It has been close to three years since Lan Xichen was dragged out of Guanyin Temple, and still he finds himself back there almost every night.
He never starts out there, though, and in a way, he would almost prefer it if he did; if he was immediately flung into the nightmare and knew it as such. As it is, despite how long it has been, his mind still cannot see the seemingly innocent dreams for the beginnings of nightmares that they are.
The dreams all differ, at least to start with. One night, he might find himself walking the many garden paths at Jinlintai, the sweet fragrance of sparkling peonies filling his nostrils. Another night he is at home in the Hanshi, pouring tea while discussing the latest twists and turns in sect politics, chuckling at yet another clever, insightful remark about one of their fellow sect leaders. A third night he is in the Unclean Realm, seated in the guest seat of honour and playing the guqin, the notes wrapping themselves around the carved pillars and beams of the hall and mingling together with the notes from the other instrument in a harmonious duet.
All dreams start like that, with memories of A-Yao. Sweet, treasured memories of days that Lan Xichen once considered his most precious ones; memories he will carry deep within his heart always, despite the thorn they have become, bleeding him drop by drop until he is nothing but a dry husk. And that is the third thing all the dreams have in common: memories, and A-Yao, and blood. No matter how sweet the dream, no matter how simple the memory it holds, suddenly they are in Guanyin Temple, A-Yao with pain and betrayal on his face, Lan Xichen's sword buried in his chest, and blood pulsating out of the wound and onto his hands. A-Yao's strained voice, crying and begging him and condemning him and pleading with him, all the while stepping impossibly nearer, impaling himself until the sword is buried hilt-deep, despite Lan Xichen's pleas for him to not move, I told you not to move!
But A-Yao moves. He comes closer, and closer, and closer, and life runs out of him with every step and every drop of blood spilt, until suddenly he is gone and Lan Xichen stands there alone in the dark, his hands empty, useless, feeling his soul break with a sorrow he cannot allow himself to feel, until at last, at last, he wakes up.
Tossing the sweat-soaked covers away, Lan Xichen sits on the edge of his bed, shuddering and hugging his elbows as the last tendrils of the nightmare reluctantly surrenders their hold over him.
In his nightmares, A-Yao never pulls him along. He never has to realise that he will not let go, that he will not save himself if that means leaving A-Yao behind, and he never has to feel that last push, boosted with spiritual energy, that sends him flying back and takes the choice away from him. He never has to relive those things in his nightmares, but he remembers them. Every time he wakes, he remembers them, and his body trembles.
Is he cursed? There are days when he thinks he must be. What else could explain it? The constant reliving of every moment he has ever spent in the company of the man who became Lianfang-zun, who overcame the circumstances of his birth and rose on his own merits to become sect leader and Chief Cultivator, whose face was nothing more than façade hiding a villain who used him, for years, as a shield – what could it be, other than a curse?
Guilt.
Guilt, and regret, and a grief deeper than any ocean and vaster than the sky above, because he cannot see the villain.
In all his memories, all he sees is A-Yao. His A-Yao, the way he remembers him, which seems now like a different world than the one everyone else remembers and retells and commits to history books. But no matter how many times Lan Xichen turns those memories over, no matter how thoroughly he scrutinizes all their interactions, he cannot see the villain, and he is tired of dreaming.
He is tired of waking up once, twice, ten times in a night, gasping at the memories but unable to shield himself from them. Tired of spending hours every night meditating, or at least trying to, when sleep eludes him and he knows he must get through the coming day. Tired of second-guessing himself and being unable to find any fault, even though he knows it must be there.
Because he fooled you that well, Huan. He showed you what he needed you to see, and you never looked for anything else. You were always his greatest fool.
The truth of the thought has a bitter taste, and Lan Xichen buries his face in his hands for a moment, trying and failing utterly to swallow it back down. His hands are trembling the way they did then, violently, uncontrollably, and he needs something, anything, to clear his mind, if only for a little while, and he will not find it in his bed.
Throwing on his robes, he exits the Hanshi. It is late and he is far from fully dressed, what with his hair down and no ornaments hanging from his sash, but if there is to be any privilege to being the leader of one of the four main sects, it has got to be the right to walk outside his own home in the middle of the night without putting on full formal attire. Not that he should be out this late to begin with, but Lan Xichen thinks that if the venerated Lan An could have known what kind of nightmares would come to haunt his descendants, he never would have forbidden them from leaving their beds at night, when he first set about creating the rules of his sect.
Or, the insidious voice at the back of his head reminds him, you are not as good a disciple as you believed yourself to be. A truly good disciple would not suffer from nightmares, because they would have followed the rules in the first place, wouldn't they? But you, Huan, you not only befriended evil, you enabled evil, so who is truly at fault here?
And still… up until the moment of confession, he could never see even an ounce of that evil in A-Yao. Born in unfortunate circumstances well out of his control but always trying his best, working hard to rise to the promise of his paternity, establishing himself within the cultivation world with his diligence and a skill for diplomacy unequalled among all the sects. The watch towers, his first great project as sect leader and one for which he had received such harsh critique, had been for the good of the people, a greater kindness than perhaps any cultivation sect had ever shown the common world before. The was the A-Yao he knew: attentive, caring, and considerate – how could all of that have been a lie?
How could he have been so blind?
Lost in his thoughts he lets his feet guide him over the familiar paths, and the further he walks, the further he manages to push the thoughts back. Cloud Recesses is as still and beautiful as it always is, but in a different way from how it is in daytime. During the day, there are always disciples walking the paths, and elders and healers going about their day. On the wind there will be the low voices of morning readings or the metallic clangs or wooden toks when swords clash as disciples spar, or notes of guqin and flute trying out songs as familiar to Lan Xichen as friends – and these past few years, the loud braying of a donkey and the equally boisterous laughter of its owner.
He is happy for his brother, and for the peace Wangji has finally found with his zhiji. Lan Xichen can think of no one who deserves such happiness more, and his heart warms at the thought of his brother's quiet smiles, so much more frequent these days, and how it shows just how absolutely besotted he is whenever he and Wei Wuxian are together. That happiness is long overdue.
Privately, though, he is also grateful that they are both gone night-hunting for a few days. Their ease with each other and the sheer domestic bliss that radiates from them like a second sun is warm, but it burns, too.
"Zewu-Jun!"
The call is not loud at all, but it still jolts Lan Xichen out of his ruminations and makes him turn around to find its owner.
"Sizhui" he greets the disciple with a smile. "Have you been on guard duty?"
"Yes, Zewu-Jun, first watch." Sizhui confirms with a nod, his expression the same curious blend of serious devotion and beaming enthusiasm as it always has been. At least for a moment, before he cocks his head ever so slightly. "Is something the matter?"
Everything, Lan Xichen's mind supplies at once, although thankfully he has many years of experience of not speaking it. The concern in Sizhui's voice is touching, but for all that Sizhui is now considered a senior disciple, he is still very much Lan Xichen's junior, as well as his nephew.
Er-ge, who do you think is the lonelier man?
The memory is unbidden and sharp-edged, but he manages not to flinch.
"I trust you are on your way back to your room?" he asks Sizhui, leaving the question unanswered. "Let me walk you there."
"Gladly" Sizhui agrees, and Lan Xichen is grateful that his nephew is too well brought up to insist. Rather than forcing an answer or a lie, Sizhui waits quietly until Lan Xichen has come over to him on the other path, and begins to walk once invited to do so. Obviously, there is no reason why Sizhui should not be able to find the way on his own, and unlike Lan Xichen, Sizhui has a valid reason to be out at this hour. Accompanying him gives Lan Xichen an excuse to stay out a little longer, though, and more importantly something – well, someone – else to focus his thoughts on.
Sizhui falls into step with him easily, moving with effortless grace. There is still something a little gangly about him, something that suggests that there might still be one last growth spurt waiting to happen. Even so, it is clear that his teenage years are coming to a rapid end and that adulthood has already begun. It is surreal to think that time has passed so quickly; Lan Xichen still remembers when Wangji first brought the little boy to Cloud Recesses, fevered and undernourished, clutching a stuffed doll to his chest. He remembers watching over them, both his brother and his brother's newly adopted son, as they recovered, the latter in a matter of weeks, the former excruciatingly slowly over the course of years, and seeing how close they grew to each other. He remembers the naming ceremony they held, long before Wangji was healed enough to attend but insisted on doing so anyway. He needs a name, xiongzhang, Wangji had implored him, desperation in his broken voice, he needs our family's name.He remembers watching Sizhui during his first practice, and after his first night-hunt, and now, most recently, his advancement from junior to senior disciple, and he just cannot fathom how it all happened. How can so much time have passed?
And how did he himself spend all that time?
"Zewu-Jun, would you like to come inside?"
Once again, Sizhui's voice recalls him to the present, and Lan Xichen is perturbed to find that they are already outside Sizhui's rooms. He has no idea how long they have been here, or how long Sizhui has been waiting for him to say anything, but the concern written on his young face is impossible to ignore.
"No, no, thank you. It is much too late for visits."
"Of course, yes" Sizhui says, nodding. "I apologise."
"There is no need to apologise" Lan Xichen says, and before the words are all fully spoken, it is as though he can hear his brother's voice in those words. Sizhui must hear it too, because his face crinkles with a smile, and Lan Xichen continues: "I shan't be keeping you from your bed any longer."
"Actually" Sizhui blurts, then stops. When Lan Xichen raises an eyebrow at him in silent question, he resumes: "I'm not going to go to sleep. I was planning on meditating until morning, but I would much rather have Zewu-Jun's company."
He looks… not troubled, exactly, and not embarrassed either. Sheepish. And then, of course, he realises what he has just said and throws himself into a bow.
"I'm sorry, Zewu-Jun, that was an impertinent assumption."
"Sizhui…" He puts his hands on his nephew's arms and encourages him to break the bow, and tries very hard not to think of the hundreds of times he did so with A-Yao – a habit it took many years to break him out of. "Is something wrong? Why would you not go to sleep when it's already this late?"
"Oh, no, nothing's wrong. I just… I find it very difficult to sleep when- when my fathers are out night-hunting on their own." Sizhui makes a face, embarrassment clear even in the faint light. "I know it's silly, but Wei-qianbei is always so reckless whenever there's only the two of them. Whenever I'm there, or Jingyi, or any of the juniors, he's a lot more careful."
Lan Xichen severely doubts whether anyone in their right mind would ever describe Wei Wuxian as careful, but he takes Sizhui's meaning.
"No" he says gently. "Why would it be silly for you to worry about your parents' wellbeing?"
If anything, it is sweet, and speaks only of Sizhui's inherently tender heart – one he has clearly inherited from Wangji, but is much better than his father at showing. Unfortunately, it also makes it nigh impossible for Lan Xichen to leave.
"Well… If your invitation still stands, I will accept it. May I come inside?"
Sizhui beams and practically bounces to open the door.
"Yes, Zewu-Jun!"
It has been years since Lan Xichen last visited this room, and never since it was given to Sizhui, so he cannot help but glance around it while Sizhui sets about lighting some of the lamps. This set of rooms is on the smaller side, but certainly befitting a head disciple and the sect heir, with the areas for entertaining guests separated from the sleeping area by painted privacy screens. It is kept neat and tidy, but a few personal items here and there lend a sense of home. There is Sizhui's guqin, a book of poetry that Lan Xichen recognises from the library, as well as a few hairpieces and belt ornaments. Some blank joss paper for writing talismans, an incense holder, and… a stuffed toy.
Its fabric is worn soft and the colours have faded, but there can be no mistake.
"I haven't seen this one in a while" Lan Xichen remarks, reaching out to give the toy a fond pat and a smile.
"Hanguang-Jun kept it for me" Sizhui replies warmly. "I was a little embarrassed about it when I was younger, but I'm not so much, anymore."
"Wangji is very good at that" Lan Xichen smiles. "Holding on to things for others until they need them."
"Yes, he is."
Their gazes meet, and in his nephew's eyes, Lan Xichen sees the same kind of endless adoration and devotion that resides in his own heart. They might come at it from different angles – he as an older brother, Sizhui as a child now grown – but they are the same.
"Please, Zewu-Jun, will you have a seat?"
Lan Xichen nods and takes the offered high seat at the table, startling a little when Sizhui procures tea cups.
"There really is no need for you to go through all this trouble" he protests.
"It's no trouble" Sizhui replies, shaking his head just so, "but I rarely have guests and Ning-shushu gave me some tea after our last night-hunt together. I'd like to share it with you."
For a moment, he wonders if perhaps Sizhui is lonely, but then dispels the thought. His nephew is young. All his waking hours are spent either practicing, or teaching, or night-hunting, or playing around in the back mountain (which, yes, Lan Xichen is fully aware that all disciples do, even the seniors) – of course he does not receive guests in his room! Just because Lan Xichen began receiving guests on official business when he was thirteen does not mean that every young man does. Tonight, then, is a special occasion for Sizhui, and Lan Xichen feels honoured suddenly, to be his guest, despite it being in the middle of the night and not appropriate for guests at all, and despite not being properly dressed, and despite how very hard he must consciously not think about all the times A-Yao made tea for him. Looking past all of that, it is pleasant to sit here, both of them silent as the water is heated and then poured over the leaves to steep, and not for the first time, Lan Xichen is grateful for how accepted silence is among his sect. He has spent too many meetings and conferences with other sects where silence has seemed to be feared, something to be fought at every turn. Most of the time, silence in Cloud Recesses simply is.
Once it has steeped, Sizhui pours the tea with grace, and the pale green liquid fills the bone white porcelain cups and suffuses the air with a strong but pleasant aroma of flowers or kitchen gardens. As Lan Xichen raises his cup, the fragrance grows more pronounced, but when he tastes it, the tea itself is light and sweet.
"Dandelions" Lan Xichen notes, pleased at having caught what exactly it is his senses are trying to remind him of. "It tastes like the scent of dandelions."
"Doesn't it?" Sizhui beams at him. "It makes me think of summer."
Summer. Will you come to Jinlintai soon again? The peonies bloom more beautifully than ever. Lan Xichen pushes the memory away, the sweet voice as clear in his memory as it ever was in life, and finishes his cup.
"How do you find studying medicine?" Lan Xichen asks as he puts his cup down.
"Challenging" Sizhui admits with a modest smile, lowering his own emptied cup to the table. "There is so much to learn. And I don't want to become a healer, but it seems that the more I learn, the more use I have of what I know. Wei-qianbei…"
His voice trails off.
"I believe his words were: 'at least this way, I give Sizhui ample opportunity to practice'" Lan Xichen says, recalling a shared dinner some weeks ago, when Wei Wuxian had shown off Sizhui's skill at bandaging – as well as waving away Wangji's expressed concern that he be a little more careful around possessed boars. Sizhui laughs now, a small blush appearing as twin roses on his cheeks as he replies:
"He does."
"You're not finding it too difficult, then, balancing your studies and your duties? I know your new seniority brings its own demands on your time."
"No." Sizhui shakes his head. "Thank you for your concern. But there was something I would like to ask you, about that."
"About your duties?" Lan Xichen raises one eyebrow at this; he would have expected Sizhui, of all people, to raise any eventual issues formally.
"Not exactly." Sizhui fidgets for a moment with the fabric of his robes. "But in relation to my graduation."
"Oh?"
This is curious. Something in relation to Sizhui's graduation and duties as a senior disciple, what might that entail? Does he wish to go travelling for a year? Many disciples do. Does he perhaps want to go and study with some other sect? His cousin would surely welcome him at Jinlintai. It cannot be marriage, can it? He is barely past twenty.
"Zewu-Jun, what I wish to speak of… it's something personal. Something that has been weighing on my heart for a long time, and I wish to speak frankly."
Oh dear.
Is it marriage?
"Of course, Sizhui" Lan Xichen says, trying not to frown or otherwise reveal his inner turmoil. "It is my sincere hope that you will always speak openly with me."
"Then, bofu…"
Oh no. Sizhui never calls him uncle, not since he was six years old, and whatever this is, Lan Xichen is not prepared to handle it.
Sizhui locks eyes with him.
"Did I make you come out of seclusion before you were ready?"
Lan Xichen stares at his nephew, lips slightly parted in stunned silence before he manages a faint:
"I'm sorry?"
"I asked you to come out of seclusion because I wanted you to attend my graduation, and you did. But you still seem distraught and as though you are hurting, and I was wondering if perhaps I made you do something you were not ready for. And if that is so, I would like to know so that I can properly apologise for my selfishness."
Lan Xichen can still only stare at the young man sitting by his side. His earnest face, the concern in his large, dark eyes, the way he presses his lips together, waiting for an answer. Thinking that this is somehow his fault.
"Sizhui, no" he says, shaking his head. "That is not the case at all."
He folds his hands into his lap, giving himself a moment to find the right words.
"I went into seclusion because I thought it would help me find closure." He closes his eyes briefly at the sting of the half-lie, and when he opens them, meets Sizhui's gaze with as much sincerity as he can muster. "It didn't. I could probably have stayed this past year as well, but I'm not convinced it would have made any difference. What you did, Sizhui, was to remind me that in my search for one thing, I was missing out on many other things, and I wouldn't miss your graduation for the world. Leaving seclusion was my choice, and you should never feel guilty for asking me to do so."
He recalls it clearly, that day of visitation, and his delight in seeing none other than Sizhui enter the cold spring cave. The enthusiastic 'Zewu-Jun, Lan-shigong has decided to allow me to advance to senior disciple this spring!' and the apprehensive, hopeful 'will you be there?'.
How could he have said no? If something as important as this, a milestone event in his nephew's life, could not make him leave seclusion, then what could? And if he did not leave then, well, when would he? Would he live out the rest of his life in the cold spring, spending every waking moment alone and every sleeping moment baring his soul to memories tearing him apart?
Who do you think is the lonelier man?
"I am very glad you were there" Sizhui says, the warmth in his voice replaced by something else as he continues: "But you are not glad, Zewu-Jun."
"I'm not."
It does not come out a polite question, the way he thinks he meant it to, but Sizhui does not seem to notice at first.
"No, you're not. It's plain for all of us to see, and we really…"
Lan Xichen's admission catches up to him, and Sizhui falls silent and lowers his gaze, hands gripping slightly at his robes. It is too much, Lan Xichen knows that. Too much truth to ask someone else to bear.
"I appreciate your concern, zhizi, I truly do" he says, striving for the balance between gentle and firm which once came so easily to him. "I know that it is heartfelt, but there are a lot of things that I cannot share with you, either as your uncle or as your sect leader."
"Then with whom?"
Sizhui is looking up at him again, and there is such an edge to him, both to his voice and to his eyes, that Lan Xichen recognises instantly as both Wangji and Wei Wuxian. He can see both of them in their son, Sizhui as brilliant in his defiance as either of his fathers have ever been in every act of defiance they have ever committed.
Then with whom, indeed.
Who do you think is the lonelier man? A-Yao asked him once. He with the most power or he with the most secrets? Xichen remembers glancing up at him, attention readily shifting from the latest report of smaller sect skirmishes on the provincial borders to this philosophical query. I should think, he had replied after a moment of consideration, it would be he with the greatest fear, or he with no one to confide in.
"Zewu-Jun" Sizhui continues as Lan Xichen fails to answer his question, "I understand why you would not entrust me-"
"It is not a matter of trust…" he begins haltingly, unsure exactly how he means to finish the sentence when Sizhui cuts him off.
"How?" his nephew demands. "How is it not a matter of trust?"
Lan Xichen cannot answer. His lips and mouth are dry, and his heart is pounding, and Sizhui is not stopping.
"Zewu-Jun, you said I can speak openly with you, so I will. You said yourself that you are not happy, and we see it, all of us who love you, me and Hanguang-Jun and Wei-qianbei, and Jingyi, and even A-Ling was worried about you when he was last here! We can tell that you are hurting, and whenever you smile these days, it only brings out your sadness more clearly. But you won't speak to any of us about what's wrong and we don't know how to help you."
Sizhui's eyes are brimming with all the emotions he speaks of and Lan Xichen finds that he must look away. The skin on his face feels thin, not in the way shame works, but transparent – as if all the layers he spent years of his youth putting up between himself and the world have been stripped away, and he is laid bare for anyone to read. How much has Sizhui seen in his face already? How much more might he find there?
"Bofu" Sizhui says, gentler now, entreating. "Please. Surely there must be someone you can trust to share whatever it is that burdens you?"
"Thank you, Sizhui" he manages to say, voice reasonably steady in spite of everything, but he cannot bring himself to speak the thought reply out loud: There is no one.
Because Sizhui is right. It is a matter of trust, of course it is. And while once he had confidantes, two people with whom he thought he could share everything, he does not. Not anymore.
No, not anymore, because they are both dead, and whose fault is that, Huan? Who taught A-Yao the music he needed to sneak in the dissonant chords and poison Nie-xiong's mind with turmoil? Who pierced A-Yao's heart without even looking whether he was actually posing a threat?
"Perhaps Hanguang-Jun…"
"Sizhui" he says, voice sharp with warning. "You know that I love and trust my brother implicitly, and I do appreciate your concern for my wellbeing, but if and when I want your advice on my personal matters, or on any matters concerning the sect, I will ask for them."
Sizhui has the decency to look ashamed, and lowers first his gaze and then himself into a bow over the table.
"This nephew and disciple begs forgiveness" he says, the formality of his words betrayed by the slight tremble to his voice, "for overstepping and speaking out of turn."
Lan Xichen's irritation ebbs instantly, sharpness replaced by regret. It is not Sizhui's fault, none of it, and he does not deserve to be chewed out for caring.
"I accept your apology, of course" he says, reaching out to place a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "And I would like to apologise to you, too. You have always been good at reading others, Sizhui, and while your remarks were disrespectful, they were also insightful, and most importantly… not wrong."
The last two words come out with a sigh, and he feels his shoulders lower as if in surrender. How to explain that which cannot be explained? How to let Sizhui understand why he cannot tell him, or anyone, about the burdens that weigh so heavily on his mind, without actually telling him about them? It is impossible, and yet, somehow, he must find a way.
"May I perhaps have some more tea?" he asks to buy himself more time.
Sizhui straightens at once and nods.
"Of course, Zewu-Jun."
While Sizhui goes through the motions of making another pot of tea, Lan Xichen tries to prepare whatever it is he means to say, but fails utterly. His mind is full of churning thoughts, to be sure, but not a single one of them settles down in any semblance of order, and when Sizhui returns with the tea, Lan Xichen is none the wiser about how to begin. Instead, he cradles the newly refilled cup of tea in his hands, relieved to have something physical to hold on to.
"Would you say…" he begins, a little tentatively as the words are slow to come, "that my brother has brought you up to be the future leader of this sect?"
Thankfully, Sizhui does not ask what this has to do with anything, but instead takes a moment to actually ponder the question.
"No" he replies eventually. "I think Hanguang-Jun has tried to bring me up to become a good cultivator, but not sect leader."
On anyone else's lips, the words might sound like self-praise, but Sizhui speaks with too much consideration and a modesty Lan Xichen understands only too well. The question of who will inherit the title of sect leader is an old, awkward and infected one, since Lan Qiren and some of the elders still refuse to acknowledge Sizhui as Wangji's heir.
"I agree" Lan Xichen says softly. "Not to be sect leader, or even head disciple, but a good cultivator. And even more so, I might add, a good person. But that is not how Wangji and I were brought up."
He pauses, and in an attempt to give himself more time to find the words to explain that which cannot be explained, he lifts his cup to his lips. The fragrance, reminiscent of not only dandelions but greens and fruits, does bring summer to mind. Summer, but also childhood, and innocence.
"Do you know" he says, latching on to that thought, "I cannot remember a day when I did not know that I would become sect leader? And I doubt there was ever a day when Wangji did not know that he would become my second. Our uncle brought us up from infancy, and he instilled these truths in us long before we knew what a sect was, or what being a leader or second meant. He brought us up into our different roles as skilfully as a master penjing artist, pruning our weaknesses and enhancing our strengths, shaping us into the futures he imagined our sect to need."
He puts his cup down on the table; Sizhui has still not touched his. Instead, his full attention is on Lan Xichen, and Lan Xichen imagines the questions he must have. Did he succeed? Would you have rather been brought up another way? It is lucky he does not ask such questions, because Lan Xichen could never answer them. There is no way of knowing what might have been, had things been different. There is only knowing what was, and what is. All else is guesswork.
"Many people seem to think that leadership is about having power and using it against others. To me, however, leadership is the surrender of power. It is to surrender oneself to the people one leads, or for the good of those people. As the leader of our sect, I must have the best interests of the sect foremost in my heart, and my choices must be guided by the sect's needs. In a way, my life is not my own, but belongs to the people I serve."
He can only recall explaining this once before, not to Wangji or even to his uncle – whose teachings have, after all, helped in shaping this tenet of his into being – but to A-Yao. It was after the Sunshot Campaign, after the burials and ceremonies, just when A-Yao had been taken in by the Jin clan at last, bearing a new name and a new title. They had walked the paths at Jinlintai, side by side, and spoken of what it means to lead. Your leadership is one of sacrifice, er-ge, A-Yao had remarked, his voice both teasing and fond as he tried out the still new style of address. Sacrifice and loneliness.
Not anymore, Lan Xichen had dared to say, smiling at the intimacy of the 'er-ge'. Not with you and Nie-xiong at my side.
"This also means that my heart is not my own, and my secrets are not mine alone, and I have to guard carefully who gains access to them. When Chifeng-zun, Lianfang-zun and I became sworn brothers, we were true confidantes, and between the three of us, there were no secrets and no lies. Or so I thought."
And now here he is, with both his sworn brothers dead – one murdered by the other, one dead by his hands.
"No, Zewu-Jun" Sizhui protests, "you couldn't have known. Surely none of what happened was your fault?"
"Wasn't it?" he asks, surprised at the bitterness in his own voice. "I trusted that man with more than my own life. I trusted him with the lives and wellbeing of my family and my sect, and the lives and wellbeing of all the sects. I trusted him for years, while he murdered everyone who stood in his way; his father, our sworn brother, his own child – he even planned to have all of you, our sect's finest disciples, slaughtered in the Burial mounds! How is it not my fault, to have been so blind to his true nature?!"
He realises too late that he has raised his voice and that tears are burning at the corners of his eyes. Too much, he tries to tell himself, but it is a quiet voice drowning in an angry sea of something much larger. Drawing a deliberately slow, deep breath he tries to calm himself.
It does not really work.
"I put everyone at risk" he says, only slightly quieter, unsure whether the tremble in his voice comes from rage or something else. "I failed. As a brother, as a sworn brother, but worst of all, as sect leader, and yet… and yet… I still miss him."
He does not intend to speak that truth, but the words come out anyway, as though pulled out from the very depths of his soul. As he speaks them, his eyes close and he can still see A-Yao's face. He remembers it in perfect detail, from the roundness of his cheeks to the lines of his dimples and the faint crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. The warmth those eyes held, and even more so the loneliness, whenever he thought no one was looking. A loneliness Lan Xichen had once, vainly, thought he might be able to help dispel.
Sizhui makes a tentative sound of inquiry, and Lan Xichen pulls himself back from the abyss of memories, feeling the heat of twin tear tracks on his cheeks, but refrains from wiping at them.
"Yes, Sizhui?"
"Was Jin Guangyao… your zhiji?"
The question feels like a blow straight to his core, the power of which sends ripples through his body and makes him grip at his robes. It takes conscious effort to unclench his fists and lower his shoulders, and when he answers, the reply comes with a deep, trembling exhale of breath and a small, quiet:
"No."
"I beg pardon. I must have mis-"
"No, Sizhui, you've reached the right conclusion. We were not zhiji, but… it was not for lack of wanting it to be so."
He smiles faintly at his nephew; at his attempt to hide his confusion.
"I do not know what your understanding of zhiji is" Lan Xichen says, "but it is not a bond that merely exists, inevitable or inviolable, for all eternity. It is a choice, and one both parties must make, every day."
He swallows, deliberately not allowing any memories of those times, those conversations, to surface as he continues:
"I have always been wary of such bonds, especially for myself. Too many of our sect have bound themselves to it and suffered for it, when the bond of zhiji is at conflict with the bond to the sect. But even had I had no qualms about committing to such a bond, A-Ya-… Jin Guangyao, did."
"You can call him by whatever name you wish, bofu" Sizhui says quietly.
Lan Xichen nods in thanks but his lips still hesitate to speak out loud that familiar address that became so natural between them, after so many years of titles and bows and formality keeping them at arm's length from each other. He had thought that was it – the differences in their ranks, at first – but looking back now, it must have been the lies. The truths A-Yao could never bring himself to share, and so carried by himself, all those years, until they warped him into someone else, someone Lan Xichen did not know. A villain.
He with the most power, or he with the most secrets? He with the greatest fears, or he with no one to confide in?
All of them. You were all of them, A-Yao.
"May I speak, Zewu-Jun?"
For the third time tonight, Sizhui brings him back to himself, and Lan Xichen wishes he could bring himself to say no. But he has nothing more to add himself, and he has said too much already, so instead he replies:
"Yes, certainly."
"One of the first things Ning-shushu taught me about medicine is that sometimes, in order for a wound to heal, you must first cut it open. Our body will always try to seal any wounds, but sometimes, it does so too fast, and infection sets in, underneath the skin. At such times, in order to heal properly, the wound must be cut open so that the cause of the infection can be removed and the wound cleaned. Only then can healing begin. At the risk of speaking out of turn once more, Zewu-Jun, although the wound you suffered in Guanyin Temple was not a physical one, perhaps the same principle might be applied to your pain?"
Sizhui's expression is open, serious and full of empathy. His hands rest on his lap, palms flat against his robes, and he looks so much like Wangji, sounds just like Wangji, if Wangji used as many words as Wei Wuxian does.
"You said yourself that your time in seclusion did not help you find closure, and perhaps that is because your wound is not ready to be sealed yet. Perhaps you need to find that which is hurting you, and address that issue before you can heal."
How? he wants to shout. How can I tell which hurt it is? How can I move on from that betrayal? How can I ever trust anyone again? And worse than all of that, worse than A-Yao's betrayal and the unveiling of the web of lies woven into every aspect of their friendship: how can I forgive myself?
The thought stuns him.
That is at the core of it, is it not? The guilt. In a way, it has little to do with A-Yao. In fact, it has nothing to do with him at all. Lan Xichen misses him and grieves him, but he does not blame him for what happened. He blames himself.
All the things he should have seen, all the things he should have done, but failed to see, and failed to act upon… he failed everyone. A-Yao, as a friend. Wangji, as a brother, choosing not to trust his judgement first about Wei Wuxian, and then, years later, about A-Yao. But worst of all, his people. He failed as sect leader: the one thing he was brought up to be, the service he has dedicated his life to, and he put everyone at risk. How can he trust himself to lead his people? How can he trust his own judgement when it has failed him so spectacularly?
It is not the memories of sweet, tender moments with A-Yao that leave him sleepless, feeling like he is slowly, drop by drop, turning into a dry husk of a man. It is his own innocence, his failures and his guilt over all those failures, that haunt him; his doubt in himself that gnaws at his soul.
Now that he finally sees it clearly, sees it for what it is, Lan Xichen realises just how debilitating that doubt has been. Rather than face it head on, he has been hiding behind his grief and loss, and looking back now, it is clear to see that seclusion could never help him overcome it. Even alone with his thoughts for years, he never dared address those feelings and instead they just overwhelmed him – rushed out of him and reflected back off the walls of the cold spring cave, growing so large and so deafening that in the end, he fled. Still grieving, but more importantly, still guilt-ridden, still so cripplingly full of doubt.
Sizhui is right.
"You are wise beyond your years, zhizi" he says at long last, and he cannot help but smile when his nephew blushes at the praise. "Not only a good cultivator, but a good person, and in time, I'm sure, a good healer as well."
He raises his forgotten cup to his lips. The tea has gone cold but still holds a promise of summer, and he drinks all of it before setting the cup down. How long has he been here, in Sizhui's room? Well over an hour, by now, perhaps almost two? Not much of the night remains, and Lan Xichen longs for dawn – not because he wants the night to end, but because he longs for the day to begin – and he cannot remember when last he felt that way.
"I thank you, Sizhui" he says, looking at his nephew. "What you told me is excellent advice, and I'm sorry that I haven't asked for it sooner."
"I wasn't sure it was my place to give any."
Sizhui's voice is mild and he is still blushing faintly, but Lan Xichen's conscience stings at the reminder that only half an hour ago, he expressly told Sizhui not to try to give him advice unless asked for it. Now he thanks him for it, grateful for the unrequested advice that feels like a tug unravelling three years' worth of tangled knots in his mind.
"I…" he begins, but Sizhui shakes his head.
"No, I understand" he says. "There are lines between family and sect, and others between generations, and places where all those lines intersect, and they have nothing to do with trust. Zewu-Jun."
Sizhui adds the title not as an address, but as an example, and Lan Xichen knows then that he does understand. Those lines, they are the reason why Sizhui never addresses him as bofu anymore, and more importantly, why he never addresses Wangji as his father in public.
"Even so" Lan Xichen says after a few moments, "the fault lies with me, for not ensuring that there are spaces where I do ask for your advice. I will endeavour to set that right."
"I would be honoured." Sizhui bows his head, and when Lan Xichen does not speak, looks up and says: "Zewu-Jun, can I ask another question?"
Taken aback, Lan Xichen laughs.
"Another one? I don't know if I can take this much sincerity in one night, Sizhui. Please don't tell me you want to get married?" The look of utter confusion on his nephew's face is so priceless, Lan Xichen must shake his head to wipe the smile off his own expression. "I'm sorry, zhizi, please, what is your question?"
Sizhui fiddles with his robes for a moment, but his expression is one of calm determination when he speaks again.
"Zewu-Jun, will you teach me about leadership? I would like to learn, but…"
Wangji cannot and uncle will not, Lan Xichen fills in immediately, not angry so much as disappointed at his uncle's stubbornness. Sizhui does not say anything of the sort, however, but abandons the old, unfinished sentence and starts again.
"From what you said about it, earlier" he resumes, "I would like to receive your guidance on this matter, regardless of what the future might hold."
Lan Xichen would be lying if he said that his nephew's request does not light a flame of pride in his chest. Pride at himself, too, the worst kind. Luckily though, no one asks, so he is only guilty of breaking one rule, and not two.
"That would be my honour, Sizhui" he says, trying to suppress the smile that stems from the warmth in his chest at the thought. "But not tonight, I don't think."
"No" Sizhui agrees with a chuckle, "perhaps not tonight."
Outside the windows, the night is still dark, but it cannot be too long until mao hour. It is late, or early, but regardless of how you look at it, it is not the time for lessons. There should be quietude, and calm, and rest – all of which this night has had much too little of.
"Then, if I may ask something in my turn" Lan Xichen says, "perhaps you will be so kind as to let me stay here until morning, and meditate with you? Being caught out of doors once is quite enough; I'd rather not risk it happening a second time tonight."
Sizhui smiles then, his expression wide open and delighted, the way Lan Xichen remembers from years and years of seeing his nephew grow up, and he cannot help but return it.
"Of course, bofu" Sizhui says. "You are always welcome to stay."
So he does.
For the first time in nearly three years, Lan Xichen does not spend his sleepless early morning alone. Instead, when dawn creeps in through the window and colours the room in pink and golden hues, uncle and nephew sit side by side in meditation. Where Sizhui's mind might roam, Lan Xichen does not know, but his own thoughts circle around the wound Sizhui so expertly uncovered for him: the guilt and the regret, not over A-Yao's actions, but his own. He examines those feelings and the doubt they have planted in him, and for the first time, they do not scare him. He failed, utterly and repeatedly, but he can do better. Must do better, if he wants to truly live up to his own ideals, and be the kind of leader he has always strived to be.
Not alone, though; he has had enough of that, and not only for himself, but for his people. And – while he should not have needed Sizhui to tell him, his nephew's words come back to him, soothing the hurt he is only now beginning to truly understand – for them.
All of us who love you.
Once the bells toll for mao hour, Lan Xichen takes his leave of his nephew with a thank you and a deep bow that makes Sizhui blush and sputter adorably. As he walks toward the Hanshi, Lan Xichen feels something stir within his chest that is not quite determination, not quite hope, but something in between. Faith. In this dawning day, in his sect, but even more so, in himself. The guilt is still there, and the doubt, but acknowledging them means he can address them, and in time, perhaps, overcome them. It will take a lot of work and he is not deluded enough to think it will not hurt, but at long last, he sees a path ahead and believes himself strong enough to walk it.
For all of them, he can do it.
