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curiosity-killed · 4 years

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a bow for the bad decisions

canon-divergent AU from ep. 24 (on ao3)

Note: I’ll be on vacation Thurs—Mon so updates will be on pause till I get back (sorry lmao!)

He is a little irritated, deep in his belly, at being so weak as to need tending, but he lets the warmth of their care offset that frustration. It’s easier today, when everything is bright and warm with happiness.

Then Wen Ning stiffens, twists, and his hand closes around an arrow a hands’ width from Wei Wuxian’s skull. “Wei Wuxian!” calls a tiny figure on the cliff’s edge. He squints, trying to decide if he recognizes them or if they’re some errant cultivator who thinks they can take down the Yiling laozu on their own. The sunlight glints off gold robes and he can just pick out the vermillion dot between their brows. How gracious, he thinks. Jin sect sending a welcoming party when I’m already on my way to them. “Wei Wuxian, remove your curse at once!” “Do I know you?” Wei Wuxian calls back, bracing his hands on his hips.

He has only ever cursed one person, and this Jin disciple certainly doesn’t look like Wen Chao. Even then, forcing Wen Chao to tear strips from his own legs and eat them was more of the blowback than an actual curse, a return on the sentence Wen Chao gave him when he dropped him into the Burial Mounds.

“You! How dare you!” The outrage is familiar, niggling something at the back of his mind. “I know it was you who cursed me,” the man shouts. “Who else would lower themselves to such nasty tricks?” “Who else indeed,” Wei Wuxian mutters, but it’s tired. Mostly he doesn’t care what people say about him, but his patience is thin and strained when it comes to this. What has he done that’s so wrong, after all? He has tried to repay his debts, to protect his family, to live justly. What part of that is so malignant, so repulsive in the eyes of the world? “Is this not your work?” the Jin disciple demands, tugging open his hanfu. “Release me at once!” Even from this distance, the speckling of gory holes across his chest is distinctive. Wei Wuxian recoils, horrified. The hundred holes curse is particularly gruesome, cruel in both its agony and its appearance. “Why would I curse you?” he yells. “I don’t even know you!” He can pick out the sneer on the disciple’s face, curling his lips in disdain. “Since you are incapable of honor and won’t release me,” the disciple spits. “I will have to kill you!” Amusement creeps up Wei Wuxian’s throat, cold and edged. If they want to kill him, they ought not to have wasted time with such theatrics.

“Kill me? Can you?” He glances toward the archers lining the cliff, eyebrows arched in doubt. “Can they?” They should know better than to think him defenseless by now. Resentment is everywhere; he carries it in his bones. There’s a small snap beside him, the sound of Wen Ning’s suppression necklace breaking. Resentment rises in a rush, a geyser-roar that echoes in his marrow. A volley of arrows pierces the sky. Wen Ning throws himself forward, grabbing hold of a boulder wider than he is tall and slamming it down as a shield in front of Wei Wuxian before flinging himself up the cliff. Wei Wuxian tucks close behind his new shelter and waits. Wen Ning had been the one to suggest he go as Wei Wuxian’s companion, and he had gently refused to be put off by protests. It had seemed too risky to let him come among the people who’d had him killed, but now, Wei Wuxian is reluctantly grateful for his presence. There will be a mess, but at least they’ll walk out of it alive. He can feel the anger, the bitterness, crawling up the ladder of his ribs. The injuries the Jin get are deserved, are less than what they’ve earned. How dare they set a trap for him with his nephew as the bait? How petty and despicable. Today was meant to be for celebration, meant to be a bright-glow day of family and joy. Now, they’ve gotten their dirty-gold hands all over it, twisted and reshaped it into another mess that will be pinned to his name. Fine. Let it be. He’s tired of staying politely in his cage, of constraining himself to fit within their mean tolerance. They opened the gate. They carried the stick. “Wei Wuxian, this is the price of your arrogance!”

He turns to see the leader standing there at his side and, oh, he does remember him. Vaguely. Some cousin of Jin Zixuan — the loud-mouthed brat who was in charge of the Wen prison camp that used to be here. “Let’s see your capability now,” the cousin spits, raising his sword. He lunges, throws himself into a flurry of offense. It might be impressive against someone else, someone unused to defending theirself with a flute. But Chenqing is not just a stick of bamboo, and Wei Wuxian is no one else. Lan Zhan insisted on training together during the war, dragging Wei Wuxian out to clearings and small yards in their camps until they were both soaked in sweat. Bichen could not scar Chenqing; this rat-faced junior is little more than a gnat. He skirts out of range of a strike and feels something shift, slip loose from his robes. He reaches, instinctively, for his chest, but the box that should be there is held in the cousin’s unworthy hand. “Give it back,” he demands. This cousin has no right to touch the gift, is undeserving of even knowing it exists. He turns the box in one hand, lips curling in a sneer. “Is this the gift you think worthy of Jin Rulan?” he asks, derisive. “Did you really think we’d let you attend his celebrations? You, the Yiling laozu, at the Chief Cultivator’s own tower?” His hands are shaking, the edges of his vision hazy. The invitation was signed from Jiang Cheng. His brother wouldn’t betray him, not like this, not with family on the line. But— But if the rest of the Jin sect knew of the invitation, knew the quickest path between Yiling and Koi Tower is through this pass— It would be the perfect opportunity for revenge. They might have even encouraged Jiang Cheng to send the invitation, knowing it a better lure than anything signed by a Jin hand. His nails bite into the pad of his thumb as his hand tightens around Chenqing. He can feel the shift, the black-sand blood rising in his veins. If they want a trap then let them have his teeth and claws. He lifts Chenqing to his lips. “Stop! Both of you!” Jin Zixuan’s golden robes are strangely ruddy, as if viewed through bloodied waters. Wei Wuxian is aware, distantly, that some part of him is trembling; his heart is too loud against the bone of his ribs and sluggish. “Zixuan, what are you doing here?” the cousin demands. His voice is too loud, screeching. It would take so little to silence him. A single note, a flick of his fingers. Resentment could curl around his neck, throttle him. A single spirit could bite out his larynx with jagged red teeth. He deserves it. It’s only fair. He attacked with the intent to kill. Isn’t it right, isn’t it only equal exchange, that Wei Wuxian give answer? Did he not ask a question seeking a reply? He can’t kill Zixuan. It takes some effort to remember this. Shijie would be sad. It might be better for her, in the long run, to be free of him but — but she would be sad. He can’t hurt her. His shaking hand closes tighter around Chenqing’s burning surface. He can’t hurt him. Trash — indelible stain — dirty waters — There’s a crack, the scraping sound of nails against wood. The box bursts, splinters. Rage rushes through him, a river undammed. “Wei Wuxian! That’s enough!” Chenqing shudders with the impact of the sword against her side, and she echoes with his anger, a cave-ring of resentment rippling between them. She hums, high and keening and hungry. “Stop Wen Ning and we can talk,” Jin Zixuan says, as if there is any room for words here. “Don’t make the situation worse. There is still space for common ground.” Common ground? Common ground? Are they not the ones here with blades unsheathed to cut his own neck? How reasonable it must seem to them to ask him to prepare the parched earth between them with his own blood. Of course he must be the one to stop. He is the one broken and snarling and rabid, after all, the wild creature they never should have brought in off the streets. It doesn’t matter how many men he killed for them, how much of himself was carved out in their service. “The moment I stop him, he will be pierced by your arrows and die,” he snarls. “I should stop? What about you?” “Don’t be unreasonable!” Jin Zixuan snaps, facing him fully. “This is a misunderstanding. If you both follow me to Carp Tower, you can stand and give a full account.” He speaks so reasonably, so sensibly. Of course he would believe anyone at Carp Tower would listen to a full account. Of course he trusts in the pulleys and levers hidden behind their golden façade. What cause has he ever had to doubt when his family’s corruption has carried him from cradle to throne? “Jin Zixuan, let me ask you,” Wei Wuxian says. “When you invited me, can you really say you knew nothing of their plan to kill me?” He fumbles through a protest, affronted by the audacity of a claim against him. The Jin sit so high in their tower, so removed from mundane things like blame. They’ve removed the bodies from the prison camp, but this is an old pass and the rocks have not always been so steady. The dead are everywhere, if you know where to look. Wei Wuxian has shared their company as close as lovers and brothers and old friends; they rise up to greet him, eager with relief. Revenge is the sweetest song. There’s a wet crunch: flesh, tendon, bone. The gasp and choke of a punctured lung. Something flickers in his periphery, a figure wound in qi and resentment together with a saber’s edge. The lines of the world are blurred, hazy with the red of spirits hungry for new flesh. They’ve waited so long for their answer, for their peace. They have starved in the desolation of unquiet rest.

“Wei Wuxian! Jin Zixuan!” He’s heard the voice before, rough and hard with command. It’s faint compared to the hisses and screams of his companions. All the world seems shifted on end, a bottle balanced on a precarious edge. Red floods the pass, writhing, crackling, snarling. There are familiar fingers hooking around his spine, slipping into the spaces between his ribs, running lovingly up his throat. There’s a scream, a wet howl of pain. Wei Wuxian, they sigh, whisper, sing. He knows this multitude, has been scoured by this choir. Wei Wuxian, do you remember? He made a promise once, a long time ago. He said he would be their speaker, give breath to their petitions. Blood breaks across his lips, gasps out of his shredded lungs. He promised the world would not forget them; they promised he would have revenge. The world shudders, shivers. It takes more than blood to make an oath like that. He stumbles; his knees shake. A sacrifice isn’t worth anything if it isn’t full-hearted. There’s a dark figure blurred before him, gold laid out in their arms. Shijie must have looked so beautiful at her wedding; he wonders if she’ll forgive him for cutting it short. His legs give out and the dark rises up to meet him. Wei Wuxian — don’t you want revenge?

#mdzs #cql #the untamed #untamed fic #wei wuxian #my writing

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this-solaris-life · 4 years

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Oh, I'm going to make you work hard (like, I want to cry). Can I get #24 from the Angsty Prompt list for WangXian?

This was challenging! Considering I actually can’t picture this couple sad and my writer’s heart is made for fluff. I hope that you enjoy my attempt!

Fifteen minutes. That’s how long it’d taken for everything that they’d built together to come crumbling down. The past year that they’d been in this marriage contract had proved that he and Lan Zh-..Lan Wangji were perfect for one another. It’d been so bad at first with the two of them clashing over the smallest things but then the two of them had grown so close. Lan Wangji had opened up about the loneliness he’d felt and how he actually cared about him. After that, he’d been able to relax and stop being so spiteful about being married to the man.

Wei Wuxian had fallen hopelessly in love with Lan Wangji despite the contract. He thought that Lan Wangji had felt the same. The way he’d behaved after he’d confessed had been so telling to him. But like all the good things in Wei Wuxian’s life it was ripped from him. He’d gotten a call from Lan Wangji telling him that he was on his way home and he’d be there in fifteen minutes. Wei Wuxian had been so excited but then he’d never arrived. Two hours went by and Lan Xichen had finally called to tell him what happened.

“I thought Su She had called you, A-Xian. I’m sorry.” Lan Xichen’s quivering voice said. “He must have forgotten but Wangji was in an accident. He’s in surgery now. I’ve sent Lan Mayleen to come pick you up.”

“Please keep me updated.” He replied back before the two of them had hung up and he’d waited for his brother-in-law’s driver to arrive. The two ride there had been a roller coaster of emotions for him. His stomach twisting as he thought of the worst possible outcomes. If He was honest now, he hadn’t been prepared for what happened next. By the time that he got there Lan Wangji had gotten out of surgery and in less than four hours he’d woken. So of course when he is arguing with Su She that Lan Wangji wakes up and they discover that he’s lost his memories of the past two years.

The man who’d become warm and open with him was gone. It’d been replaced by a rather stoic and cold man. Wei Wuxian had tried to explain the argument but Lan Wangji had kicked him out of the room after telling him that Su She had explained everything about their marriage. Wei Wuxian had left only to keep his husband from getting more agitated after the surgery. He’d planned to go back but found that Meng Yao was waiting for him on the porch the next morning. Apparently, Lan Wangji had gone ahead and contacted him last night. From his hospital bed he’d ordered Meng Yao to draft their divorce papers. In the papers he’d agreed to continue paying for Jiang Cheng’s treatments, give him alimony, and the house that he currently lived in. Wei Wuxian had wanted to fight it but then he’d seen where Lan Wangji had actually signed it himself. It wasn’t Su She’s approved version.

It’d broken his heart to see it. The settlement was good and gracious but the fight he’d gendured for the love they’d shared was more worth it to him. He and his brother hadn’t been broke before and they wouldn’t go broke with this. Wei Wuxian had told Meng Yao that he wouldn’t divorce Lan Wangji with him having just come out of surgery. He would take care of his husband to the best of his abilities.

And god’s he’d tried so hard to take care of him. But the post-surgery version of Lan Wangji was so cruel to him. The person he knew at the start of their marriage hadn’t been this bad. Wei Wuxian had tried to keep the faith that his Lan Zhan would come back but he didn’t. The silence, cutting comments, blatant disrespect against him, Lan Wangji’s flirting with Su She, and the isolation was so hard and painful. But the moment that broke him was when he was at a dinner with Lan Wangji’s family and he’d disrespected Jiang Cheng. The treatments were so hard on him and he’d had to leave shortly after arriving. Thankfully, Lan Xichen had offered to take him home.So, he hadn’t been present when Lan Wangji made the horrid comment about Jiang Cheng looking like a corpse.

Wei Wuxian had tossed the silk napkin onto his plate then stood up. He wouldn’t stay in this marriage a moment longer. It’d been six months and this was utter hell. Wen Ning had been right to tell him that he was holding onto a dream. His Lan Zhan was gone. He needed to wake up and this was it.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Lan Wangji dared to ask after roughly grabbing his forearm. His gaze filled with annoyance and a scowl on his face.

“You don’t deserve the answer, Lan Wangji.” Wei Wuxian responded coldly. His gaze sharpened and dropped to his arm. “Let go of me. Now.”

When Lan Wangji didn’t obey him. Wei Wuxian wrenched his arm from him. He felt the sting of tears coming to his eyes. All the pain and rage coming to the front. “Don’t. You. Ever. Touch. Me. Again. I’m such a fool to think that I’d get my Lan Zhan back! That the monster that came home to me would leave. But alas this...“He gestured to Lan Wangji’s entire being “..is what stayed. I’ve gone through so much because of you and I even tried to be your friend if that’s what you needed.” He yelled not caring that they were in Lan Qiren’s house anymore. The dinner had been just another way for Lan Wangji to punish him for choosing to stay and it gave Lan Qiren the ability to do it too. “Not even that earned a smidge of kindness. All I got was unfiltered disdain and disrespect which I can take but I will not let you talk that way about my brother!“ He pointed his finger at the golden eyed man. “Lan Wangji, I did not choose you. You chose me and I wish you’d never come into our lives.”

“Wei W-” Lan Wangji started to stay as Wei Wuxian turned to leave. He stepped forward grabbing Wei Wuxian’s arm again.

“I said do not touch me. ” This time Wei Wuxian didn’t hold back getting his arm free again. His tears finally fell and he shoved Lan Wangji back hard enough that he slipped, falling backwards. His head made a sound as it hit the floor. His heart ached something fierce but Wei Wuxian made himself turn around. He would never again help the man. A look of confusion mixed with a little bit of blood on the hand that had reached to check his head.

“We are done. He didn’t stop even as Lan Wangji shouted his name.

He didn’t go back to their home. No, he went to his brother’s. Lan Xichen had tried to get him to forgive him but it was the last straw. All the pieces of his heart he’d given to Lan Wangji had been broken and turned to dust. The next morning he’d made the call to Meng Yao telling him to bring the divorce papers. He’d signed them without hesitation this time. He wasn’t going to stay where he wasn’t wanted and where his brother would be mistreated.

Wei Wuxian wasn’t a man to do anything by halves. The only person he allowed into his life connected to Lan Wangji was Lan Xichen and that was because the gentle man had fallen in love with his younger brother. Jiang Cheng had never been happier to have the man with him and it wasn’t Lan Xichen’s fault that Lan Wangji was the way that he was now. Two years rolled by and in that time Wei Wuxian had forced himself to move on. He had to or he was going to drown. In doing that he realized that his feelings for Wen Ning ran deeper than just friends and the two of them began dating.

He thought he’d feel something when Lan Wangji’s memories came back. It’d taken four years by then and it was four year too late. Wei Wuxian sighed as he listened to Lan Xichen explain and ask him to meet Lan Wangji at MianMian’s coffee shop.

“You should go.” Wen Ning said with a kiss to the top of Wei Wuxian’s head as the latter tossed his phone on the high-top kitchen table. “At least for closure.”

“I don’t want too.” Wei Wuxian pouted before pulling Wen Ning into his lap.

“He wants to apologize. You don’t have to forgive him but you owe to yourself to hear him say the words.” Wen Ning said cupping Wei Wuxian’s cheek. Wei Wuxian still didn’t want to go but he knew that he would because his boyfriend was right. He did deserve to hear the apology.

“Fine but I want my jalapeno poppers to be extra spicy tonight and I want some emperor's smile.” Wei Wuxian sighed.

“Of course.” Wen Ning laughed before Wei Wuxian pulled him into a kiss.

He’d gotten several more rather delicious kisses from his boyfriend before he headed out to meet Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian had wrapped the red and white scarf that Wen Ning had made him around his neck along with his tan peacoat. He didn’t mind that the wind had messed with his hair. Honestly, he didn’t plan to stay long. However, by the coffee cup placed in front of the empty seat across from Lan Wangji said a different story.

“Wei Ying.” Lan Wangji greeted him and the sound of his birth name had him feeling bristled a bit.

“Lan Wangji.” Wei Wuxian greeted him in return. He inwardly rolled his eyes at how Lan Wangji had stood up to greet him. Wei Wuxian sat down and kept his hands in his pockets fidgeting with the little toys that A-Yuan had snuck into them. Lan Wangji sat down with an awkward embarrassed expression on his face mixed with sorrow.

“Wei Yi-”

“Wei Wuxian. Lan Wangji, my birth name is for my family only.” Wei Wuxian cut him off. He didn’t want to hear Lan Wangji use it again. To hear it a moment ago only light a fire that was fueling anger.

“Wei Wuxian.” Lan Wangji said after a moment then went into apologizing. To Wei Wuxian it all sounded so scripted and he had to resist the urge to roll his eyes again. He was over Lan Wangji. It’d taken so long to build the good life he had now. He’d spent countless nights at the beginning thinking of the what ifs and should have beens between them. Hearing Lan Wangji tripping over himself over the time he’d lost was nothing but old baggage and Wei Wuxian wasn’t going to waste time on it. The annoyance and the past anger rose up in his chest.

“How much did it hurt you to know you lost me?” Wei Wuxian asked abruptly.

Lan Wangji blinked for a moment. Wei Wuxian was sure it was because of his sharp tone. “I felt like my heart was being crushed.”

“Crushed?” Wei Wuxian huffed in amusement and disbelief. The memory of the pain, the fear, the regret, and sleepless nights “You know I used to miss you despite all the pain you put me through? It used to hurt so bad I could barely stand it, but then I would remember that the man I used to love was gone. As time passed I stopped missing you, Lan Wang, I moved on.”

“I…”

“You should too.” Wei Wuxian said, standing up and without looking back left the coffee shop.

#prompt for sass #angsty prompts #wangxian #wenxian #lan wangji #wei wuxian #wen ning #mentions of jiang cheng #mentions of lan qiren #lan xichen #sad stuff #amnesia #heartbreak #my attempt at being angsty #unhappy ending

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curiosity-killed · 4 years

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a bow for the bad decisions: chapter 15

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(on ao3)

He doesn’t avoid her. He doesn’t have to avoid her; she’s a visiting physician and he’s the sect leader. Their paths rarely cross. For the first two weeks, the only time he sees her is at dinner with the other disciples. She sits at a table alongside Xiong Chunfeng and two of the senior assistants, and even in grey rather than blue, she fits. Jiang Cheng’s heart gives a funny stutter at the realization, the ease with which he accepts her place here. Her eyes flick up toward him briefly, and the small smile curving her lips freezes. Catching himself, Jiang Cheng turns away and continues on to his seat with Xingtao and Bujue. He carefully does not look her way for the rest of the meal. He doesn’t want her to feel watched, to feel like she’s under some kind of probation. The last thing he wants is her to feel that she’s a prisoner here. Resolved, he starts taking his dinners privately. There’s still plenty of work left for him to attend to, and taking a break for dinner only means that work is waiting for him when he returns. He starts sending for his dinner to be brought to his study instead. A month into this new routine, he feels someone come to a pause outside his study door and then a short, sharp knock.

“Not right now,” he says absently.

He’s going to take the first night hunt that crosses his desk, no matter how boring it is. The last three hours have been devoted to an absurd complaint between two dyers in Jiangling over the rights to a new mordant they developed together. Each belongs to a different guild, and he has missives from nearly every member of both guilds strewn across his desk; all of them are laden with such absurd jargon that he’s almost ready to give up and tell them to figure it out themselves. As much as he’d like to, though, he can’t let two of the largest textile guilds in Yunmeng fight indefinitely. Still. He’s going to find a night hunt as soon as he can and kill some godsdamned ghosts. Steps cross the floor, and he looks up in irritation in time to see the bottom of a tray before it’s set in the only empty corner of his desk. He blinks and finds Wen Qing frowning down at him. “You aren’t taking care of yourself,” she says shortly. “Your cultivation may be plenty strong for inedia, but neglecting your own care will only injure yourself and your sect.” “I—” Jiang Cheng starts, but he rapidly realizes he has no idea how to finish that sentence. He stares up at her instead, utterly baffled and mouth slightly parted. This is— He was trying to distance himself from her so she didn’t feel undue pressure. She wasn’t supposed to come seek him out over something as absurd as his own dining. “Um. Thank you,” he says before looking down, cheeks warm. She inclines her head slightly, and he finds himself casting desperately for a conversation, for a reason for her to stay even a moment longer. “Healer Xiong says you’ve started assisting with some of the assistants’ training,” he finally says. It isn’t really what he means to say, but it’s the first thing that he seizes on. It has been over a month since she was brought here, after all. Now is a perfectly acceptable time to ask after her adjustment here. “Healer Xiong has been most gracious in inviting me into her lessons,” she affirms. “And your rooms?” he prompts. “The accommodations and food have been to your taste?” Something like frustration crosses her face, a faint pursing of her lips. “Respectfully, Jiang-zongzhu,” she says, “I brought your meal here to encourage rest, not to provide more work.” Heat rushes up his cheeks. The chastisement in her tone is mild but firm, and he finds himself sitting a little straighter under it. She hesitates before sighing. One corner of her lips quirks up, a fleeting half-smile, before she turns a stern look on him. “I’ll provide a full report if you eat your dinner,” she says. It feels a little like he should be offended by her bargaining, and he scowls a moment. He’d expected her to give a terse answer and then leave, surely not wanting to stay around any longer than she had to. He can’t guess what motive she might have for staying, except, perhaps, it is just her diligence as a doctor. In that way, perhaps it makes sense. She’s clearly taken on her responsibilities in the physicians’ office fully, and he is, in that sense, her new sect leader. Of course she’d take this task with all the solemn dedication with which he’s seen her approach every other responsibility. Resolved, he inclines his head in acceptance and gestures for her to sit as well. While she folds down across from him, he sets about rearranging the tray on his desk. It really is only one serving, but there’s a pot of tea and a spare cup that was clearly meant for the sauce in a separate jar. He arranges the dishes so that the proper cup is before Wen Qing and his own is a little hidden by the bowls of braised fish balls and noodles. Though her gaze lingers briefly on the cup, she doesn’t mention it before pouring for both of them. True to her word, Wen Qing doesn’t start to speak until he’s started eating. Her report is brisk and thorough, a decisive run-down of how she’s been integrated into the medical staff and what research she’s begun with Xiong-daifu’s approval. For a moment, Jiang Cheng can see her alongside the rest of them in the war. Healing the wounded and tending the sick, yes — but also as an advisor, with her clear sight and pragmatic analysis. If he had managed to bring her back, persuade her to join their side, would they have lost fewer lives? Would the war have ended any more quickly? He brushes the thought away brusquely. She never would have abandoned her family. The only reason she’s here, after all, is because they’ve already been killed. She wouldn’t be here if every last one of them hadn’t been murdered on that mountain. They discuss the efficiency of the treatment processes within Lotus Pier’s infirmary as well as the state of medicine in the outer cities. Wen Qing frowns over the prevalence of marsh fever among farmers and non-cultivators, and briefly wonders if there might be a way to encourage immunity through spiritual energy infusions in qinghao teas. She pauses before shaking her head and deciding to confer with Xiong-daifu instead. It’s all the kinds of conversations Jiang Cheng dreaded when he was younger — the logistics and minutiae of administration. Instead of being bored, though, he finds himself enjoying sharing them with her. Where he has greater familiarity and experience with Yunmeng’s systems and challenges, she brings a critical eye and clear insight. By the time they both stir enough from their conversation to notice time passing, his dishes have long been stacked neatly back on the tray and set aside, and the teapot is empty and dry as bone. Between them sits a rough draft of a proposal for physicians to train in Lotus Pier before spending a year each serving throughout Yunmeng in villages without sufficient medical care. A junior disciple passes by to light the lotus lanterns, a solemn frown on their still-soft face. Wen Qing looks down at it, her left hand slipping over to cover her fingers. A faint pink flush has started high on her cheeks. “I apologize, I did not mean to take up so much of your time or add to your work, zongzhu,” she says. “No, it’s— I. You have—” he pauses, fumbles for words. “You have good insights. I uh appreciate your thoughts.” She pauses, looking up. There’s a moment where she looks surprisingly young, with her lips parted just-so as if to speak and the lantern light catching in the dark of her eyes. Then she glances down, composing herself and pressing her lips together as she dips her head in a polite acknowledgment. “I appreciate the opportunity to assist however I might,” she says. Of course. She’s used to being the leader of her family, a doctor, a member of the upper court in Qishan — to be forced into idleness would nearly be a punishment. Discussing these matters with him offers more information, more opportunities for her to stay busy. His heart sinks a little in disappointment at the realization. Still — he’s startled and pleased when she returns a few days later, when they start eating together and talking a few times a week. Neither of them make any mention of the new routine, but the tray now often bears two meals and always two cups for tea. After six weeks of this, Jiang Cheng receives reports of a demonic cultivator who’s killed an entire village. “Reports started a few months ago, but when we sent a party out to see to them, they couldn’t find signs of anything more than some restless dead,” Bujue explains as Jiang Cheng trades his formal overrobe for something more practical. “But a merchant passed by yesterday and all of Juxinghu has been massacred.” Tightening his bracer, Jiang Cheng steps around the privacy screen. Not having had to be in diplomatic meetings all morning, Bujue is already ready to go. “Massacred? And you’re certain it’s demonic cultivation?” he asks. Bujue hesitates, drawing in a thin breath, before he exhales and gives a short nod. “I checked the earlier reports and they point to a Qian Xiashui,” he says. “She was cast out of the sect there after she insulted Clan Leader Shi’s second son. They say she started cultivating the ghostly path and threatening to take revenge on the clan if they didn’t comply with her demands.” A sudden wave of fatigue hits Jiang Cheng, and he releases a sigh through his nose. This will end in blood. It always does, in cases like this. He’s so tired of it — tired of cleaning up this, Wei Wuxian’s worst mess, and tired of people taking the skills his brother was forced to learn through desperation and twisting them into something evil and vengeful. Wei Wuxian may have used his cultivation to take revenge on Wen Chao, but he hadn’t chosen this path just for that cause. It’s like all the stories he hears now, of the Yiling laozu’s terrible deeds: stealing babes from cribs, sacrificing virgins to many-handed demons. His brother has become a horrible myth, a cautionary tale. Everyone draws a caricature of him in their minds, and none of them reflect the truth. That Wei Wuxian was arrogant and sharp-tongued and brilliant and deep-hearted. He was a brat and a nuisance, a stubbornly loving brother and unshakeable bulwark. In any world, Jiang Cheng would miss his brother, but he thinks it must be worse like this. The hole in his heart is so often rubbed raw by frequent mention of Wei Wuxian’s name, and yet no one’s memory matches the shape of his cut. Juxinghu is only two hours away by sword, and they take a group of senior disciples this time. There’s no lesson here for the juniors to learn. They pass over the lake itself on the way, little more than a pond but still and clear; the sun hangs like a white cymbal in its flat reflection. Landing outside Shi manor, they step off their swords into an empty road. The gate is ajar, wooden doors hanging off their hinges as if struck by some great blow. The air is still and sticky, the sun a heavy warmth on their shoulders. Spiderlegs shiver up Jiang Cheng’s arms as he orders the group into a defensive formation around the manor. He can feel the resentment already, the slivers pricking at his veins. Qian Xiashui is waiting for them. He and Bujue take point, guarding each other’s open sides. Nudging the gates open, they step inside and stop short. Red. Everywhere — there is — the courtyard is watered in it, lush with scarlet, a summer downpour replaced with blood. Streaks splash down the pale stone walls, lakes puddle up in the divots between stones. The sun is reflected in the pools, a thousand miniatures of the lake beyond the manor walls. In the center is a throne. Tall and misshapen, it lurches up from the garden at odd angles, rounded here and cracked there. It takes a moment for the lines of it to resolve into bodies, into broken backs and twisted arms. Atop them sits a small figure in white. Blood dusts her hem, splatters across the hemp cloth. “Qian Xiashui?” Jiang Cheng calls. A smile cracks across her lips, and she folds her hands before her in a crooked salute. “Sandu Shengshou,” she greets, “have you come to see my work?” Her voice is almost childlike, all bright pleasure. It twists something in Jiang Cheng, tugs at the threads of his spine with innate wrongness. She’s thin and small, could pass for a child if it weren’t for the shadows under her eyes and the hollows in her cheeks. “Why did you murder these people?” Jiang Cheng asks. “For revenge? Because they cast you out?” Her eyes narrow, dark slashes in her pale face. “I didn’t murder anyone, Jiang-zongzhu,” she says, “I brought justice to criminals. I did your job for you.” “You massacred an entire family,” Jiang Cheng snaps, gesturing to the desecrated dead all around them. “What could they have done to you that deserved that?” Her small hands clench into fists, knuckles sticking out bony and white. The smile has faded, turned to something hard and snarling. Around him, he can feel the air shifting, condensing. His hand tightens around Sandu. “What could they do to me?” she echoes. “You think this is about me? You think this is petty revenge?” She stands, and there’s a wet crunch of bone and viscera beneath her feet. “They ruined her,” she snarls. “They took my jiejie and they destroyed her.” Jiang Cheng flinches, startled, even as the corpses start to stir. There is so much rage in her voice, so much wrath — and a chasmic, burning hurt. “Their young masters couldn’t stand her talent and so they ripped her down and they killed her,” Qian Xiashui continues, voice growing stronger as she descends from her corpse throne. “And then, when that wasn’t enough, they desecrated her body and broke her spirit so that she could never come home. So that she could never rest.” Her hand flashes out in the start of a seal, and it’s Bujue who stops her. He flings his sword out, a silver-blue arc. Scarlet spurts out of her wrist, and she stumbles, falls with the sword. It lands point-first, pinning her arm to the bloodied tiles. Caught, Qian Xiashui writhes. Her lips pull back to bare her teeth, expression no longer childish but animalistic. “Why are you defending them?” she screams. “They ruined my sister! They deserve it! They deserve it!” Her howls are ghastly, sobs torn out of a broken throat. Jiang Cheng swallows and forces his feet to move. “You should have reported it to a magistrate or to Lotus Pier,” he says. There’s an order to these things, even if he can’t quite believe it would have mattered. Even small sects like this are fiercely insular and hate intrusions from the larger sects. They would have brushed off any inquiry from Lotus Pier and claimed Qian Xiashui was lying to save face. Now, Qian Xiashui stills, her wrist still pinned to the stones by Bujue’s sword. Her head tilts, brows flattening into a black line and dark eyes disbelieving. Her lips tremble, but not with tears. “I did,” she says, voice even and controlled. “I went to Lotus Pier and was turned away. I told the cultivators what they had done and they said it was none of their business. I waited and they never came.” Her voice rises, turns to a roar as she speaks, and with it, the resentment suddenly picks up. She’s faster than he expected; her hand flicks through her own blood in a simple seal before he can reach her. There’s a snarl and then Bujue’s gasp. Jiang Cheng twists, shoves Bujue behind him. His sword’s still pinning her wrist, still out of reach, he’s unarmed— Jiang Cheng chokes as a clawed hand rips into his side. “Zongzhu!” Laughter rises behind him, wild and off-key. Gritting his teeth, he brings Zidian down in a searing arc to cut the corpse in half. It sways before toppling in a wet thud to the ground. “You’re all the same. All you great houses think you’re so noble. You think you are better than us because you have a foot on our throats.” All around them, the corpses are stirring. Qian Xiashui stands in the center, wrist dripping red, and she burns. “They deserved what they got,” she says calmly. “And now you, noble cultivators, will get what you deserve.” Blood lines his teeth as Jiang Cheng turns back to her, Zidian live in his hand. Bujue has recovered his sword and holds it defensively, guarding his opened side. There are twelve corpses shambling toward them, but that’s not what has Jiang Cheng’s eye: Qian Xiashui holds a talisman in her good hand, and red smoke has started billowing around her. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Qian Xiashui, stop this! You can’t control it. It won’t give you what you want, it will just kill you.” She cocks her head to one side, fury writhing across his features. “I don’t care,” she spits. “I want my sister back. What’s the point of living if she’s not here?” The spirit manifests, all long claws and screaming face. Dismay sinks through Jiang Cheng like a stone but he forces his hand up into the air, a spark of qi enough to send the signal. His disciples descend before Qian Xiashui has a chance to command the spirit. It’s quick work in the end. Most of these cultivators fought at his side in the war. Many of them were there for Nightless City, others still for the siege of the Burial Mounds. Twelve corpses, a single spirit, and a half-crazed demonic cultivator are hardly a stumbling block. The suppression array they’d formed outside the walls bursts into violet light and flattens the corpses, pinning them to the ground. Qian Xiashui screams in anger and the spirit shoots toward Bujue. Jiang Cheng cuts behind it, slides Sandu through her chest. She gasps, gurgles as blood spills into her mouth. Her eyes flick up to him, wide and surprised. Childlike. She has to be close to his age, older than he was when he first went to war. Older than Wei Wuxian was when he died. “You…you killed me?” she says, and her voices comes out soft and shaking. They work together to cleanse the manor, liberating and suppressing what spirits they can. No one will ever be able to live here again. The whole town will need a more thorough cleansing later, something like the music of the Gusu Lan to properly disperse the resentment. He’s too tired now to think about the logistics of that. All of them seem subdued, after. They walk outside the perimeter of the manor and mount their swords in heavy silence. Jiang Cheng holds his side closed and does not think of his brother, does not think of wide eyes and blood on trembling lips. Qian Xiashui was not Wei Wuxian. She was crazed and vengeful. She wasn’t protecting anyone but seeking to destroy. Her death was necessary. The trip back to Lotus Pier is not long enough to make himself believe it. Three other disciples are injured, and two of them support the third, whose leg seems to bend the wrong way at the knee. Xiong-daifu breathes in sharply at the sight of them but doesn’t recoil or fuss. He’s always appreciated that about her. Instead, they’re each delivered to their own spot in the hall, with Jiang Cheng relegated to a private corner due to his rank. It feels silly, to be separated now when they were just equal in bloodshed. Still, he’s a little grateful when he’s pulled off his bloodied robes and hears footsteps round the privacy screen. He’s too tired to feel anything more than resigned at the sight of Wen Qing. He’s sure the mortification will rise up later, when he’s trying to get some sleep. “Fierce corpse,” he says stiffly. “Doesn’t seem too deep, just bloody.” Hurts like hell, too, but it’s hardly the worst he’s had. Adrenaline had kept it from immobilizing his arm, at least. “I’ll be the judge of that,” Wen Qing says. He lets her turn him and start cleaning the injury. Each gentle brush of cloth stings, and he clenches his hand in the bloodied fabric of his skirts. Distantly, he’s almost glad it’s Wen Qing. She’s seen this before, back when they were stuck in Yiling and he was waiting for his body to die. The first time he got injured after the war, Healer Xiong’s eyes had widened and grown wet at the sight of the scars across his back and chest, from where Wen Chao had gotten bored and wanted to see how Jiang Cheng reacted to Wen fire. Wen Qing makes no comment on the scars, doesn’t hesitate to adjust him as she needs to tend to the entire wound. He lets himself drift a little, turning his mind away from any thoughts at all and simply listening to the soft hum of her qi beside him. It’s quieter than most his senior cultivators — not quite as aggressive and thrumming as the golden cores of those who cultivate the sword path seriously. There’s a strength to its quiet, a firm surety in its hum.

“What happened?” He stirs a little, roused by the question. Her hands are steady as she threads neat stitches through his skin, but Wen Qing glances up at him with a furrowed brow. He shrugs his opposite shoulder and swallows. “It lunged for Bujue,” he says. “He didn’t have his sword.” Wen Qing’s hands fall still. Her gaze is still down, eyes hidden by the angle, but he can see the tension in the back of her jaw. He frowns. “So you decided your body would make a good shield,” she surmises, sharp. Her hands start up again, and this time he winces as she yanks the sinew through. “That the sect leader of Yunmeng Jiang should sacrifice his own well-being instead of trusting his lieutenant to protect himself.” His hackles raise. It’s not like he died or abandoned the sect. How could he have let Bujue get hurt? He’d been disarmed, defenseless. Jiang Cheng knew he could take the hit, after all — he’s fought through much worse. “He was disarmed,” he snaps. “I fought in the war; I’ve walked off worse.” “Surviving doesn’t make you invincible,” she shoots back. “It could have taken off your head or disrupted your meridians. This is deep, Jiang Wanyin. As it is, you won’t be lifting this arm for a week. Two weeks, at least, before you can use it for any training.” He recoils and then winces when the needle tugs at his skin. Her hand clamps down hard on his shoulder as she lifts her head to shoot him a venomous gaze. “Don’t you dare move or I will knock you out and make you rest for those two weeks,” she threatens. “I’m not a child,” he says. “I did what I thought was right. I couldn’t let Bujue get hurt, not if I could stop it. He’s family.” “And what if you had died?” Wen Qing snaps. “What if you had died for him and he’d been left? Knowing that you had sacrificed yourself for him, knowing that he was the reason you were dead? What would you have done, if Wei Wuxian had been the one to take the hit in your place?” Flinching, he stares at her with wide eyes even as his hands curl into fists. Wei Wuxian had done the same, had taken a hundred hits for Jiang Cheng. The spring before they went to the Gusu lecture, Wei Wuxian nearly died taking an attack that was meant for Jiang Cheng. He can still picture it: the set of his jaw, the blood running down his chest— Shoving the memories away, he clenches his jaw and scowls back at her. The answer is obvious, of course. He’d hated when Wei Wuxian did it. He still hates him, a little, for dying and leaving him now. Bujue’s always been kinder than him, quicker to forgive, but— Disgruntled, he turns back to the front and doesn’t look at her as she finishes stitching the wound shut and sets to wrapping it. “I didn’t— I’m not trying to. To leave or whatever,” he finally grits out. Wen Qing doesn’t pause as she smooths down the bandage and tucks the end into the wrapping. She doesn’t give any sign of hearing him at all, and irritation rises up Jiang Cheng’s back. What right does she have to judge him for protecting his own? Where does she get any authority to scold him? “There. Don’t jostle that shoulder,” she says, all brisk and professional once more. Gathering his ruined robes around him, Jiang Cheng can’t fight down the sullen frustration still lingering his veins. “I have some tea that will help with the pain,” Wen Qing says. “I’ll bring it with dinner.” She’s carefully not looking at him, and Jiang Cheng can’t quite help the way he perks up at that. There’s nearly a question in her tone, as if she isn’t quite sure that’s welcome. It takes all his restraint to keep from blurting out his relief. Clearing his throat, he tugs his robes closed and shrugs his good shoulder. “Alright,” he says. Wen Qing glances up from where she’s cleaning his blood off her hands. She narrows her eyes at him. “If I found out you’ve been working before then—” she starts. “You’ll stick me full of needles and drop me on my bed,” he huffs, flicking his hand. “I know.” A small smile quirks the corners of her lips before she suppresses it and straightens. Even toweling her hands dry, she looks regal as she lifts her chin to meet his gaze. “As long as we’re on the same page,” she says. “I’ll see you in an hour, zongzhu.” Despite himself, Jiang Cheng leaves the infirmary feeling almost like smiling. He can’t quite make sense of it, shies away from looking too closely. Still it’s…it’s good, he thinks, that Wen Qing came to Lotus Pier. For a few moments, at least, short weeks that stretch into months, he can forget Qian Xiashui’s rage, his brother’s terrified eyes. Something new and bright starts to grow over the deep rot of hurt and guilt and grief in his chest. There is so much wreckage left behind, but saplings are starting to grow through the ruins at last. Looking out over Lotus Pier, Jiang Cheng draws in a deep breath and lets himself feel the first brush of hope. Then, Lan Wangji returns.

#mdzs #cql #the untamed #untamed fic #chengqing #jiang cheng #wen qing #my writing

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