Chapter Text
君有疾否
The Bird is not a bird.
It’s obvious to people who have enough awareness to raise their heads and stare at the dot of it gliding across the heavy sun. The shape is all wrong, no feathers glinting off sunlight. Too silent and lonely, no thrills or caws or squawks escape its paper beak to call for its mate and friends.
But it flies like one, slicing its paper wings through the air as a real bird of prey would do. It cranes its folded neck like one too, cautiously mapping the area below its crinkling body. As the ostentatious golden roofs of Lanling Jin fades into the pitch black of the burnt out Qishan Wen fields, The Bird flaps faster. Its featherless wings do not get tired but it gets damp and, even now almost two decades past the destruction of the Wens, smoke clings onto its bone white underbelly, staining it with reddish soot.
When it finally reaches its goal, the small but lit up town of Yiling straddling the line between the husk of Qishan Wen and the green forests and blue lakes of Yunmeng Jiang, it is almost evening and ink already bleeds through its chest.
It takes about another quarter of a shichen for it to find the house it’s seeking. Mostly because it's tired in whatever capacity folded talisman paper could be tired, but also partly because its master warded his dwellings too well, even against his own creations. Perhaps, even more against his own creations.
But soon, The Bird finds the well-known walls shadowed by pitch black rattling bamboo. Somewhere amidst those roiling shadows rests a window framing an even more well-known and welcoming face. It thrills and readies its talons at the sight.
The Bird lands on a waiting arm, collapses, and does not rise again.
The man who received it gently unfolds The Bird and reads through the slightly smudged and creased letter. His gentle expression does not change but he sighs heavily, brows furrowed, before walking back inside towards the courtyard filled with lights and noises of his family.
“Wei-gongzi,” Wen Ning calls. At once, the gentle chaos stills and spills open, Wen Ning’s aunts and uncles trickling out until only a man in black and red robes, as well as a handful of teenagers are left on the long dining table in the middle of the courtyard.
Wei Wuxian looks up and stills from where he was starting to spill a quarter liter of chili paste on an otherwise pure white congee. Wen Yuan, and the juniors from the other sects he has invited to spend the night in the Imperial Marshal’s “manor” before leaving for their hunt tomorrow, actually looks relieved when only a spoonful of the fire red paste falls into the bowl. Taking advantage of the man looking away from the food to raise his eyebrows at Wen Ning, the Lan boy, a direct antithesis of his clan’s teachings, actually snatches the jar away and tugs Wen Ning’s little cousin back, as if the man sitting in front of them is a wild beast and he’s a servant protecting his liege from said dangerous creature.
A-Yuan takes his arm out of Lan Jingyi’s hands and reverses their hold so he has their tray of food in one hand and Lan Jingyi’s arm in the other.
“Jingyi!” Wei Wuxian laughs, slapping the table where he was desecrating Popo’s congee, “don’t blunt A-Yuan’s tongue with your bland Lan taste!”
“We’ll make sure to use your chili when we’re on the night hunt, Xian-gege,” A-Yuan promises, bowing at both Wen Ning and Wei Wuxian.
“Yeah, to light a fire,” Ouyang Zizhen mutters under his breath.
Everyone left in the courtyard hears him. Soft chuckles and snickers echo across the space.
“Fine, fine,” Wei Wuxian laughs him off, “little boys who can’t handle their spice should eat then go to bed now.”
A-Yuan, knowing it for the dismissal it was in the light of Wen Ning’s arrival, bows again at both of the older men and drags his friends away.
Only after seven heartbeats from whence their clatter putters off and the courtyard empties out of the rest of the elders does Wei Wuxian address Wen Ning.
“Good news?”
Wen Ning hands him the letter.
Wei Wuxian, the famous Yiling Laozu and even more famous Imperial Marshal to His Majesty Jiang Wanyin, hums. He casually twirls Chenqing on one hand but that doesn’t distract Wen Ning from the tightening of the knuckles on the other hand gripping the damp letter. After a few minutes, he wordlessly places the paper on the table.
“It is as expected.” Wen Ning says, closing his eyes for a heartbeat.
“Not as hoped,” Wei Wuxian sighs. He reaches for a jug of Emperor’s Smile Lan Jingyi gifted A-Yuan, taking a long drink straight from the container’s lips before he continues. “I actually grew fond of Mo Xuanyu in these months he spent here with us. That's why I had someone accompany him. I thought he would choose a different path when I sent him back to his father.”
Wen Ning thinks the younger man already did choose a different path. After all, he was sent here to kill the Imperial Marshal. That he used the array he learned from Wei Wuxian to kill himself upon arriving back in his father’s lands is another matter altogether.
“You think the Lans had something to do with this.” Wen Ning does not pose this as a question, it's something Wei Wuxian had sounded off him countless nights even before Mo Xuanyu had kneeled in front of the Yiling Laozu for a chance to learn talisman and array creation from the man that invented almost all of the high level drawn arts used in cultivation today.
“Nie Mingjue is too direct for subterfuge like this,” Wei-gongzi says, “and Nie Huaisang wouldn't consider Mo Xuanyu a threat unless Mo Xuanyu was the one behind that recent attempt on Nie-zongzhu’s life.”
“Which he isn't,” Wen Ning says, reminded of all the tests they had to do just to check how high Mo Xuanyu’s musical cultivation level is. He couldn't even whistle, let alone carry a tune.
“And I bet if he was, Nie Huaisang wouldn't even let him get here,” Wei-gongzi agrees, taking another swig of the alcohol.
“It could still be the Jins,” Wen Ning offers. It doesn't sit quite right with him honestly, what his Wei-gongzi is proposing. Besides Lan Jingyi being A-Yuan’s dearest friend, the Lans have been known for their unwavering sense of justice, if not their warmth. But what Mo Xuanyu suffered…
“They would have been killing an asset,” Wei-gongzi says, shaking his head, “they know I took Mo Xuanyu as a student. Even if it's as a student on arrays and talismans creation, they could not discount the chance I may have also taught him some of the forbidden arts. They would have found use for him, but not as a sacrifice.”
It's one of the reasons Wei-gongzi allowed Mo Xuanyu into Yiling. If he got kicked out as soon as he tried to enter the Imperial Marshal’s manor, Jin Guangshan would have immediately just disposed of a useless son. The man has many others in stock, after all.
Wen Ning knows the Yiling Laozu felt for the boy.
Wei-gongzi studies Wen Ning’s face. Whatever he finds there has him tilting his head, like a bird. Then he prods Wen Ning’s arm with Chenqing’s tip, “A-Ning doesn't agree with his Xianxian?”
Wen Ning takes the flute, for a moment lost in the indents at its end made by a ferocious three year old so many years ago.
“The Lans are virtuous,” Wen Ning starts, unsure how to proceed.
“Not all who belong in a sect known to act in this or that manner actually are,” Wei Wuxian smiles. It should sound as a terse reminder from him to Wen Ning, one of the last blood descendants of the Qishan Wen clan. But it doesn’t. It just sounds like…Wei Wuxian.
“But the one who followed Mo Xuanyu with us is.” Wen Ning keeps his eyes on Chenqing and the little white lotus charm he and A-Yuan saved up for some years ago dangling on one side of it. “Whoever they are, they actually helped us protect Mo Xuanyu.”
The Yiling Laozu raises his eyes, lips pursed. “We’re certain they came from the Lans?”
Wen Ning nods. “They discovered us before we could determine their face, but that fighting style coupled with how your compass reacted to their qi.” His hands tighten around Chenqing. “There’s no question about it.”
“If they’re powerful enough for you and our little birds to be in disarray,” starts Wei Wuxian, placing his elbows on the table, chin cradled by a palm, “then it’s not just some Lan, is it?”
Wen Ning tucks Chenqing into the folds of the other man’s robes, slipping it past wild hair and the bramble that was Wei Wuxian’s elbows and wrists. He sighs. “Someone high-ranking. Possibly Hanguang-jun or Zewu-jun himself.”
He remembers the Discussion Conference where he first met Wei Wuxian. That was the first time the Twin Jades of Lan actually participated in a competition together as well. Wei-gongzi had ranked first but Lan-er-gongzi and his older brother had tied a close second.
“Zewu-jun has been in seclusion for the last five years, however,” Wei Wuxian starts, idly thinking out loud again as he is wont to do in Wen Ning’s presence. He thinks Wen Ning doesn’t understand that he does it for Wen Ning’s sake, so he would be able to catch up with the leaps and bounds of a mind like Wei Wuxian’s. “And Hanguang-jun has been quite busy investigating all the mess Jiang Cheng’s inner court is involved in.”
“Jin Guangshan is part of that mess,” Wen Ning reminds him.
“You think he protected Mo Xuanyu because of that?” Chortling inelegantly, Wei-gongzi continues, “Or at least the most a person can protect someone determined to take their own lives.”
Wen Ning hums, “Lan-zongzhu is said to be emphatic enough. And the Imperial Censor’s fairness in ruling regulatory disputes within the state is well-known. It’s not such a far-fetched idea for either of them to do it.”
“Fairness doesn’t necessarily mean mercy, Wen Ning.”
His face has taken on a somber hue. Wen Ning blinks at the man, almost surprised. “Are you still thinking about Qiongqi Path, Wei-gongzi?”
The broad shoulders clad in black drop. Wen Ning’s Wei-gongzi rubs his left palm on his nape, sighing yet again.
“This would have been easier to judge if I had some personal knowledge of how the Lans actually think beyond their three thousand rules,” he says, leaning back on the table to stir in his spoonful of chili into the white congee, “if only Madam Yu didn’t raise such a fuss about me joining Jiang Cheng in the Gusu Lan summer lectures—”
As if summoned by the mere mention of his name, a paper lotus bloomed right in front of Wei Wuxian. It's made of thick sturdy paper, its cream color bruising into a faint purple near the bottom. A mark made by the emperor’s seal is partially visible from one of the unfurling petals.
“Oh, Jiang Cheng,” the Imperial Marshal sighs, plucking the flower straight from mid-air and unfolding it hastily. Wen Ning watches his grey eyes skip over the tightly curled characters. Even standing behind the letter, the thick strokes of the Emperor’s characters can be made out. The Emperor’s handwriting, much like the emperor himself, is like a tiger crouching mid-hunt, expectant and poised to bite at any time.
Shaking his head, the Yiling Laozu tuts, “At this rate, he’ll go through the whole female population of his reign hemming and hawing whether this or that woman could embroider with her feet before he finds a consort, let alone his empress!”
“And…” Something written in the letter made Wei Wuxian’s eyes jump further down its contents, “...now he's trying to drag me into it as well!”
“You did tell him you'll participate as a judge in his bride selection,” Wen Ning reminds him for the third time this month.
“If he holds a bride selection,” the man corrects, tugging wildly at the red ribbon in his hair, “but now he goes on a tantrum and tells his ministers he won't be choosing any concubine or consort until his shixiong has one!”
There is only one man who could be called His Majesty’s shixiong and he's sitting in front of Wen Ning cursing at the paper in front of him.
Before Wen Ning could react in a manner appropriate to the stations of everyone involved, Wei-gongzi scribbles something that distressingly looks a lot like the characters for Wen Ning’s sister’s name on the imperial paper before folding it back to its lotus form, making ‘tsk’ing sounds all the while. He presses his hands together and in a blink the paper lotus disappears between them almost as swiftly as it appeared. Wen Ning feels that familiar thread of helpless fondness swirl around him when the other man blinks up at him and asks, “what are we talking about again?”
“Lan-er-gongzi,” he supplies.
“Ah, yes,” Wei Wuxian says, snapping his fingers, “Lan Wangji! Clearly we must investigate him and his brother. But him being the Imperial Censor makes him a higher priority than Lan Xichen.”
“I don’t suppose Wei-gongzi has a way to check on him without the Imperial Censor being alerted?”
“No, that’s not possible with someone like him,” Wei Wuxian agrees, looking thoughtfully up at the night sky for a moment, “and we’re not close enough to—oh, I think…Hmmm, perhaps that could work? It'll be like, creating two birds out of a single slip of paper.”
Wen Ning waits him out.
“I could make it so that he can’t stop me even when he knows exactly what I’m doing.”
It’s Wen Ning’s turn to tilt his head in confusion.
“How, Wei-gongzi?”
Wei-gongzi curls a finger at Wen Ning, beckoning him to lean down so that his ear is next to the Yiling Laozu’s curled lips.
“Everyone whispered about me being a cutsleeve when I accepted Mo Xuanyu, right?”
Wen Ning nods, people had actually been whispering about it even before Mo Xuanyu arrived in the picture. There were some specially bawdy stories about Wen Ning and the Yiling Laozu circling Lanling Jin and Yunmeng Jiang a few years back that Qing-jie had to grit her teeth through. Mo Xuanyu’s acceptance as the Yiling Laozu’s one and only disciple had just reignited those tongues as a new man to pair up the Yiling Laozu with enters their sight.
“Circulate them, A-Ning, make them louder.” Wei Ying says, a twinkle in his eyes, “make sure Hanguang-jun hears about it.”
Wen Ning balks, Qing-jie is going to kill him. She personally made sure those rumours died. “Wh—why?”
Wei Wuxian—the Yiling Laozu, the Imperial Marshal sitting on the opposite side of the imperial court across from the Imperial Censor Lan Wangji, also known as Hanguang-jun by the common folk—smiles widely, teeth glinting like a row of bleached tombstones, at Wen Ning.
“I’ll have to confess my love to him!” He says brightly, then almost like an afterthought tacks on, “Loudly and publicly. We both have to be there in person.”
Wen Ning blinks down at him, expecting something more.
With a sharp smile curling wider at him, Wei Wuxian says nothing else.
Eloquently, Wen Ning opens his mouth and replies with an understanding, “oh.”
Wei Wuxian watches Lan Wangji walk out of court, a figure in spotless white robes followed by a gaggle of courtiers clothed in colors just as various as the sects they came from.
Except for the imperial court sessions and a few occasions they met each other outside of it, Wei Wuxian had never really interacted with or thought about the other man. Now, admiring the lean lines of Lan Wangji’s silhouette, he can't help but wonder how high the man would rank in The List.
In Wei Wuxian’s youth, there was The List.
It's really just a list—made by hopeful maidens, nagging mothers, and meddling aunties—ranking the most eligible bachelors of the time. No man can suss out the logic on why this man is ranked higher than that other man but if Wei Wuxian’s memory serves right, it goes like—
- Lan Xichen, genial Sect Heir of Gusu Lan;
- Lan Wangji, brother to Lan Xichen and apparently ranked lower only because of how much he frowns more than his otherwise Twin Jade;
- Jin Zixuan, for all the peacock preens during public events;
- Wei Wuxian himself, and;
The fifth split between Qishan Wen’s Sect Heir Wen Xu and Qinghe Nie’s Sect Leader Nie Mingjue depending on the sect affiliation of who is asked. People who dared to rank the imperial heir dared further to rank Jiang Cheng as the fifth one instead of the first. But none of them did it where Wei Wuxian could hear so he treated that more as a rumor than an actual heretical ranking.
No such ranking, officially distributed or not, exists after the war.
With the majority of the men on that list now dead, married, in seclusion, or with war crimes and cultivation atrocities attached to them like a trailing red ribbon, Wei Wuxian bets both Chenqing and Suibian that Lan Wangji—with his flawless face, his pedigree that could be traced at least ten generations back, his personal purse brimming with taels of imperial gold nevermind the inheritance he has from his sect, and a cultivation power that rivals the Imperial Marshal’s own—would top that list if ever a brave sister or auntie would recreate it.
“What the fuck is that expression on your face?”
“Language, Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian laughs, looking up at His Majesty and his eunuch of the day, “we don't want Lao Jiu following Lao Ba to an early grave because of a scandalized heart attack.”
His Majesty tuts, crossing his legs in the same way he did when he was thirteen and Shijie served the biggest pork rib to Wei Wuxian instead of him.
“You were quiet today, just staring at the Imperial Censor instead of mouthing off at him as you usually do.” If Wei Wuxian would rank the men he knows by their looks, His Majesty would only be second to Lan Wangji. The ‘curious but hate to tell you I’m curious’ look the emperor now has on his second to none but the Lans face is proof that he could wear any kind of expression and still be classically handsome about it. “Don't tell us the rumors about you turning cut-sleeve after spending time with Mo Xuanyu is actually true?”
“It's your fault, Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says almost absentmindedly, eyes still on the small figure in white just past the open court doors as he twirls Chenqing with a loose hand and looser fingers, “I had to behave so I can get myself a wife and stop your ministers from hounding me for being an obstacle to them getting their empress.”
His Majesty actually seems confused at that. He scrunches his nose like he did when they were ten surrounded by flowers he thought he was allergic to, “what does that have to do with Lan Wangji?”
Wei Wuxian winks, “everything.”
His Majesty rolls his eyes.
“Fine,” he says sullenly and Wei Wuxian has to tamp down the urge to ruffle his shidi’s hair. He could, and would probably, lose a hand now if he tries something like it. “Suit yourself and keep your secrets. Be the one to tell A-Ling why you miss his birthday celebration, though.”
Through the door, he sees Lan Wangji’s figure start to grow even smaller again, as he moves away after what must be a brief post-court session discussion with the courtiers allied to him and the Lans.
“I'm not going to be late to my favorite nephew’s birthday,” Wei Wuxian says, eyes tracking each of the slow, measured steps the Imperial Censor takes. He looks absurdly like a delicate flower amongst the old men and weak boys fluttering around him.
“Your only nephew,” His Majesty corrects, dismissing Wei Wuxian as well with an irritated wave of his hand. Zidian catches the morning light, a swirl of hard amethyst and steel on His Majesty’s finger.
“Not for long,” Wei Wuxian grins at Jiang Cheng, bowing with a flourish before shooting towards the court doors.
Lan Wangji and his entourage are almost by the foot of the imperial steps when he sees them again. Wei Wuxian has to jump down two at a time to catch up. Halfway across the gilt stairs, he shouts, “Lan Zhan! A moment, please?”
There’s a minute stiffening of those solid white clad shoulders that Wei Wuxian only catches because his eyes are already glued on Lan Wangji’s form. But then the man is turning around, slowly and elegantly. He’s the picture of sophisticated grace even in the simple act of revolving along the line of his gravity. Wei Wuxian is overcome with the urge to mess him up.
The man’s colorful hanger-ons steps back simultaneously at the sight of the Imperial Marshal barging towards them. He can’t help but notice the mixture of fear, irritation, and bewilderment on their faces.
Honestly, these people!
One would think Wei Wuxian is a wild boar snuffling around for expensive vegetables it does not deserve the way they cut their eyes into him.
Wei Wuxian skids to a stop just a wide step past Lan Wangji, right in the middle of the once tight-knit circle of court ministers.
It forces the man to turn the other way around again.
Now, Lan Wangji’s back is towards the stairs, facing not only Wei Wuxian but their fellow ministers as well who persist in witnessing whatever deviousness the Imperial Marshal plans to do with their precious white cabbage of an Imperial Censor. Wei Wuxian steps closer to the man and finds with delight that a little bit hunched down as he is now, Lan Wangji still stands shorter by half a thumb from him.
“Wei-gongzi,” Lan Wangji says, as if the title hurts to say.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian laughs, taking into his hands Lan Wangji’s right hand. A collective gasp ripples across the spectating busybodies, imperial courtiers and palace servants alike, so shocked at his rude casualness with their beloved Hanguang-jun. The Imperial Marshal leans down more into the Imperial Censor’s space so he can look up at the man instead of down, “call me Wei Ying!”
“Yiling Laozu,” Lan Wangji says easily, pulling his hand from Wei Wuxian’s, “if we could keep to our official titles, so as not to cause any more misunderstandings between—”
“But I can’t!” He exclaims, opening his arms wide as if to hug Hanguang-jun. The Imperial Censor takes a half-step back at that gesture. “They say the beginning of wisdom is to call things by their right names. Isn’t that right, Lan Zhan?”
“Wei Wuxian.” Now, that sounds familiar! It’s as if they’re back in court and Wei Wuxian just suggested raising another platoon of the enemy’s dead troops to minimize the casualties of their live soldiers at the Xianle front. Lan Wangji, along with his older brother and uncle had called out, gaped, and reddened, respectively, at him back then. He was told Lan Qiren actually went into a qi deviation, apoplectic as he was with just even the concept of defiling bodies instead of letting them rest.
The Yiling Laozu smiles, taps Chenqing’s end on Lan Wangji’s chest, and flutters his eyes up at the man, “Lan Zhan is dear to my heart so I will call him just as dearly.”
Lan Wangji’s face, already expressionless, grows even more blank, “I do not consent.”
“But Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian whines, tapping his flute faster against Lan Wangji’s left pectoral. Curiously, the flesh beneath Chenqing feels sturdier than what the activities of a normal Imperial Censor should mold. Wen Ning’s theory is beginning to slot perfectly into the empty spaces of the incomplete picture the both of them had gathered. “I truly have been holding you so dear in my heart for the longest time.”
Wei Wuxian straightens up, something in his expression makes Lan Wangji’s eyes grow a fraction larger.
“Lan Zhan, my heart beats for you—and only for you!” Wei Wuxian lies passionately, flinging himself into the Imperial Censor’s stiff arms. He should be cautious of what this scene would reflect on his own integrity as the Imperial Marshal but Jiang Cheng could deal with the fallout. The mighty son of heaven started this, after all. “Will you let me marry you and grow old with you?”
“No.” Lan Wangji, cool and pristine as always, gracefully sidesteps to let Wei Wuxian fall face first onto the stone stairs. His jade-like face is impenetrable, the only sign he is, in fact, human is the deep rosy flush his ears have bloomed in.
“Ah, Lan Zhan, so thin-faced as ever!” Wei Wuxian sprawls back onto the steps, spreading his legs shamelessly as he looks up at Lan Wangji. “I know I haven’t been on my best behaviour with you these past years but I can’t bear being apart with you any more. If you give me a chance, I will show you how good your Wei Ying could be everyday.”
The Imperial Censor looks at the fallen Imperial Marshal with disgust barely hidden in those golden eyes, gritting out in a shocking informal—almost callous—manner, “are you sick?”
Wei Wuxian flings himself at the Imperial Censor’s feet, clinging to the man’s robes and crying, “yes! Sick in love with you, Lan Zhan!”
Lan Wangji rips his white robes out of Wei Wuxian’s grip.
“Do not be shameless.” The Imperial Censor takes three big steps away from the Imperial Marshal, “if your heart is true, you would have known this.”
It is after all, one of the three or four thousand rules of the Lan clan sect.
“Ah, don’t worry, Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian says, something that tastes too much like triumph swelling in his chest, “I will make sure to learn everything about you.”
The clouds rolling under the sun create shadows which play along the planes of Lan Wangji’s face. It makes him appear more like a jade statue just as people often like to compare him to. Looking up at him from where he's half-kneeling, Wei Wuxian can see how this man is actually able to defeat Wen Ning and all the fierce creatures supporting Wei Wuxian’s Ghost Marshal in a skirmish.
“I’ll keep my eyes and heart open for you, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian promises with a smile, running a hand down his own neck exposed as his collar were loosened by all the running and falling down he did, “so won’t you look at me once in a while too?”
The Imperial Censor turns sharply from him. His ears are bright red. Wei Wuxian has to bite back the laughter bubbling up his throat.
“Shameless!”