immediately with a muted splurch into the muck, halved.

‘Tell her I loved--’

The top half of the corpse writhes, still scrabbling for him. The sound it makes from its ruined face is horrid. It's a wonder it can sense his yang qi at all; no eyes, no nose. Its robes are a splotchy black and rusty brown-red, but the Lan ribbon around its forehead manages to show a ragged white through it, here and there.

The talisman sears, blinding. It is enough. The body slumps for the last time. He can settle into that mud, summon Linhai from his qiankun bag for the Songs of Rest.

Who are you?

‘Lan Ruicai.

Show them all--’

The blood of the walking dead is no longer life-hot, but the same, unnerving lukewarm as the rain. He cannot feel it. He can’t tell where it’s stained him until he reaches his tent each night. 

He is efficient. He is in control.

The rain here doesn't cleanse anything. It hasn’t stopped for days.

Everything is the same color; the sludge, the thick haze of lingering resentful energy, palms, boots, the hems and knees of robes. That old clotted wound color. Dirt repelling talismans can only do so much before they are overpowered by the sheer weight of yin energy permeating everything. Stained.

There's no use cleaning. He tries anyway.

‘I was so scared, so scared--’

Who are you?

Sometimes, the spirits do not answer. Sometimes, they speak first, before he can even start the questions, raking the strings repeatedly in their anguish. Sometimes, they try to tear the guqin from him, try to rend his clothes, squeeze his throat. Sometimes, banishment is the only way. 

The sudden shrieks and roars at night startle everyone from sleep. If Wangji was well, he would be here. He is known for going where the chaos is.

Is that what had led him to this? To Wei Wuxian? An affinity for soothing chaos? For chaos itself?

Who are you?

‘Don’t know. Want to go home--’

"I can't anymore, zongzhu, I-I--"

"It's alright. Return to the Cloud Recesses. You’ve done enough."

Sometimes, he wakes in the night to find that he is in the middle of dressing, having no memory of doing so, a clump of cleansing talismans clutched in his numb hands. He has cut down so many fierce corpses, he’s lost count.

Who are you?

Food is tasteless glue in his mouth.

Who are you?

Every night, he is sure to take the medicine that gives him no dreams.

‘Oh gods oh gods ohgodsohgods--’

Every night, he prays that he has not left Uncle overwhelmed, that his people are being cleansed and healed back home, that Wangji has stopped bleeding, that A-Yuan is healing, that A-Fu is….

Who are you?

(What right do you have?)

What must be done?

He has been here for days that run into one, long, dark, meaningless drain. 

‘Son. Baby. Where is he?'

Who are you?

‘Pan Liu.’

His raw fingers pause on Linhai’s strings, still humming. Rain patters quietly on the hat that shields his face from it.

He knows that name. How does he know that name.

There have been plenty of others he had recognized among the dead, from different Sects and his own, from childhood, from Cultivation Conferences, from class. But each time, he must pull himself back to that life to remember, away from the rain and the red and the dead.

He can’t place it.

What must be done for you to rest?

‘My baby. Safe.’

The spirit is a thin wisp of light, playing about the strings, shining on the dark wood. Focused. Waiting.  

Who is your son?

‘Lan Fu.’

His mouth is dry.

("A-niang?" A hopeful little voice. The memory of a crumpled form in the blood-churned muck, a shoe print between shoulder blades….) 

It is cruel, endlessly cruel that he is the one alive. That he is the one sitting in the mud across from this poor young mother’s spirit. That he is the one with blood enough in his hands to leave rain blotted stains on the strings as he tells A-Fu’s mother; He is safe.

(Shrieks of raw sound as they carry him away. Echoing off the trees. Reaching back for him.)

A hesitation. Then, ‘Who are you?’

Lan Xichen. Zewu-jun.

‘Zongzhu.’

He will be safe. I swear. 

‘...Safe.’

Rest, now.

‘...Rest….’ The notes are quiet, exhausted. Longing.

Then, silence. That pale light is gone. 

She is gone.

He sits, still and silent as the soft caverns in the clotted mud continue to patter around him. His face is wet--mist and rain and blood. He almost wishes it was tears. 

He aches in a new, terrible way, now.

Oh, little one. You were so loved.

He has been witness to both sides, now, of this small, destroyed family reaching for each other through the dark. And how useless he has been in the task of bringing either of them lasting peace. 

To bring anyone lasting peace. 

(Useless.)

And do you serve anything so fiercely that it would be your last thought, taken across into death? 

It is irrelevant. The soul quieting ceremony had been performed on them as children, with all the other inner disciples. He will not linger as a ghost, even if he were to be struck down by a fierce corpse this instant.

He finds himself trying to remember if his mother had ever mentioned having had such a ritual performed on her….

Selfish. You would have your own mother suffer and linger as an unquiet ghost for some sort of twisted confirmation that you were loved? 

Xichen remembers childhood before the death of his parents. The infinity of all of it. It probably never crossed A-Fu’s mind to beg her to stay with him. (“No, no go! P’ease!”) She had always returned before. 

The memory of A-Fu clinging to his hands so tightly he had drawn blood with his nails is inescapable. 

During that final farewell at the Jingshi, A-Huan too had had no idea it would be the last time he would ever see his mother’s face. He didn’t know what creeping death looked like, then. She was simply her, smiling, twinkling at them.  He had kissed her cheek and taken Wangji’s hand and waved to her through her ornately carved window screen as Uncle led them away. Wangji had always been the one to pull back, to fuss over leaving. Uncle had always made sure that Xichen set a good example for him.

The snowy day she had left this world, cold and dry, so far from the warm wet muck he was in now, something in him hadn’t believed it. Hadn’t believed that someone could just…no longer exist, just as suddenly as a storm might blow over the mountain summit with no warning. 

He saw her so sparingly, it seemed impossible that she wasn't just simply waiting in her front room for them to visit with a smile and open arms.

How? he had asked. When? Why?

Uncle had said that it was not for children to know. This pulled it even farther into the unreal, stretching his comprehension. It felt like a dream, a lie. A story. But if he could just see her…if he could just prove that this was some sort of…misunderstanding--

(Xichen had never asked again after that first refusal sat in his gut like a chilly stone. He suspected that Wangji had not either. Even now, decades later, he still did not know how his mother had actually died. 

He suspected enough, however. 

He knew it was sudden. He knew it was unexpected. He knew no one spoke of it. He knew it had broken his father beyond any hope of repair. Uncle had not volunteered the information, even now, when they were both grown. And Xichen will not allow useless rumination. Rule 60.)

 He remembered he hadn’t been able to stop crying. A-Huan had always hated crying--he always tried to hide away and not bother anyone with it, but this had been constant. 

Uncle had squeezed his shoulder and spoken softly, and reminded him after hours of stopping and starting that he must not grieve in excess, that he would make himself sick, that he was agitating Wangji, that he needed to calm himself, death was a natural passing, like the moon or a river, one must not let their emotions control them.

But still, that something in him that just knew it wasn't true waited until it was dark, until curfew set in and the snow lit the night full-moon-bright, reflecting the stars and lanterns. He had pulled on his boots and slipped from his window, cautiously darting across the paths of the Cloud Recesses in just his pajamas and his blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders, shivering from more than the cold. 

This had to be a trick that he didn’t understand; a joke or a punishment for something he had done wrong. When he figured out what to apologize for, he would be able to see her again. 

The fear of being caught breaking the rules was washed away when he crossed beneath the familiar bower wound with skeletal winter vines. His mother’s house stood dark. All around it, snow was churned and broken, as if many people had been there. In all his memory, no one else had ever visited the Jingshi. The door was unlocked. 

It opened onto emptiness and moonlight. 

Everything was gone.  Her plants. The blue cushioned couch. Her desk and papers. Her dragon incense burner. Her tall candlesticks. Her big, thick, round rug they laid on and played games. The pictures he had painted for her.

He had drifted, stunned, through the shell of his mother’s home. The only proof that she had ever even been there were the scratches on the floor from where furniture had been dragged. That, and the scent of her that still lingered underneath the smell of whatever they had scrubbed the floor and walls with. They had erased her completely. Like she was never there in the first place.

Then it had settled on him like a cloak of lead, dropping him to his knees; the understanding, the true deepness of what this meant.

She was really gone. Forever. 

The ‘always’ was gone. The ‘next time’ and promises. That warm, constant presence on the rim of the Cloud Recesses, the visit that marked his days as cyclically and surely as the sun had simply...vanished. In just one moment, the world was made completely lightless. Incomprehensible. It had a hole ripped in its center, cold and inescapable.

She would never brush back his hair and kiss his forehead. She would never pout when she lost a game. She would never squinch up her nose and do an accidental snort-laugh.

If he had only known that it could happen so fast…if he had only known that people could leave so quickly and completely, he would have taken something. A set of her dark, weighty chopsticks, one of her bracelets, a letter; anything. But there was nothing.

Somehow, he had found himself in front of the Hanshi, his feet numb, his face and hands frozen. Thinking back on it, he couldn’t remember what his 6 year old self had planned. He wasn’t sure that there had been a plan. Maybe he had just wanted a parent. Maybe he had been seeking out the one adult that might have cared as much as he did that his mother was gone. Uncle didn’t understand--A-Huan and A-Zhan had always known that he didn’t like her. He was always polite, because that was important, it was in the rules--but he was always stiff and short. He frowned the whole time--every time--picking them up. He hated talking about her.

But the father he had hardly met, that distant, hidden figure--he had married her. He had loved her.

He would care.

The Hanshi, too, had been dark--and he panicked. Had his father left--or died like his mother and no one had told him? He had yanked the door handle--and to his shock, it slid open. He had been expecting a lock like the one that he saw being done up behind them when he and A-Zhan left the Jingshi. (A choice, not a prison, he had realized as he got older. Not in the same way, at least. Other things kept Qingheng-jun bound.) 

It was dark inside, curtains drawn, vague shapes of things illuminated by the light creeping in behind him. He stood in that doorway, frozen in body and mind, unable to trespass that much farther. It smelled unfamiliar and sharp. He had never been in his father’s home before. 

It was so dark.

He had called into that darkness, choked and quiet; “Fuqin?“ 

Silence. 

“...Diedie?”

(“They made choices. These are consequences,” is all Uncle had told him when, younger, he had asked why both of his parents were locked away from him and refused to say more.

Afterward, A-Huan had always been afraid that he might accidentally make those same choices, that he would be kept from his brother and his Uncle and nannies for it. Because no one would tell him what those choices were, he studied the rules obsessively so he could be sure to follow every single one. So he would never be locked up.)

There was a rustle, a clink. A shape had formed in the shadows, someone sitting up from being slumped on a table. A pale hand swayed into the pool of silver moonlight, pointing. The voice that followed had been rough, slurred like a mouthful of rocks. “You are not supposed to be here. Go.”

A-Huan had fled as fast as his numbed legs could go. Stumbling, breaking through the crust of snow, falling and rising and falling, back up through his window to collapse on the floor. His breath had burned in his lungs as he coughed and sobbed as quietly as he could, hot tears stinging his frozen cheeks.

Not quietly enough, though. A-Zhan had eventually crept into his room and curled up next to him on the floor without a word, arm wrapped around his middle.  When A-Huan had rolled over and held him more tightly than he had ever held anything before, he realized that A-Zhan was the only part of his mother he had left in the entire world.

And now, what did A-Fu have left of his parents, of a life he knew? 

A story, at the very least. A reason. A goodbye. The truth. It was all he could offer. It was all he had left for the boy. These other spirits and their wishes can only be passed along to others, if they were attainable at all. But this, this he can do; this, he can set right. To make absolutely sure that her will is found and executed, that the family who cares for her son is told the story of her last farewell, so he will know, too, in time. 

So a son will never have to wonder.

This much peace, he can provide. With those who can bear this place no more and an endless caravan of cloth draped bodies, he returns to Gusu, leaving behind Qishan’s bleeding sky.

-

The quiet of home stuns him. There are no screams, no groans echoing down the mountain. The trees don’t muffle sounds of sword or talisman sizzle, merely birdsong and wind. There is beauty here, something he hadn't known his soul craved like water in a drought until he saw it in rich blues, blooming whites, lush greens. The coolness, the clarity of the water and the touch of leaves. Nothing here is red-brown. All that bleeds is hidden away behind pale bandages and pale walls.

It's almost too much. 

(His hands feel filthy, no matter how many times he scrubs them. Discontent among such blessings is an insult to those that can no longer come home to them. He will kowtow in the shrine for this disrespect later.)

Time has meaning once more. In theory. There are places to eat, to rest. 

(It hardly makes sense to him anymore, despite the schedule being as familiar as the stone beneath his feet.)

Home, in the Hanshi, surrounded by familiarity and comfort, sitting at his desk as the incense burner next to him delicately permeates the air with sandalwood and the trees outside rustle and no one screams at all, he holds Pan Liu’s will in his hands. It is a brief, frail little thing in the face of such sorrow. It must have been hastily written after her husband’s death, as she willed A-Fu and her remaining possessions to the care of her younger sister. Who upon brief investigation of his ever growing list of the dead was found to have been killed in the battle against Wei Wuxian as well. The sister, yet unmarried, had no will of her own--probably too young to have begun to even consider death as a real possibility before life and Wen and war swept their way in. Their house had been one destroyed in the Wen’s sacking of the Cloud Recesses, their personal possessions few. No one else remained of their immediate family.

Pan Liu clearly had not expected to die before she could update it.

In his heart, somewhere, he had known that something like this was the case; that A-Fu was truly alone. Xichen had carried him for days and no one had come looking? No one had wondered where he was, wanted him home safe, with them? 

He had not wanted to look directly at this, at the time, knowing he would have to give A-Fu back to that loneliness, that uncertainty. Even though A-Fu is not the only child in the Cultivation World or even the Cloud Recesses with the same fate, it had been…different. He couldn’t have said why--still can’t--but it had felt like a betrayal to the boy. A loss, savage and personal. Even when he knew any other choice came nowhere close to making sense.

Still. Even he and Wangji had had their uncle and the small, rotating cadre of minders that were familiar to them. He saw his mother once a month and knew his father was there, somewhere, out of sight. There had been a thread connecting them to their parents and the life they could have had with them. 

A-Fu has none of this. 

And yet he still cries, still calls out, because he trusts that someone he knows will come. Of everything in these last few days, this is what is almost too much to bear, a knife stuck in his ribs that gouges with every breath. He does not feel sadness or regret; only pain. Everything else has been out of reach for a while now.

The rattle of his door opening onto seeping sunshine and fresh, bloodless air has him looking up. His Uncle steps over the threshold. “You’re back,” he says warmly by way of greeting as Xichen rises.

“Shufu.” He bows, then offers him his customary seat, more out of habit than necessity; this teatime visit was a familiar ritual in a life not too long ago.

 They take their places at opposite ends of the low, square table at the center of his sitting room as Xichen opens his tea cupboard. “It’s been a while since we have been able to simply sit and have tea together,” Uncle observes, easily.

Yes; nothing has been right or normal for a long time. “Mn.”

When he continues to set out the cool porcelain cups and the dark pot with no further elaboration, Uncle watches him work, expression a thoughtful blur in his periphery.  “...The library is not where I expected your first stop to be.” 

He sounds only mildly curious, but Xichen knows that it is unspoken approval that he had not gone straight to Wangji.

He hesitates, then continues his methodical ritual of movement. “There was a time-sensitive matter that I wanted to attend to.”

In truth, after the bath he had taken upon his return--where he had had to call for 3 rounds of water (Do not be wasteful, Rule 23; broken) before it was no longer clouded dark with dried blood and mud and rot--Xichen had stood on the Hanshi’s front porch, staring down at the blindingly white path before him, forking off through the trees. 

His heart had tugged him one way and his cowardice in the face of pain another. The thought of seeing more bodies just lying there, of seeing those dear to him--Wangji, A-Yuan, those in the infirmary--suffering while he could do nothing to prevent it was….

It was not something he was capable of, at present. Just for now. Just for these first few hours. It was selfish, but true. And so, he had gone to their records room in the library to request Pan Liu’s will. Pain had won. His heart was weak, choosing the easier duty.

Unable to stop himself, though he knows it will cloud his uncle’s relaxed and pleasant demeanor, he asks; “Is Wangji…?” He trails off. 

Awake? Improving? Well? …Alive? A sharp internal rebuke at this last. Do not exaggerate. Rule 671. Uncle would not be so calm if things were dire. He is angry, not cruel. He would have been told.

(A heavy hand on his shoulder. An empty house. Churned snow.)

He would have been told.

Uncle’s face does, indeed, darken. “Hmph.” A mirthless, scornful snort. “He wakes on occasion. He refuses to speak, refuses to acknowledge anyone. He is simply lengthening his own punishment.” Uncle eyes him, adding, “You should be able to talk some sense into him. He always has listened to you best.” 

‘And so how could you have let this happen? How could you have let him do this?’ 

(When will you stop being angry and start being afraid for him?)

Xichen lowers his gaze to the dark wood of the table and scoops the tiny, furled up leaves of the tea into the pot, the smokey green scent tickling his nose

It’s true. Of everyone--their caregivers, teachers, and relatives, Wangji has always responded to him best. He would not always necessarily disobey outright, but he might frown or hesitate before complying or pretend not to hear--especially if he were called to come away from Xichen’s side. “Your class is this way, xiao-gongzi,” the minder would call and A-Zhan would continue his resolute little stride beside him, hand squeezing tighter around Xichen’s fingers the only indication he had heard anything at all. 

It was when Xichen squeezed back and knelt down to straighten his robes, smiling up into his serious face, saying, “It’s alright, ZhanZhan; I’ll ask if I can come out early to pick you up, mn? Go on, be good,” that he would allow himself to be led away with no further fuss.

 He had been the only one who could finally convince him that kneeling in the rocky ground every month when they should have been visiting their mother would not force anyone to bring her out to them. The first time, he had asked him to come in, come home. But knew his brother. He was not surprised when he silently refused to even show he had heard him. 

And so he hadn’t asked again, never having the stomach to fully destroy the hope that he would be let back into the Jingshi if he just waited long enough. 

But Uncle had become frustrated, their teachers and nannies muttering. They were impatient with his refusal, seeing it as disobedience. They didn’t see his mourning, only his stubbornness. So A-Huan had had to protect his brother's soft heart from those that didn’t understand. “We can kneel together, back at home,” he had whispered, his fingers screwed tight around A-Zhan’s cold hand. “I’ll wait with you as long as you want. But niang would--” his throat had caught and he had wrestled his tears from his voice. “Niang would hate if you got sick, sitting out here in the cold all day.”

A-Zhan’s dark eyes had bored into him, thinking. Reason and punishment and demands from adults had not moved his stubborn frame one inch, month after month after winter-to-spring month. 

Then, finally, this second and last time, A-Zhan had listened to him. Whatever it was about him was what finally got his little brother slowly, stiffly to his feet to hobble back home with him. Xichen remembered that he hadn’t felt relieved at all. He just felt like he had taken their mother from him all over again.

“I will speak with him, shufu.”

 Uncle nods, then heaves a sigh. “What news is there from Qishan?”

Mechanically, as if operating his own mouth from across the room, Xichen relays numbers, movements, and times. He almost reflexively scolds himself for lying; the mundane description of dry duty and the lived horror so far from one another that they were entirely irreconcilable. Just words passed across a shining table over fragrant tea, cool wind brushing the sun-pale windows serenely with tree shadows

When he reaches the final fate of Wei Wuxian’s executed Wen contingent, Uncle approves. “It was wise to swear the disciples to secrecy. This has all gotten so inhumane. Denying them burial was an unnecessary cruelty,” he says heavily as he shakes his head, eyes closed in weariness. “I pray that we are done with this madness at last, with that Wei Ying finally taken care of. What a mess.”

There is silence. Xichen cannot fathom what his response to that could possibly be. Should possibly be--as Wangji’s brother, as the Lan Clan Leader, as his uncle's nephew. As Wei Wuxian’s…what. Friend? 

…As one who cannot delight in his death, in any case. 

Despite the period of kneeling before the Jingshi, Wangji had never been a troublemaker growing up. He was always the Jade who grasped the Lan way of life more easily, molded himself to the rigidity of the rules with that same stubborn tenacity. 

It was Xichen who failed in that, who smudged the black and white lines to gray, bent them so they were slightly more comfortable around him; bearable--once he discovered that they could be. 

He was the one who accidentally got drunk trying to see if he could filter out alcohol with his core, he was the one to kiss Mingjue first in the Jin Gardens during a Cultivation Conference. The one to urge his brother to befriend a talented teenager who was gleefully and repeatedly stomping all over their Clan’s ancestral rules.

He was the one who had told Wangji to step outside his rigid view of the world, to see people for their hearts. And then Wangji's own heart had been torn out. As his uncle said; Wangji had always listened to him best. This much would never have happened without Xichen's deliberate meddling. 

All those years ago, when Wei Wuxian had first cannonballed into their lives, Xichen had just wanted Wangji to be happy. To have friends. Alone didn’t always mean lonely, but he knew he saw it in his brother. Saw Wangji with peers who were merely in awe of his talent, who respected but did not like him, love him, know him, want to spend time with him. He knew the difference, no matter what Wangji showed the rest of the world. The older he got, the less he smiled--the soft, secret ones that so many others failed to see. Xichen had missed them, dearly. And so he had pushed.

Everything that has happened sense feels as if it’s unshakably all his fault.

As the tea is poured, they speak; it passes over him like clouds. Which elder is still in which stage of recovery. The smith they called to repair swords and assess the spirits of those now without a handler. 

Something touches him.

 “Xichen!” 

His hand burns. He is on his feet. Shuoyue’s naked blade buzzes, ready in his hand. He does not remember moving. Every fiber of cloth on his skin feels alive and writhing. Blood courses. Scalding tea is cooling, dripping from his knuckles.

The touch had been spiritual, not physical. From the corner of his awareness and the Cloud Recesses boundary wards at once; a warning, tasting of wild metal (close to blood, so close). 

The Western Wards, crossed.

“Do not unsheathe your blade in a residence!” Uncle’s face crinkles from shock to a wince. “And contain yourself, this is not a battlefield.”

It takes a moment. His killing intent is up, streaming from his core like a river of blades, of blood. 

Sucking in a breath, he takes the torrent in internal hand and yanks it back, firmly, like the reins of a horse, winding the silk rope of it over again and again in the palm of his concentration, until the thrum of it eases. The pressure that had filled the room with the promise of death ebbs. Shuoyue hums warm, expectant. When he does finally sheathe her, the connection between them flickers, confused. 

Above his hammering heart, he hears Uncle continue, frowning, “I felt it, too. Was it someone passing outward or inward?”

His tongue, his mind is mud-stuck slow.

Focus. There is no battle here. You are home. Get a hold of yourself.

“...Outward. Less resistance. Nothing powerful.”

Oddly, at this Uncle’s frown deepens, shadows of concern replacing mere puzzlement. “Hmm. Those were in the West…far….” After a moment of thought, he rises.

As he steps out the door and calls for a servant from the Hanshi’s porch, Xichen continues to try to pull in slow, deep breaths.

Have you regressed to being such a novice that you cannot control your own qi? Your own battle intent? Are you a child? Though his uncle's voice is low and his attention is divided, the words ‘searchers’ makes it through the pounding blood in his ears. Strange.

When Uncle slides the door back open, Xichen asks, “Searchers?”

His silhouetted form hesitates, framed by the sunlight that pours in behind him and dazzles Xichen’s eyes, leaving his expression briefly in shadow. “...Yesterday evening, a child managed to wander into the woods alone.” A spike of cold worry threatens to heighten the wild surge of energy within him once more as his uncle continues, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “We have had several teams scouring the backhill and the whole of our land since then. They are young enough that their spiritual signature isn’t strong enough to register on normal tracking talismans.”

“Why was I not told?!” 

It burst from him, harsher from shock than he had meant and Uncle blinks, pausing in settling himself back onto his seat, brow furrowed.

But he cannot bring himself to care about disrespect, just now. Any child alone and lost is terrifying, awful. There is something, though…something about his tone, his expression that has breath caught in Xichen’s throat as slow, glacial horror creeps up from the depth of his gut. He is avoiding specifics. 

Why.

 “It is being handled already; why would I distract you from your duties? You’ve only just returned and you must--”

“Who. Which child.”

He huffs in irritation, brow furrowing further. And he shuts his mouth, lips compressing.

Xichen no longer needs an answer.

Behind him, he can hear Uncle’s voice raised in startled alarm, but he is already out the door, already leaping from the porch onto Shuoyue. The wind howls in his ears as shoots upward, speeding west to where he had felt the wards ring within him. To where A-Fu has just crossed beyond their safety.

He knows. He doesn’t know how, but he knows.

Xichen can barely breathe around the air battering his face and his own terror. The shrieking sky threatens to rip him from Shuoyue’s blade. Everything at once feels heightened, his awareness expanding to notice how chilly it is despite the sun, how the damp of the wind tearing at his hair and clothes tells of rain in the past day, how dark the woods look beneath the thick canopy blurring by below his feet. He had been alone and cold and terrified, out all night. Had the boy been trying to find his mother? Xichen? The thought made his gut writhe within him.

(They peel his little fingers from Xichen’s sleeve as he clutches and screams…)

Please please please please please

How could this happen? How could he have ever allowed this to happen? There were rivers, cliffs, steep slopes of scree, ponds, caves, animals--gods, animals alone would--

He is well enough to move, to cross the wards.

If it was him. If it were not a strong enough spiritual animal to trigger the alarm. 

There is no boy hanging among them THERE IS NO--

The invisible boundary rears up in his senses, mere seconds full tilt sword ride from the Hanshi but so, so far for a tiny child, wandering in the night. Beneath the canopy, before Shuoyue even manages to drop to a reasonable height and speed, he has already leapt off, landing at a sprint. Internally, the memory of the disruption in the web of the spell warps around his spiritual awareness like a broken arch as he crosses in that exact place. The ground is not suddenly more treacherous, the trees no more menacing, but beyond the relative safety of the Cloud Recesses, his hammering heart sees the whole world is a death trap for this little child.

(He cannot bear to see a tiny body, he can’t, he can’t--)

Skidding to a stop, he wheels in place, eyes scouring everything at knee level and below. “A-Fu!” his throat is pinched, his mouth bone dry. “A-Fu?!”

The ground cover is thick with bushes, shrubs, trees both young and fallen. The sun shines spots into his eyes through the swaying leaf cover above, dappling the floor with shadow and light, dancing, blurring. Silence. Even the birdsong had stopped when this strange being had suddenly crashed into their peaceful little clearing. He sucks in a breath to call again--and then he hears it.

There is a small child crying somewhere nearby. 

Quiet and hoarse but unmistakable.

He isn't slow, gentle, or cautious or anything that a terrified child might need right now; something else has a hold of him, now. He blindly crashes through the brush towards the sound, half skidding down a slope until--until! There! 

A blur of white amongst tree roots halfway down, a curled shape and-- “A-Fu!”--a little face, smudged and red cheeked and tear stained raises and his little eyes light with recognition and he scrabbles, fumbling and crawling out as Xichen tears back up the slope--slips, rights himself--and reaches and the boy throws himself off the lip of the hollow and into his arms, colliding hard with his chest like his heart coming home. 

He staggers, momentum and sudden weakness buckling his knees. A gnarled tree catches his side and he slides them down into the huddle of its roots, curled around him. Against his chest, wrapped in his arms, A-Fu is damp and chilly. He is covered in muck and sticks and burrs but he’s alive--alive--safe and hiccuping and piteously hoarse, tangling his hands through Xichen’s hair as he clutches him back, gasping.

He can breathe. He can finally breathe again.

Some unnameable agony, like some wild beast, is thrashing, welling up, bursting from his chest. It shakes him, tearing at his throat, his heart, his lungs, burning. It’s not relief. It's not fear. It’s…

Heedless of stitches cracking and bursting, he yanks his thicker outer robes open and over the child, tucking him deep into the pocket of warmth. He can feel him shivering, his tiny heart speeding.

He had forgotten that his head is so warm, that his hands are so tiny, just how real his weight is in his arms. When he buries his nose in the baby fluff of his hair, under the dirt and musty forest chill is that wild-sweet child smell he remembers from carrying him for days beneath his chin--and long ago from when Wangji was young. 

He tries to pull back to check him for injuries, for bruising, but he latches onto his neck and sobs. Mere minutes before, Xichen had never wanted to hear another scream again--but now he wishes A-Fu’s cries were as loud as the first day he held him, deafening and demanding, sure and strong in their conviction. These sobs are private, weak, exhausted little things. Not calling for attention. No longer certain of a trusted adult’s return.

“P’ease,” he croaks and that pain, that pressure bears down on Xichen and it feels like drowning; it feels like dying.

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’m here,” he whispers back, thick and choked (that thing inside him that aches, that wails, that loves is strangling him), and he draws up his knees, he wraps his robes tighter and rocks and rocks them both as it breaks--all of it, calving and crashing and surging and molten and ugly and broken--and he wants to beg ‘scream, little love, scream your heart out; someone is coming, someone will always come,’ but he doesn't have enough breath as it tears from his locked throat in silent sobs, because with unworthy hands and heart, he holds this blameless little life that has wandered through the halls of his heart leaving muddy fingerprints, and does the cruelest, most selfish thing he can ever recall doing. 

He realizes that he cannot let him go again. 

#'Xichen has emotions and wishes he didn't' is the name of THIS chapter! #3zun raise jingyi au #3zun raise jingyi au content #my fic #my stuff #untamed fanfic #mdzs fanfic #SORRY FOR THE LONG ASS WAIT AND THE INCREDIBLE AMOUNT OF ANGST HE HAD TO WORK THRU SOME STUFF #I'll try to post happier fluffier things next #Maybe some 3zun fluff in Snowed In. Or the next chapter of And A-Fu Makes 4 which has fluff #Or the next chapter of In Your Hands because I PROMISE we're working things out #ANYWAY LOVE YOU G'NIGHT

[rosethornewrites]

Fic: sore must be the storm

Relationship: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn

Characters: Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Wen Ruohan, Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji

Additional Tags: Resentment, Anger, Explosions, Yīn Iron, Memory Loss, Blood and Gore, Grief/Mourning, POV Third Person, POV Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Podfic Welcome

Part of the Hope series: “the thing with feathers” and “and sings the tune without the words.”

Summary: Wen Ruohan wakes Wei Wuxian. It does not go well for him. Set in chapter 8 of “and sings the tune without the words.”

Notes: See end

AO3 link

——————

Wei Wuxian wakes confused, in pain, and angry, so angry. Memory returns, and the anger combines with grief.

Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan. A-Yuan. Nonono—

The botched array, back so far. Hope, hope.

Screaming. Pain.

Why pain?

Blood in his mouth, leaking from his eyes and nose and ears.

The seal on his memories, compromised. He/they together.

Wen Ruohan mucking about where he isn’t welcome, again. Hurting him/them. Bad man.

Hatehatehate.

Something to do with his anger and grief, then.

Qing-jie next to him, so young, so very young, and a tiny little Wen Ning flanked by his awful cousins.

Scattered targets.

Shijie near—no, Jiejie now, so much changed, and Yu-furen…

Memories flood.

Jiang Wuxian. Allowed to wear purple. Adopted. Yu-furen A-Niang. A-Lian, not dead of illness, Meimei. Cheng-gege. Safety. Love.

He wants. If only he had such a childhood.

He/they have it now.

Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, by his/their side already, alive alive alive. Husband/betrothed, alive.

Protect.

Pain, ripping at the memory seal, clumsy attempts to control resentment.

Amateur. Show him how it’s done, then. He/they know what to do.

He/they reach for resentment together, find it in the yin shard Wen Ruohan carries on him, fool. More resentment deep in his body, tainted from haphazard experiments.

Too easy.

The spirits trapped in the artifact call for release, and he/they answer.

He/they siphon the resentment into a feedback loop maelstrom to destabilize the yin iron, easier with two. Shields for all but Wen Ruohan and his sons. Spirits liberated, returning to the earth. Yank at the resentment, rip it through him.

Explosion, blood, splinters of wood. Falling, falling.

Soft arms. Warmth. Sandalwood. Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan. Always there to catch him/them.

Wen Ruohan, what’s left of him, a crater in his chest where he had carried the yin iron, now disintegrated into dust, nearly dismembered, resentment having ripped through flesh and bone, face a mask of blood, eyes glassy.

Dead, all that matters. Relief.

Safe. All safe.

Stay? Want, wish…

Still too much, too many terrible memories he/they don’t need. Overwhelming. Pain, pain.

Regret. Can’t stay.

Memories will trickle back, slowly over time with the seal, golden core eating at it, melding him/them to become one. Inevitable, eventually.

Thank you, A-Ying. And I’m sorry.

————

This begged to be written. This is what occurred when Wen Ruohan tried to force the resentment from A-Ying, and woke Wei Wuxian.

Some of their thoughts are separate, while others are them together. A-Ying himself isn’t a slouch, and used Wei Wuxian’s memories to help him here.

So you finally get Wei Wuxian/Jiang Wuxian’s POV.

#the untamed #mo dao zu shi #untamed fanfiction #mdzs #cql #chen qing ling #wei wuxian #wei ying #lan zhan #lan wangji #wen ruohan #untamed fanfic #untamed fic #my fanfiction #cql fic #cql fanfic #cql fanfiction #mdzs fanfiction #mdzs fic #mdzs fanfic

[mikkeneko]

The thing was --

The thing that nobody else in Sunshot seemed to get --

Was that he was Sect Leader Jiang now. He might have less than a dozen disciples left, but he was Sect Leader Jiang. And Wei Wuxian was still a Jiang disciple -- their head disciple, the last one left of the inner clan aside from himself or a-jie.

And that meant that he was responsible for Wei Wuxian.

He was responsible for Wei Wuxian, but he wasn't in charge of Wei Wuxian. He didn't get to decide when and where Wei Wuxian went, and how -- but he was still responsible for him. Everything that happened to him was on Jiang Cheng. Everything that happened to others because of him was on Jiang Cheng, too. He was responsible for Wei Wuxian, but he couldn't control him, and that was the worst fucking position in the galaxy to be in.

---

The campaign is wearing on, and Wei Wuxian's reputation is growing more tarnished as his tactics become harsher and more brutal. But an end may be in sight, if the Sunshot Campaign is willing to risk everything on one dangerous mission.

Anyway, so... I realized when I looked at the last chapter's date that this story is now a year old! And just passed 100k! And is still not done! What can I say, guys, I'm sorry. ≡(▔﹏▔)≡

We are moving things along, finally getting to the end of the Sunshot Campaign. I expect the next chapter to be the finale in this particular arc. Then, we get post-Sunshot rebuilding! Hooray!

#the untamed #thirty million little friends #untamed fanfic #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #mikke fics

[badassindistress]

Today on the Regency Untamed Fic:

Read it here!

#also there's a ball #but mostly Lan Xichen gives a shovel talk and a flute solo #talia writes #regency romance #untamed fanfic #wangxian fic #wei ying or a marriage of convenience #a talia original

[eastofakkala]

My Favorite Tags that we have included in the DGTW-Verse...So Far

So writing the DGTW-verse with @glitterlessgold is a total riot, but you know what else has been fun? Coming up with tags. Here are a few of my favorite that we've added...so far >:D

Keep trying, Xichen. You might not have gotten there yet, but you will...someday...

Just because this feels like a Wei Wuxian thing to do.

Did I expect to have Song Lan characterized as an extremely tired TA in this 'verse? No. Do I enjoy this turn of events? Yes. Hell yes.

I'm writing what I know, I guess.

I generally feel like I have to apologize to Su She, as I legit forgot he existed for a lot of the show, and then when indoctrinating someone new rewatching it with a different friend, was shocked when he showed up in episode, uh, 5? 6? Whenever they fought the murder seaweed. Sorry, Su She. At least you're present in this series...sort of.

This almost made me cry with laughter when writing about it secondhand. So that's an installment forthcoming, I guess!

#My fics #DGTW-verse #Untamed Fanfic #Fun with tags #A tag for glitterlessgold

[zunaki]

Wangxian in public being disgustingly in love and the Juniors on a matchmaking mission

#Outsider POV and matchmaking my beloved #i feel like in the the Untamed version Wangxian probably took some time to get together #like after Wwx got back to the Cloud Recesses after his big journey they danced around each other #but still look exactly like a couple #and everyone is getting sick of their pining #so the Juniors are coming up with stupid plans to get them together and chaos ensures #i might have read every fanfic on Ao3 with this exact plot #might make a small comic with that idea one day #wangxian #wangxian fanart #the untamed #the untamed fanart #mdzs #mdzs fanart #wei wuxian #lan wangji #lan sizhui #lan jingyi #jin ling #ouyang zizhen #wei ying #lan zhan #wei wuxian fanart #lan wangji fanart #art #digital art

[ourswordsmeandeath]

Title: Ravenous Fandoms: The Untamed/Mo Dao Zu Shi Author: ourswordsmeandeath Rating: T Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Character: Wei Wuxian Words: 100 Summary: Hunger was a desperate thing that Wei Wuxian was unfortunately all too familiar with. Written for a Goretober prompt by miilanart. Self-Cannibalism.

#the untamed #cql #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #wei wuxian #wwx #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #wei ying #cql fic #mdzs fanfiction #cql fanfic #mdzs fanfic #mdzs fic #wei wuxian fic #untamed fic #untamed fanfic #the untamed fic #the untamed fanfic #cql fanfiction

[turtleduckkoffee-is-tired]

you know its a mdzs fic when it says "Don't worry about the Major Character Death Tag, that's just Wei Ying."

#mdzs #wwx #wei wuxian #wei ying #yiling patriarch #mo dao zu shi #the untamed #fanfic #fanfiction

[muffinlance]

EMERGENCY FANFIC PROTOCOLS: ACTIVATED

Hey while AO3 is down

Here is a GDrive link to all my downloaded fics (it's OVER 9,000 2,000)

Mostly Avatar, also The Magnus Archives, Danny Phantom, Teen Wolf, and a few others

Mostly unsorted, some not even intentionally downloaded because the auto-downloader I use is Like That, so consider this a glorified "give me a random fic" button

MAKE SURE TO KUDOS THE AUTHORS WHEN AO3 IS BACK UP

>>> Linkie link <<<

Edit: Note that when AO3 comes back up that link will go dead again... until it's needed, once more

EMERGENCY FANFIC PROTOCOLS: DEACTIVATED

...Until next they are needed

If you were going through these for fic recs, check out my AO3 Bookmarks for the more curated list.

To make your own fanfic backups, I recommend AO3 Downloader or FanFicFare. (I'm not tech support for either; please don't message me for help.)

Happy reading!

#ao3 #emergency fanfic protocols activated #avatar the last airbender #atla #Zuko #buffy the vampire slayer #Danny Phantom #full metal alchemist #harry potter #the magnus archives #tma #my hero academia #mha #boku no hero acedamia #Naruto #Pokemon #rwby #teen wolf #Why do I have TWO Magnus Archives folders #yes I am creating these tags alphabetically as I scroll #the untamed #no but seriously kudos/comment on the authors fics when AO3 is back #download fics have a link at the beginning and end that leads you back to the story #if you've never downloaded before #also recommend the ereaders Evie and @Voice Reader #if you've never had the joy of listening while doing whatever #goodbye eyestrain #star wars #obi wan #so much obi wan

[noenvyy]

"Bring Me Tomorrow/Stay With Me" A MDZS AO3 Fanfic Excerpt

A chapter from my most recent finished work commission done by the incredibly talented @silverink58 who took so much time and care into making one of my chapters comes to live with their amazing work! Please give them a follow at: https://silverink58.tumblr.com/

And check out the fic on Ao3 at the link above! Note: Art reposted with artist permission

#mdzs #the untamed #wangxian #mdzs fic #untamed fanfiction #mdzs art #mdzs fanart #the untamed fanart #wei wuxian #wei ying #lan wangji #lan zhan #wei wuxian art #mdzs wei wuxian #lan wangji art #wangxian fanart #wangxian fanfic #mdzs comic #wei ying x lan zhan #wangxian comic #mo dao zu shi #wangxian fic #angst with a happy ending #angst fic

[erivroom]

idea for an tgcf mdzs crossover au:

wei wuxian isn’t actually dead, he’s hiding in ghost city!

he accidentally finds out he can use his flute to make hua cheng do things because he is. in fact. also a ghost.

he doesn’t make hua cheng do anything too much at first, just joking around making him dance embarrassingly in public or flip off the wrong people.

and then in walks xie lian. hua cheng is insistent on being the self deprecating clueless lovely idiot we know him as.

wei wuxian decides to take it upon himself to be the #1 wingman ever and speed up the process by getting them together with the power of flute playing!

eventually hua cheng also convinces wei wuxian to return to the land of the living for lan wangji!

wei wuxian: bro he obviously is in love with you! full on flirt with him! stop being so cryptic!

hua cheng: mmhm ok whatever you say… and what about you and that one guy you knew? what was his name? lan-

wei wuxian: *flute noises*

#mxtx #mxtx mdzs #mdzs #the untamed #wei wuxian #lan wangji #wangxian #mxtx tgcf #tgcf #hua cheng #xie lian #hualian #mxtx crossover #tgcf fanfic #mdzs fanfic #incorrect mdzs #incorrect tgcf

[gentil-minou]

Wei Wuxian licks his lips and leans forward slightly, walking his fingers across the countertop aimlessly toward Lan Zhan. “You know, Lan Zhan,” he drawls, “A-Yuan says we’re both in the book.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan responds, tracking the path of his fingers intently, “I am apparently Hanguang-jun, the moral upstanding hero.”

“And I’m the devious Yiling Loazu, who led you astray,” he smirks, peering at Lan Zhan through his lashes.

Lan Zhan meets his stare, head-on, lit from within like molten sunshine. “No,” he corrects, “not astray, Wei Ying.”

Wei Wuxian tilts his head, waiting for him to continue. His fingers stop their dancing, resting just inches away from Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan shifts his own hand, bringing them even closer, their fingertips almost brushing.  

“The Yiling Loazu did not lead Hanguang-jun astray,” he says, eyes piercing as they flicker between Wei Wuxian’s. “They were partners, and…”

“Ah,” Wei Wuxian breathes, “the decent romance?”

Lan Zhan doesn’t answer, watching him closely. The pupils of his eyes have grown so large there’s only the tiniest ring of gold around the edge. He can see himself reflected in the black. He thinks he likes the version of himself that lives in Lan Zhan’s eyes.

They’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the other to take a step forward, bracing for a fall.

It should be terrifying, this sudden drop into something completely new, something entirely unknown yet so familiar. But Wei Wuxian is filled with conviction that no matter what, Lan Zhan will catch him.

It's as electrifying as it is calming, this certainty that here, with Lan Zhan, he is safe.

Wei Wuxian tilts his head to the side in a way he knows sets the unmarked skin of his neck on display. “I’m sure it was more than just decent, with a handsome hero like Hanguang-jun.”

Lan Zhan quirks an eyebrow, his gaze resting on the curve of Wei Wuxian’s neck, just as he’d hoped. "Handsome?"

“Well,” Wei Wuxian responds, tapping his index finger so it brushes against Lan Zhan’s fingertips. His skin is soft and perfect, just like the rest of him. “He isn’t wrong. You’re very handsome, Lan Zhan.”

“Really, Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan says, voice quiet and deep.

“Yep, definitely worthy of being compared to the beautiful Second Jade of Lan.”

“Is that so?” Lan Zhan shifts closer, the smell of him filling up Wei Wuxian. He smells so familiar, like something he knows intimately. Sandalwood, Wei Wuxian realizes, with sudden clarity.

Lan Zhan continues, “I would love to hear more about your opinion on my beauty and prestige, Wei Ying.”

“You don’t know anything about me, Lan Zhan. Why would you care what I think?”

Lan Zhan tilts his head, only just. “Do I need to? To want to know how your brain works?”

I commissioned this lovely artwork by the wonderful @lotuslate of a scene from my fic, once upon a time, 很久很久以前 where the entire cultivation world is cursed to live in the modern world without their memories and abilities, but of course wangxian find a way to fall in love all over again.

#i've been staring at this art for days they're one of my fave mdzs artist i am not worthy T__T #look at them falling in love before shenanigans try to keep them apart!! #im planning to post chapter 3 next week maybe by the end og the weekend #it's an absolute beast at 15k but it also introduces a bunch of characters im excited for hehe #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #the untamed #chen qing ling #wangxian #mdzs fanfiction #the untamed fanfic #wei wuxian #wei ying #lan wangji #lan zhan #mxtxnet #mdzs ouat au #bushy writing #okay now that the tags are out of the way prepare for anxiety rant: commissioning art for my fic was one of the best and most anxiety thing #i've ever had to do like it's actually insane #on the one hand i love my fic so much but also i do not feel worthy of such pretty art and talent (except i paid for it and supported an #artist i really admire which makes me dumb brain extra silly) but yeah this enitire week since i first got it i basically had to play #with my anxiety in the worst way and its been awful and i want to share this art cause its so great but also i want to cry cause i feel #unworthy BUT! i am by posting this telling that anxiety to shut up and continue promoting a fic i'm really proud and excited for and #hopefully opening the floodgates so i have the confidence to commission more artwork in the future because seeing the words i write in a pi #is just about one of the most incredible feelings aNYWAYS

[rosethornewrites]

Fic: and sings the tune without the words, ch. 11

Relationship: Jiāng Yànlí & Jīn Zǐxuān, Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Jiāng Yànlí & Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén, Jiāng Fēngmián & Lán Qǐrén, Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén & Niè Míngjué

Characters: Jiang Yanli, Jin Zixuan, Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín, Lán Qǐrén, Jiāng Fēngmián, Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén, Wēn Ruòhán, Wēn Qíng, Wēn Níng | Wēn Qiónglín, Yú Zǐyuān, Nie Mingjue

Additional Tags: Epistolary, Food, Music, Secrets, Resentful Energy, Cultivation Sect Politics, Character Death, Politics, Assassination Attempt(s), Attempted Kidnapping, Hostage Situations, Mentioned Wei Changze,

Summary: Nie Mingjue reports again to Lan Xichen about the continued discussion conference.

Notes: See end.

Previous fic in the series: “the thing with feathers”

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

AO3 link

——————

Xichen,

Jiang-zongzhu moves quickly. As soon as Wen Qing was finished with her testimony, he had Yu-furen and a group of seniors travel to Dafan. Her family had been informed, and had packed their belongings, the majority of which will be moved via cart and horse, accompanied by senior Jiang disciples, but A-Die and Lan-xiansheng also sent seniors to help, and the children, elderly, and several pregnant women were evacuated by sword so as to shield them from the perils of travel. Jin Guangshan offered senior disciples as well, but his offer was not accepted given the current situation.

A man was caught in the family area of Lotus Cove, having taken a woman named Sisi hostage as she was delivering the midday meal to us, but she wears a stiletto in her hair and it wound up in the man’s chest. He was dressed in nondescript clothing, but an examination of the body revealed his affiliation with the Jin, so Jin Guangshan is on very thin ice, though he of course denied all knowledge.

The children saw the body, with the struggle having taken place just outside the area we’re confined to, and the woman was shaken and bruised. I had drawn Baxia, but the man fell before I could act. A-Die is livid with the Jin, especially since A-Sang and I could have been in danger. Jin Guangshan even tried to say this was proof Jiang-zongzhu should turn over the two women and their children as he has demanded, claiming he failed to protect them. Then Jiang-zongzhu revealed the evidence that the assailant was Jin.

So now the discussion conference is even more fraught. Jin-zongzhu hasn’t been ordered to leave Lotus Pier yet, but it seems like he could be if anything further occurs.

On the other hand, the evacuation of the children and elders of Dafan Wen went off without a hitch. Now there’s a popo who stays in the family area with us during the day, who minds the younger children while the older ones are housed in a disciple pavilion. Now that he has his jiejie and the other Wen children around, Wen Ning has calmed down. Jiang Lian is thrilled to have new playmates, as well. Wen Qing has spent much of her time since her testimony resting, and she often has a gaggle of toddlers napping around her.

The idea that the Jiang “take in strays” sounds like someone who does not value a healthy populace, snakes that want to swallow elephants. I admire the Jiang sect in their willingness to look beyond bloodline at the mettle of a person rather than their circumstances. Meng Yao and his mother are two such examples, and no doubt they will do better under the protection of the Jiang clan. His mother’s pupils are street children and former prostitutes learning to read so they may find better lives.

I’m only glad A-Die takes us back to the assigned Nie quarters each evening, and I wonder how Wangji is able to handle as well as he has. Sometimes the children are quite loud, but he simply sits beside Jiang Wuxian and seems unbothered. They’ll just sit next to each other, Wangji reading and Jiang Wuxian talking with A-Sang or one of his siblings or engaged in painting or some other such activity—though your brother always makes sure he is between them and any egress. Sometimes Jiang Wuxian will join them, and Wangji watches or follows. I’ve even seen him roll a ball with a toddler. A-Sang has been vocal about how he was always snubbed in their childhood but now he plays with random babies. He forgets the biting phase, but that was more a game for Wangji than anyone else.

The different Wen faction representatives have stopped demanding Jiang Wuxian be punished, according to the servants, after Wen Qing’s testimony revealed his depravity. Suddenly it has become more likely that he was hurting the boy and whatever curse that was placed on him killed him in the backlash. Of course, that could be a ploy to lower our guards.

Plus the body of one of the representatives who had been insistent that Jiang Wuxian be turned over to the Wen was found in the river, apparently from foul play. The man had been defending Wen Ruohan and denouncing Wen Qing as a liar, in addition to being quite rude to the other Wen factions, so it’s not exactly surprising, but it’s just a relief to no longer hear that some idiot is calling for a kid’s blood.

There are hints that the conference may end soon, rumors that the representative was assassinated and that worse is occurring in Qishan. Hopefully it won’t spill over—Qinghe is too close to Qishan for comfort.

Your brother is fine—happy, in fact, that Jiang-zongzhu has decided Jiang Wuxian will return to the Cloud Recesses with him to winter there for his own safety. I believe Jiang-zongzhu hopes by the time winter is over, Qishan will be too distracted by in-fighting to even think about the boy.

Truly, his attachment to Jiang Wuxian is close, and he is more engaged with people than he has ever been, and I suspect that’s due to their relationship. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if their betrothal leads to a happy marriage—they already seem to move in tandem. It’s odd, but very interesting to watch. A-Sang keeps sighing about yuanfen and love matches, even.

A-Die intends to accompany the Lan, I think to ensure they aren’t attacked. Strength in numbers and all, so I will get to visit you after all.

Do not worry. I will help protect your brother and his betrothed until they are safely home.

Mingjue

—————

Mingjue,

I very much appreciate the continued updates, though the news of the attempt to get into the Lotus Cove family area is concerning—even if it doesn’t seem to have been targeting Jiang Wuxian. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the Wen factions would try for Wen Qing, so I’m glad your father and Shufu sent extra disciples to protect her family as they relocate to Yunmeng.

I hope Mo-guniang and Meng-ayi are holding up well, under the circumstances, and that Meng Yao stays safe. I’m certain he’s quite worried about his mother, but he seemed to really care for his young half-brother, as well. You said in your previous letter that you’d had some good conversations with him, and I hope you’ve had more—he could use friends in other sects, especially given current events. I hope he writes at some point as well, if he’s interested; perhaps I should write to him first so he is more comfortable.

Jiang-zongzhu’s decision to evacuate the children and elderly via sword while the stronger members of the Dafan Wen community handle the more difficult part of the relocation is wise. Honestly, that Jin-zongzhu would offer his disciples for such a mission, after having just been linked to an attempt to get access to the family area by taking a hostage, is shockingly brazen in its arrogance. That sort of treatment of another major sect is reminiscent of Wen Ruohan, and a perceived power vacuum presumably left by Qishan Wen could lead to issues in the future.

While I was at Lotus Pier, I read a treatise in the Jiang library about how the loss of a large clan can lead to a fight among remaining large clans seeking to fill the void and become more powerful, based on the historical downfall of the Xue clan. I don’t recall the title, but if you ask Jiang Wuxian about it, I’m sure he can send a servant to fetch it, as I’m sure you would enjoy reading it. Wei Changze, his birth father, wrote it—apparently he was a historian of sorts. Jiang Wuxian was thrilled when I showed it to him. I didn’t have the opportunity to see if there were more documents by him, but the servants could look and bring them to you, I’m sure.

The death of the Wen representative makes it clear a sort of schism is occurring within the Wen sect and may mean rumors as to the fate of Wen Ruohan’s sons are not so far-fetched. Hopefully, it will not spill over with the defection of Wen Qing, but I have no doubt our elders will have thought of that issue. But it seems more likely that her decision has saved her branch and will prevent her being seen as a threat by anyone who isn’t an ardent Wen Ruohan supporter. I too hope any strife doesn’t spill over into Qinghe, though at least your father has warning and can keep tabs on any of the smaller Nie-affiliated sects.

I am not surprised Wangji is handling the presence of others more easily—Jiang Wuxian’s influence, again. The time in Lotus Pier has in some ways helped him grow accustomed to it so he is not so overwhelmed. I wonder if the quiet of the Cloud Recesses might have similar impacts on other children, if perhaps visits to more bustling places might better prepare them for the world.

I suspect Huaisang has the right of it. Fate brings together those that are a thousand miles apart, and it occurred in this case. Wangji seems to find more satisfaction in life since he became close to Jiang Wuxian. Wangji also believes finding Jiang Wuxian again is yuanfen—he’s quite a bit more of a romantic than I expected. I think Shufu was worried, after Fuqin, but Wangji is his own person.

May your journey be safe and peaceful. I will be happy to see you, and for my brother and Jiang Wuxian to be safe in the Cloud Recesses soon. Hopefully there will be no more complications with the discussion conference.

Thank you for your protection,

Xichen

—————

Nie Mingjue uses a chengyu: “A man's greed is like a snake that wants to swallow an elephant.” Lan Xichen uses one: “Fate brings together those that are a thousand miles apart” and alludes to another: “With love, water is enough; without love, food doesn't satisfy.” At the end of his letter, he uses another: “journey safe and peaceful,” a quote from a Ming dynasty poet, Fan Yiyi.

#the untamed #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #wei wuxian #lan zhan #wei ying #lan wangji #lan xichen #nie mingjue #my fanfiction #mdzs fanfiction #mdzs fic #mdzs fanfic #cql fanfic #cql fic #cql fanfiction #untamed fanfic #untamed fic #untamed fanfiction

[loomka]

TW// blood & mention of death

the three winters - blue dawn /part 1/

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ok - so i've had an idea about a very short fanfic comic (pretty cool exercice tbh)

(i obviously don't own mdzs - all rights belong to mxtx)

#mdzs #mo dao su zhi #mo dao zu shi fanart #mdzs fanart #the untamed fanart #the untamed #mxtx #mxtx fanfic #lwj fanart #lan wangji #lan zhan #mdzs wei wuxian #wei ying #wei wuxian #wangxian #artist on tumblr #lan xichen #lan clan #board on for some angst :)

[mxtxdiaspora-may]

MXTX Diaspora May is back for 2024!

MXTX Diaspora May is an event in which Chinese diaspora creators come together to share the diverse aspects of Chinese culture, as well as connect with each other over lived experiences.

Through the promotion and creation of these fanworks, we hope to encourage thoughtful self-reflection throughout the broader fandom, especially with regard to embracing cultural humility and dismantling structures and behaviors that allow racism to flourish, both in fandom and in real life.

Support of MXTX Diaspora May will go a long way towards creating a more inclusive and open climate in our shared online spaces, especially for creators who rarely get their voices heard in the English-speaking side of fandom. We aim to uplift the unique voices and stories of our participants, and we encourage anyone who enjoys works from this event to share in the celebration of Chinese culture from Chinese creators.

Any creator with Chinese heritage may participate in MXTX Diaspora May. Event rules and work requirements may be found at the link below.

Please note one major change from last year: all works must be complete at the time of posting. We will not accept works-in-progress into our collection.

Event Rules & FAQ

Our prompts this year are based on 四象, the Four Symbols, also known as the Four Guardians, Four Gods, or Four Auspicious Beasts. You can find an overview of the Four Symbols on wiki.

Sub-prompts for the event will be posted soon.

Are you a creator of Chinese heritage who's ready to sign up for this event? Please fill out the sign-up form below!

You will receive a discord link to the event server after you complete the form. Please make sure to join the discord server to connect with fellow event participants and receive event announcements and updates.

Sign-ups will run from March 17, 2024 to April 9, 2024.

Sign-Up Form

Signal Boost!

Reblogs and signal boosts for this event are welcome from both participants and non-participants. Please feel free to boost on bluesky and twitter as well.

Feel free to check out our collections from previous years. Comments and kudos are always appreciated by creators!

2021 (MDZS only)

2022

2023

We look forward to sharing and celebrating everyone's works from the 2024 event!

#mxtx diaspora may #chinese diaspora #sino diaspora #mdzs #tgcf #svsss #mo dao zu shi #tian guan ci fu #heaven official's blessing #the grandmaster of demonic cultivation #the untamed #cql #chen qing ling #ren zha fanpai zijiu xitong #魔道祖师 #天官赐福 #人渣反派自救系统 #墨香铜臭 #mxtx event #mxtx #mdzs event #tgcf event #svsss event #fandom event #fanfic #podfic #fanart #chinese diaspora event #scum villain's self saving system

[random-polls]

#polls #tumblr polls #fandom #sherlock #supernatural #teen wolf #merlin #hannibal #one piece #mha #anime #fanfiction #ao3 #fanfic #reading #marvel #the avengers #tropes #the untamed #attack on titan #reblog for a bigger sample size #archive of our own #911onfox #demon slayer #tokyo revngers #naruto #bleach #jujutsu kaisen