Wei Wuxian | Wei Ying | The Yiling Patriarch

Wei Ying was so thankful to be found, to be part of a family, no matter how bewildering the rules. He was told he should work hard, to pay back the kindness that was given him, to know his place within the clan and be happy for it. And he was.

Wei Wuxian was stumbling from one moment to another, the last orders from the sect leader and his wife ringing in his ears. He had to protect his shidi and shijie, with his life if necessary. He had to. The were all that was left. They were all he had. He tried, with everything he had, though it was a grim, tattered sort of success. He could fix this - he was clever enough, and skilled enough, and desperate enough. So he did.

Wei Wuxian was dropped into hell, and he's never entirely sure if he's managed to claw his way out again. But he was so thankful, that his shidi welcomed him home, that the sect leaders still allowed him to fight even though it was glaringly obvious he was no longer... right. But they didn't care - he was a weapon that came easily to their hand. What did it matter that he wouldn't see the end of this war? They told him to end it... so he did.

The Yiling Patriarch could do little more than lounge some days, the ache of a multitude of injuries held together by resentment and pride and sheer bone-headed stubbornness enough to flatten him. But somehow he still cut a fearsome figure in the cultivation world, capable of levelling mountains if he so wished. He didn't wish. He wished to hide in a quiet corner of the world and ensure a little peace for folk who had theirs stripped away. In return, the cultivation world destroyed everything he loved and demanded to be shown what sort of villain he was.

So he did.

Over a decade later, the cultivation world is again in turmoil but he has no active part in it. No one is looking for him, no one has claimed him. He can be his own man now, he is told. Do what he wants. Be free.

He doesn't know how. He was born with a desire to aid, to meddle, to tinker. Lazy afternoons are only gratifying if there is work to safely ignore. But he is set on his path, so he goes with a smile and his chin held high, radiating confidence as he goes adrift. He is not told to stay.

So he goes.

For a time, Wei Wuxian's life is just what he daydreamed about, in those fractured exhausting days between choosing to walk away the relative safety of Yunmeng Jiang and choosing to fall away from the ruined bloody shreds of what had become of his life. Under the open summer sky, he wanders. He has Chenqing in his hand, though he uses it more to play the tunes he hears as he wanders from town to town for Little Apple's enjoyment than he does for anything more nefarious. He has a weak sword strapped to his pack - he has the idea that as he has time to get further away from the stress of the start of his new life, he might be able to train, to strengthen that wisp of a core he's managed to earn from Mo Xuanyu, along with this unfamiliar frame, this unfamiliar face. He manages to earn enough coin between selling simple talismans and solving minor problems to kept himself decently fed. Of course he buys his donkey a frankly ridiculous number of apples, but it keeps his travelling companion relatively sweet. Every morning there is a new horizon, every day there is a new problem to solve, every night there is a new food to try, a new wine to sample, a new song to hear, a new story to get caught up in. He pinches the cheeks of cute babies in marketplaces, flirts outrageously with serving girls in busy taverns, carries water for little old aunties who scold him for not settling down already.

It isn't all careless good fun, of course, that isn't what life is. There are injuries - most minor, scrapes and burns and sprains, which become easier and easier to deal with has his core slowly strengthens. There are a few less minor injuries. Most thankfully where he can afford to spend a little time and a little coin to heal. Some not, spent gritting it out, with what rations he has and defensive talismans set around his camp while he waits it out. Some days the weather is downright hateful - impossibly muggy even for a Yunmeng boy, or filled with torrential rainfall, or one perfectly miserable week spent holed up in a mountain pass trapped by a surprise snowstorm. Some night hunts turn out to be painful in ways that aren't physical. He weeps with mothers who have unfairly lost their children. He has no good answers for spurned lovers who want to know why they were left behind. There are some decidedly uncomfortable moments with the shades of folk who were Wen, but weren't cultivators, but died in a war that wasn't of their making. Some days there just isn't a town within a day's walk - on those nights he camps, he sleeps in trees, he rations his food and does not think about how very alone he is.

He doesn't.

Wei Wuxian has always lied most to himself.



But this goes on for months, week after week falling in his wake, the seasons slowly changing around him. There are harvest festivals here and there, bright joyous things he revels in, imagining a life where this is the well-earned reward of a long growing season, of this being a glorious last hurrah before retreating indoors for the winter in a cozy little farmhouse to plan for a future spring. He wanders south as winter nears, closer to the sea, seeking to avoid a more bitter cold.

He writes to Lan Zhan of course, almost constantly. He doesn't send everything he writes, of course. Some of it is just too ridiculous, even for him - he doesn't need to bother Lan Zhan with every thought he has, after all. The man will be busy with his new duties, after all! But he makes sure to send anything that sounds interesting, or particularly worrisome. Tidbits of life from more far-flung regions. Sometimes he sends sketches - particularly gorgeous landscapes, busy town squares, once a very adorable bunny that had hopped right into his camp. Sometimes he sends gifts - little small candies, talismans he's thought up that have turned out to be particularly useful, once a small delicate figurine, an intricately carved crane with upturned wings that reminded him of the bird that stalked the pond outside the Jingshi. He sends his missives with couriers he finds along he way, when he has coin. He doesn't hear back, of course, how could he? His path is meandering, going where his interest is caught, sometimes wandering far beyond the edges of the commonly accepted cultivation world. He spends time amongst people who speak a language he does not understand, getting by with gestures and smiles and determined good will. He spends time in lonely countryside, without a soul alive or dead to mark his passing.

He spends time, because that is the currency he is suddenly rich in, and no matter what he does he's going to have to spend it anyway.

As the winter wears on, and he is forced indoors more often to keep away from the cold that bites nearly as hard as it ever did those last few years of his last life despite his best attempts to avoid it, he starts to hear of Lan Zhan again. Or no, not of Lan Zhan. Of Lan Wangji. Of Hanguang-Jun, the Chief Cultivator who is evidently making quite a name for himself. Wei Wuxian drinks in the stories. He hears he one about how he Second Jade of Lan is rumored to actually be made of jade, how those who earn an interview with the Chief Cultivator come away rattled, unsure if they have earned favor or ire. How the focus seemed more turned towards helping those without power, rather than building up the power of the cultivation world or of the Lan Sect in particular. Of how someone once offered the Chief Cultivator a local delicacy made of rabbit and the man had nearly set the poor unfortunate soul on fire from the power of his glare alone.

Spring slowly unfurls, reluctant and slow. The air warms, but doesn't necessarily gentle - snow turns to rain, the ground goes from iron-hard to mud-slick. Wei Wuxian reluctantly leaves Lil' Apple with the farmer who stabled him over the winter for a little longer, travelling on foot and truly alone for a time, worried about flash floods and wet hooves. He has to get new robes at one point, the set he left Gusu in patched and stained beyond all repair. Of course, this far out of the way, he has to take what he can get, abandoning his usual colors in favor of something less damaged.

It's in this way, sitting in a tavern with a hot meal after filling his purse with coin selling a pack of talismans, that he sees Lan Zhan. The windows are open to let in the afternoon breeze, letting in the bustle of the street. Suddenly he spots he bright clean white of Gusu Lan. There is a small cultivation sect nearby, and a rumor that they were asking for help for a bit of a knotty problem - he's been thinking to see if he can take a crack at it, but he didn't know the Chief Cultivator had agreed to help. He stares, openly, safe in his anonymous robes, in the shadow of the tavern.
Lan Zhan is just as gorgeous as he remembers - tall and cool and composed, leading a pack of absolutely adorable juniors as they head to one of the better taverns in town. He isn't spotted, of course - a crowd has gathered, drawn by such an uncommon sight, by the hope of Gusu silver making it into local pockets. He considers calling out, of course. Cheerful words, bright sparks like talisman butterflies, and it would be so easy. He knows that Lan Zhan wouldn't refuse him.

But that same knot under his breastbone that sent him on the road in the first place keeps him in his seat. It feels.. unearned. That he isn't... ready, yet. As much as he yearns for a friendly face, he still doesn't feel settled enough in this skin that he's sure he won't just fade into someone else's idea of what he should be. He tells himself Lan Zhan will understand.

He's not sure if that one is a lie or not, and decides not to examine it too closely as the bright Gusu white disappears into the crowd.

There is a rocky ledge overlooking the river in Cloud Recesses. Wei Ying was last here in a previous lifetime, before war barged into his life. He was last here with his brother and his friend, enjoying the sunshine, enjoying freedom from the library, secure in his victorious teasing of one Lan Zhan.

Wei Ying is there again, in a different body, in a world that is so different from that one of so many years ago. And now he his here alone, with only his mask and a bamboo flute for company. The sun is still shining, but it is cold, the winter lingering here in Cloud Recesses the way it doesn't in Lotus Pier.

When he first came back, he figured he'd have a bit of an adventure figuring out who this kid hated so much to sacrifice his own life over it. Somehow instead he's found a mess involving the evidently not-straight-forward death of Nie Mingue, the unfortunately long life of Xue Yang, and the death of Xiao Xingchen.

Honestly, Wei Ying barely knew Xiao Xingchen. He'd seen the man fight once, with an elegance he could never hope to match. He of course heard the man's reputation - who hadn't? But Xiao Xingchen was also that most elusive thing for him - a link back to his family. He always thought that sometime, somehow, he'd have a chance to meet with his marital uncle again - to talk about where he and Wei Ying's mother had come from and their mysterious leader, to see if Xiao Xingchen had any memories of Wei Ying's mother, to flesh out the very few he had left. He had thought, after meeting Jiang Cheng again, and the disaster that was, that at least there was that one place to turn for family in this world.

He doesn't regret leaving Xue Yang's death in Song Lan's hands. But he does wish he could have gotten in a little stabbing himself. It would have immensely assuaged his feelings.

Or so he thinks, anyway, as he watches the water tumble by and tries to make sense of his equally tumultuous feelings.

Wei Ying wakes up.

It is still entirely unexpected. Even more unexpected to wake without his hands bound, on a comfortable bed, his head on a soft pillow, feeling clean and... safe?

Considering one of the last memories he can dredge up from the last time he was awake involved Jiang Cheng yelling and the lightning-sharp pain of Zidian, this is quite the accomplishment.

Some of that is explained when it suddenly clicks that the guqin music he can hear is a particular tune - one that he still doesn't know the name of.

It's... overwhelming. He's still so tired - thankfully not the soul-crushing exhaustion that chased him over a cliff, but a sort of grumbling fretting that there's still more things to do, even though he just did things. Though, thinking about it, he probably didn't just do anything other than sleep - he doesn't remember moving from Dafan Mountain to Gusu, and he's been still long enough that the sting from Zidian is now a distant ache. He's still reeling from accidentally horribly offending the only nephew he has, and nearly being killed by the only sibling he has. He has no doubt that nearly twice over now Jiang Cheng would have happily ended him. That's... that's something he's going to put aside for a moment. Because there's also the absolutely shattering sight of Wen Ning, still unburnt and fighting, to think about. He was told Wen Ning was dead.

Well of course Wen Ning is dead, he's been a fierce corpse for quite some time. But he's supposed to be so many ashes on the wind, unable to be buried, definitely never properly mourned, destroyed in the the Jin's quest for vengeance. Who else is alive? Wen Qing? Shijie?

(Blood, far too much blood, the light dying in her eyes, her lovely face going slack, held tight in Jiang Cheng's desperate embrace.)

Not shijie.

And then...

Then there's Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan... was he trying to stop him? Trying to stop this young cultivator who was going down a path proven to lead to disaster? Stopping him poorly, and then defending him, so... That's...

Odd?

Kind of sweet?

Weirdly... Sweetly... odd?

He musters up the wherewithal to turn his head to look, and is entirely unsurprised to see Lan Zhan behind the guqin, masterful as ever. The man is gorgeous, somehow even more beautiful after years, something Wei Ying would have declared impossible all of those years ago.

If a few tears have escaped because of how very much this all is... can anyone blame him?

Can anyone blame him if there's a pang of panic when he realizes that the object settled in his field of view is the mask he definitely remembers being firmly on his new face when he collapsed?

There is a bottle, roughly stoppered, and a folded paper. The bottle is of sturdy, but plain pottery - but the liquor inside is rich, a little sweet, and strong. Wei Ying thought they could spare a bottle of Uncle Four's best in return for all of the riches they had been given.

The paper is a sketch of the ruined hall inside Demon Subdue Cave, during meal time - a scene of the Wen remnants enjoying foods brought from another world. At the bottom, written in (admittedly sloppy) characters, is a note:

Young Mistress Sunshine - thank you. Your treats were much appreciated. - Wei Wuxian

The 'package' for Lan Zhan isn't so much one package, as it is a series of large bundles, each done up in simple hard-wearing waxed hemp cloth.

Each contains reams and reams of notes, all tied up in twine. They're roughly divided by topic - this packet is about theories and applications of fire-lighting talismans, that one about the effectiveness of different styles of wards against resentful energy, a whole treatise on the recovery of spiritual cognition. There's ramblings about what does and decidedly does not grow in land exposed to resentful energy, a whole sheaf of papers outlining the sheer frustration of getting lotuses to grow where they have never grown before which is followed directly by the uses of lotus beads grown from land soaked in resentful energy.

There is one page, buried deep in the middle of one of the packets, detailing how to use resentful energy as a stop-gap repair for severe injuries. He'd debated leaving it out, but it'd seemed important, even though he's sure Lan Zhan would figure out how he learned such things.

There's small sketches scattered throughout, some having direct relation to the topic on the page, and some clearly the result of day-dreaming. Bunnies are a popular theme, exploring the corners of pages and hopping along the margins, but there are other things too - scenes from shopping trips that had seemed funny, faces of the last remnants of the Wen clan drawn as a distraction from a theory that wasn't lending itself to being written down, remembered scenes from Lotus Pier.

There's a note that isn't included in the bundles, pinned to the top of one of the packages.

Lan Zhan - here's an addition to your libraries, if you think them worthy. I tried to improve the handwriting. - Wei Ying

On top of the packets, inside one of the wrapped clothes, is a small stuffed kangaroo, with a fragment of bright red hair ribbon, frayed at the edges, tied jauntily around one ear.

When he awakens, he is cold.

He is often cold in the Burial Mounds, has often been cold since he arrived that first day, flung from the heavens into hell itself. With resentful energy and the Jin Iron his only source of strength, heat was sapped away before it could even think to pool at his fingertips. He perpetually had to be wary of frostbite, even with the mildest cold snap.

When he awakens, he is hungry.

He is often hungry in the Burial Mounds, has often been hungry since that first day, flung from the heavens into hell itself. At first there was very little left alive to eat, but he scavenged what he could. He tried not to think about it later. He failed, at not thinking of it later. Food was often scarce, even after farming started in earnest. It has only been recently that there has always been enough to eat, of a quality one would want to eat. It was then that his appetite started to wane, little by little, pain and exhaustion and wrongness stealing his interest in food. He tried to eat anyway, to keep up appearances, but he knows he's not doing a very good job of it.

When he awakens, he is alone.

This is not entirely true - the shrieks and cries and wails of the damned souls still here continuously thrum through his veins, creep around his shattered bones, echo in his skull. But the other noises - the chatter of simple living people, a-Yuan's gleeful shouts, the rattle and rumble of people living their live in close proximity - that is gone. It takes Wei Wuxian... so long, far too long, to first sit, and then shove himself to his feet. The sedative effect of the needle Wen Qing had struck him with still has its claws dug deep, spinning his vision, making his steps faltering.

Sorry and... thank you.

The courtyard is empty, the remaining lotus flowers bobbing in a faint breeze. Tools are left to lie scattered, with no thought of organization for the next time they are used. A little toy lion, too jaunty for this grey and dusty place, lies on its side, abandoned.

Wei Wuxian pushes himself on, his soul only knowing an endless scream of loss.

Wei Ying knows, knows, that he has no right to be upset. It wasn't even remotely Lan Zhan's fault that Wei Ying's heart is the trampled mess that it is. He should have dealt with this crush a long time ago, but he figured there was no harm in it, that he was allowed to look all he wanted. It was safe - Lan Zhan would one day find some woman worthy of him, and Wei Ying just hoped that one day their kids would be told stories about a silly young man from Yunmeng who tried to sneak wine into the Cloud Recesses.

But it turns out Lan Zhan isn't looking for a young woman.

And the ache of being so close to what he could have if the world was different is like a knife through his heart.

So once Wei Ying got over the initial shock of it, he gathered himself up, and heads down the stairs.

And stops.

He really doesn't want to go back to the Burial Mounds tonight, to poor food and minimal comfort and people who are grateful, and friendly, but are always just a tiny bit wary of the man who had become something of a monster the Wens feared during the war. He doesn't want to go back to the whispering shadows which will simply have a field day over this. He doesn't want to face Wen Qing's knowing eyes.

So he doesn't.

He turns right back around, collects two jars of wine (Yunmeng's, not Emperor's Smile, that's... too much, too soon), and parks himself as close to the fireplace as he can manage without being actually in it. He's going to be warm, and he's going to be drunk, and that will be... better.

Right?

Wei Wuxian has no idea what time it is - late enough that it might be called early morning, early enough that it could be mistaken as late night. He has only a few candles burning, not wanting to attract attention, not wanting to disturb anyone else's rest. He is drooped over his makeshift table, curled around the haphazardly bound papers he considers his journal.

He writes slowly, both because of the exhaustion weighting his limbs, and because he's trying to make his writing as legible as possible. He remembers a complaint from years ago about his writing, he wants to show he learned something since then.

Something. Lots of things.

He should sleep, he knows - there is work to do in the morning - a garden to tend, a-Yuan to manage, wards to strengthen, people to protect. But his sleep is an uneasy, haunted thing, full of whispers from the dark power that holds together the pieces of his shattered body. After spending what felt like a small eternity trying to sleep, he now has resorted to keeping it at bay until he collapses.

He's sure Wen Qing will have something to say about this plan. She'll probably have needles too. Terrifying woman.


He hasn't told Lan Zhan about his notes, pages and pages full of research findings and theories and talismans, everything he has been working on these lonely months. He won't tell Lan Zhan about his notes - Lan Zhan will only get that pinched, sad look he gets too often these days, see it as yet another failure to help... Wei Ying doesn't have the heart to tell him there's no help to give. Sometimes he thinks it would be better to lie, to sit through three rounds of Clarity and declare he feels ever so much better, much more pure, thanks ever so much. Then just... refuse to leave the Burial Mounds. He could do it.

He could.

But he's a greedy man.

He has been gifted with extra time, time (mostly) away from the politics and the privations of his life, time to see Lan Zhan and... pretend. Pretend things are mostly normal. Pretend that he isn't a wreak, bound for disaster. To see his face and his smile and his goodness and know that out there in the world, Lan Zhan will still exist, even after he is gone. And that will be good.

That will be enough.

Wei Wuxian sighs, turning the page to start in on a new topic. His back aches. His back always aches, spine shattered into fragments when he landed here so many years ago. It'd probably help if he sat up properly. It would probably help if he slept.

He should tell Lan Zhan the end is coming. He should... confront that. Tell him he never truly expected to leave the Burial Mounds the first time, then never truly expected to survive hunting down Wen Chao, then never truly expected to survive the Sunshot Campaign. He'd emerged from hell intent on dragging those who killed his first family down into its depths and then... somehow survived to see the after. And he's grateful, he's so grateful - he's seen Lotus Pier restored, and his dear shidi as Sect Leader. He's seen his shijie as a gorgeous bride. He knows that Lan Zhan survived the war, and should do well in this new peace. He's seen a-Yuan's smile, an extra bonus he didn't know he'd wanted.

He knows this can't last forever. Eventually someone will decide the lure of the Stygian Tiger Seal will be greater than the fear of the Yiling Patriarch. Eventually he'll become too worn to contain that power effectively. He knows the day he is forced to destroy the seal, it will take him with it. He's been going over and over the theory, looking for a way around it, but the power is simply too great - the backlash is going to tear him to shreds.

He should tell Lan Zhan.

He will never tell Lan Zhan.

There's a page, set aside from his journal, that details the research he's put into this, lays out in excruciating detail the work he's done to try and work his way out, but... he's not sure if it is kinder to include it, or burn the page. Lan Zhan will be sad either way, he knows. He has been trying so hard, ever since he found out what Wei Ying was doing. He's going to be so disappointed that his efforts were in vain. But Wei Ying isn't sure if it is kinder to include the notes, to show that he was trying, he hadn't just given up... or kinder to leave them out, so Lan Zhan will never know how Wei Ying took advantage of all those times Lan Zhan tried, just so he could have an excuse to talk with Lan Zhan, to be near him, to pretend that it hadn't all gone so wrong. He may just leave it out. Let Lan Zhan believe he missed the danger, let him think that his old friend Wei Ying wasn't such a selfish man. Leave a more fond impression, hopefully, something to tell future little Lans with serious faces and golden eyes - stories about the reckless boy from Yunmeng, who ignored the rules and played with fire.

Ugh. Now he's just being sentimental.

He turns the page, and continues to write.

If someone had told a much younger Wei Wuxian that his main concern for a day of work would be to work out what sort of building material he'd need to create a plot of land that retains enough water to grow, but not so much as to drown young lotus plants...

Well.

He'd ask why you weren't sharing what was obviously some wonderful liquor with him.

But that has been his task of the day. It is, of course, impossible to grow lotus so far from the Yunmeng, but he's gone and promised he can do such a thing. So now there must be lotus here at the Burial Mounds, whether it can be done or not.

One of these days he will learn to stop being so rash.

Not any day soon, however.

Wei Wuxian's 'rooms', such as they are, at the Demon Subdue Palace are in even more disarray than usual, his notes and few acquired books scattered in a mad pile as he tries to conglomerate everything he knows about lotus seeds and plants into a usable whole.