Chapter Text
There’s something poetic about this whole ordeal: Wei Wuxian ran wild, untamed, Mo Xuanyu ran out of time, and now Wei Wuxian in Mo Xuanyu’s body is running. Just that, running, not fleeing, oh no!, he’s not fleeing, and whoever claims otherwise is courting death! The moonlight follows him, a veil of liquid silver pouring over his back (like white robes caught by wind, but it’s not that, he knows).
He’s running towards his future. Yes! Chasing a dream! For all his confusion, his being out of sync with his limbs and thoughts, he displays a remarkable sharpness of mind in his awareness that he cannot remain here. He’s a bringer of destruction, as proven by the fate of his two homes, Yunmeng, the home he received, and Burial Mounds, the home he raised himself. This new world, reshaped by his thirteen-year absence, is a stranger to him; nevertheless, he knows his duty is to prevent himself from destroying it now that somehow he’s been restored to life.
He’s no longer Wei Wuxian. He’s—someone, not entirely himself and not the previous owner of this body. He can make himself anew. He invented a new brand of cultivation, what trouble would it be for him to invent an entirely new himself?
Embracing his nature of a restless fire, fickle and fervent, Wei Wuxian remains almost constantly in motion. He abandons all of his previous ties and restraints and spends his first year in his new body as a rogue cultivator, indulging in the liberties his new appearance affords him. Knowing that he doesn’t belong in this rebuilt and restructured world does not stop him from loving and appreciating it. He’s done it once, loved and appreciated what wasn’t his. Actually, if he’s to be honest with himself—frankly speaking, he ought to be honest with himself, he’s starting anew, a blank slate—he’s done it more than once. Too many times. Not enough times. And not for long enough.
He gets to be welcomed. He gets to see this changed world and learn it. He feasts on information, eavesdrops in taverns and inns, lures people into conversations, all in an effort to know. (How he hungers to know). He flirts with girls selling goods in market stalls. He bargains with aunties for sweets and home-brewed alcohol, pouting and teasing, only to faux-reluctantly, amid exaggerated complaints and accusations of tyranny, agree to fix something for them or run an errand. So much has changed, so much has remained the same.
In the meantime, conscious of his own vices, he progressively changes himself. He’s too garrulous, so he learns to hoard his words and select them carefully. After years of splurging on empty and vain words, he learns the true value of a word, acquires local dialects, and refines the accents to use them should a need arise. At his best, he goes an entire week without saying a word. He’s too loud, so he learns to quiet himself down. He practices walking on leaves or cobbles without making a sound. He trains himself not to make random sounds to muffle what the silence is screaming at him, no more singing under his breath, or knocking a rhythm on tables. He's too…visible, too lambent, too individual, so he avoids darker colours and properly styles his ribbon-less hair. He learns to prefer lighter colours, to comply with recent fashions, and to present himself as unobtrusive as possible. He forces himself to eat unseasoned food and avoids alcohol (both with great effort).
Months after Wei Wuxian awakens in a blood-drench room in Mo Manor, he’s fighting a vengeful spirit of a wronged concubine, and there amid the night, the humidity, the droplets of his blood seeping into the grass, he feels it, a warmth like his Shijie’s smile, like the lingering taste of spices on his tongue, like the sensation of hearing Ridiculous! from Lan Zhan’s lips. A golden core. His golden core. That night, he burns an incense for Mo Xuanyu. That night, he feels alive.
Time passes.
His life is all but idle. He nighthunts, mostly alone, but sometimes he inevitably meets other cultivators—thank the heavens, never from an esteemed sect. He naps in caves and sheds by day, and bathes in lakes, sometimes skinny-dipping. (He still gets used to the idea of having a body. A different one, but healthy, albeit malnourished, but that can be remedied, and, really, that’s all that matters.) His stays never last longer than two weeks, not out of some self-established rules, but the famine for the world. On warm nights, he sleeps outside, on roofs or on grass, content with Little Apple’s increasingly agreeable company. Following the forced acceptance of each other’s company, tolerance takes root and blossoms into genuine fondness. Accompanied by moonlight, Wei Wuxian meditates and cultivates, building and shaping, persisting, tasting the sweetness of possibilities and changes on his tongue, relishing the warmth tentatively forming within him, a friend once forfeited. He still plays his flute; always in solitude, almost always the same melody that is woven deep into his soul, an echo of faded memories and disjoined emotions. He cannot recall its origins, but his fingers know the dance by heart; it is simply a part of him, inextricable from his being. Wei Wuxian shall exist as long as the last notes shall echo.
His mind clings to memories of unfinished projects, of ideas disregarded or overshadowed by the desperation to prevent as many tragedies as possible, so whenever he has the funds and space, he works on talismans. There’s so much he can do: water or heatproof talismans, talismans for recording images or voices, talismans to temporarily alter appearance, and many more, which have been exiled to the back of his mind, his thoughts usurped by the new inventions in demonic cultivation. The first time he finds himself in a warm room, with talisman paper and stationery around him, he sits motionlessly, letting the tears drip from his cheeks, a pained smile on his face.
Winter is a challenge, but Wei Wuxian is known for courting challenges. He prepares, gathering funds and, albeit reluctantly, equipping himself with necessities. He’s never handled coldness well, courtesy of Yunmeng’s climate—and the warmth of a family, his family, his home…(and his golden core)—and he’s still uncertain about the limitations of this new body. It’s too weak for Wei Wuxian’s liking and his habits; nevertheless, it’s his, and that suffices; he has the time to train it. (He, Wei Wuxian, has time, how absurd, how delightful, how frightening).
He survives (this time, this year, a voice tells him). When the spring peeks through the snow and mumbles in the wind, he enrols to aid locals with their farmwork in exchange for food and accommodations. He makes new acquaintances and pulls on old wounds as his body slides into the rhythm of labour, the stains of past bleeding into the unblemished canvas of today. For the first couple of days, by the time he finishes with his portion of land, the memory of the taste of radishes clings to his mouth, causing him to vomit into the bushes nearby. It gets easier, or he gets used to it. He’s always been good at accommodating pain and to pain, and he finds comfort in the fact that this new he seems to share this trait.
To his surprise, he discovers that while he is working, his mind submerges into an almost meditative state, allowing him to progress his cultivation. Where usually he despised meditating, and the very act of it is a battle, this he can do, huh! he could do it with ease! Each day leaves him with more energy tingling underneath his skin, a glow in his eyes that has not been there since his boyhood, and more definition to his muscles (muscles! He has muscles now, because he has access to food!). He still has a long way to go, but the mere fact that he has a destination is an improvement in itself.
If only…Nah, nah, what a greedy thing he is! Haha, the Lans have a rule for that! Wei Wuxian is a self-proclaimed expert in the Lan Clan rules! He wrote them all many times, remembers very few, and himself inspired at least a hundred. Ah, that’s too much to ask, too much to yearn for, or…damn him, damn it all, really. It’s just it’d be even better to have someone waiting for him at the end.
(There’s a name somewhere permanently on his tongue, his comfort, his prayer, but only the moon gets to hear him say it.)
*
Over a year after Wei Wuxian’s resurrection, Jin Guangyao falls from grace. Actually, it happens earlier, months after the Mo Manor incident, but Wei Wuxian learns of it with a delay caused by the remoteness of the area he’s staying in. By the time the news reaches him alongside the revelations regarding Jin Guangyao’s true nature, a mockery of stability is re-established in the cultivation world. Lan Wangji ascends as the Chief Cultivator. Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, a Chief Cultivator! Yearning for a taste of Emperor’s Smile—who’s he kidding, ha, he yearns for Gusu, for whites and light blues, for a sight of golden eyes, for Shameless! Frivolous! (Wei Ying…)—Wei Wuxian drinks himself unconscious, laughs until his throat is hoarse and cries until there’s no more tears in him.
He ponders on the past, trying to locate his faults and Jin Guangyao’s schemes. He is immobilised for days, sleeping at random hours, staying in bed for hours after waking up, not eating, or at least not feeling hungry; instead, feeling like a puppet himself.
There are rumours that Yilling Patriarch has returned, but no one seems to have seen him.
How auspicious his demise must’ve been for his loved ones! Lan Zhan, the Chief cultivator. Lan Zhan, who has a son now! (Wei Wuxian still struggles to make peace with this information. He thought he misheard. He thought he was delusional. Is there someone in Lan Zhan’s life? Lan Zhan deserves it, Wei Wuxian reminds himself. Lan Zhan has earned it. Lan Zhan should be loved and cherished. And to think that the boy Wei Wuxian met in the Mo Mansion was Hanguang-jun’s son! What a small world.)
(It’s only fair, he thinks, Lan Zhan was good, so now, he has a son who lives, who is the pride of the Lan sect, while Wei Wuxian is lifeless and childless.)
And Jiang Chang, the proper leader of a prosperous sect! Finally, the pride of Yunmeng, not as a twin, but his own person.
It was granted to them because Wei Wuxian was absent to deprive them of their blessings.
His journey proceeds through monsters’ lairs and inns, distant countries and familiar places, lush forests and lands marked by disasters, days and nights, springs and winters. Knowing what he knows now, each li feels right. After so long, he’s finally doing the right thing.