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it is — well, it is difficult to fight and win against someone who is trying to kill you when you are only trying to stop them. wei wuxian has always been closely matched to his skillset, loath as a younger lan wangji would be to admit it, and now it is wei wuxian and a fierce corpse trying to kill while he is trying to spar and convince everyone else to leave wei wuxian alone .
he thought he’d succeeded in fighting back the red in his eyes, thought wei wuxian would stop attacking, for the fierce corpse had relented and given him enough time to strike a few chords from clarity and tell wei wuxian that he meant no harm, that he just wanted peace to fall, that he didn’t want wei wuxian to die at a horde led by jin zixun. so he turned his back — wei wuxian was no longer under the thrall of resentment, of curdling anger, and he wouldn’t attack him, lan wangji trusted that much — and played to put the rest of the corpses to rest so the fight would end .
and then — pain.
pain worse than the disciplinary hits he’d gotten from drinking alcohol inside the cloud recesses, pain which sears and stabs and seems all-encompassing. lan wangji doesn’t scream as the fierce corpse begins to tear him apart. it is far too late for him to be saved — lan wangji will not take away such a crucial part of wei wuxian’s defence when his life is already forfeit. so he lets wen ning tear into him like a wild animal — perhaps that is all wen ning is right now — and falls, quiet and serene as always, his guqin settled to the side. (perhaps his brother will take it up. he hopes his brother will — it will be good for him, to be able to hold onto this piece of lan wangji when he is gone.) his robes (mourning robes, white and pale blue) have splashes of scarlet, like blooming carnations but he is still a light-bearer — he falls, still beacon-like, because he owes that much to his sect. lan wangji falls, beautiful and at the peak of his glory, and perhaps it is because of such a great descent that the carnations which wreathe his death robes bloom so large.
gold eyes close as a visible wisp of soul floats above his body, forcefully ejected, still trying to hover near. silence falls on that mountain. and then the gold wisp shatters like delicately wrought thin glass, for his soul does not go gentle into that good night. the cultivators stare, almost uncomprehending, at the shattered gold in front of them.
and lan wangji has always been stubborn. he tries to keep the soul shards as close together as he can, tries to hold them tight like that will help him piece himself back together, and watches the mountain as it erupts in chaos, as wei wuxian sinks to his knees in regret — a movement that lan wangji doesn’t know how (or what) to feel about. but his brother — his brother, who has not deserved a single wisp of grief the world has set against him — appears soon, too, and he does not cry but there is shock and accusation and grief in his eyes. he takes both wangjis, guqin and cold body, and wangji follows him, like a mother duck leading ducklings except the ducklings are soul shards. all the way back to the cloud recesses, where his bunnies reside and where lan xichen and lan qiren cry in private. lan wangji focuses on piecing himself together, for the cloud recesses is infused with the power of cultivation and it is, now that lan wangji thinks of it, the perfect place to go for a soul trying to become whole.
shard by shard, year by year; it’s thankless, tiring work, and worse because lan xichen does not stop playing inquiry and lan wangji cannot respond, cannot tell him to stop, move on, forgive and live . lan xichen is disciplined; he wakes at five and trains the disciples and performs all his duties to perfection, but he is still more ghost than human and lan xichen is living. in his eyes are grief and lan wangji suspects his brother has not forgiven himself, though for what reason — it isn’t like his brother killed him.
five years pass before lan wangji finally attaches his last soul shard, before lan wangji is truly whole again. in those five years, lan wangji overhears much. he knows wei wuxian is safe, that he is with the jiang clan again and that jiang wanyin will protect him, that jiang yanli and jin zixuan have ensured the safety of the wen clan remnants, and that little a-yuan is safe, too. and at the end of those five years, the notes of inquiry ring out again and lan wangji replies.
brother .
there is a pause, shock on his brother’s face, and then the notes strum out — where were you?
piecing myself together. you have held on for five years.
i’m sorry.
there is nothing to be sorry for. will you let me go?
his brother breathes deeply, in and out, and he begins playing to put him to rest, for that’s the only thing left to do. lan wangji feels his tether to the earth loosen, feels his soul lifting.
it is dark and then it is bright again and there is the sound of water nearby — a river flowing into a lake — and the scent of food. of caiyi town’s food, specifically; lan wangji tries to stand. he wonders if this is the afterlife, but then there’s the faintest whisper in his mind, a half-buried truth that he once knew, in that period of darkness between his brother’s song and now, that this is not the afterlife. that he has another purpose, now.
he is alive. he does not know how but the world has been kind to him this once — or perhaps it has been cruel. perhaps it is just another chance for him to shape as he wants, for fate seems so close to him, nearly putty in his hands. lan wangji does not dwell on this — there are more important things. for there are gold threads lining him, stringing along his fingers in delicate webs and weaved over his essence. he is still dressed in white and somehow, bichen is in its sheath — wangji is not with him, but that is fine; lan wangji focuses and watches as his hands do what his mind does not remember, and weaves a new guqin of golden thread. it will do for now, it will have to do for now. there are not many options available to him, so he enters caiyi town.
people bow the moment they catch sight of him. lan wangji is unsure of what to make of it all until he hears the murmurs of divine one . he is — he’s been returned as a god. this sounds accurate to the half-buried truth his subconscious knows. perhaps that is why there are thin gold fibres between his fingers, waiting for him to tug on them, why his golden core feels fundamentally different inside of his body. (for what the people see — well, the people see gold eyes filled with the light of celestial beings, a figure glowing brightly enough to put hanguang-jun to shame.) lan wangji enters the first restaurant he sees — there is a woman who greets him, eyes of knowledge in a too-young body, who introduces herself as meixu.
“so what are you the god of?” she asks as he steers her away from showing too much respect.
the answer comes naturally to him. “cultivation,” he replies, a one-word answer as is often the case when it comes to him. some habits do not change, in god or man.
“that does make sense. what’s your name?” she asks, pouring him tea.
lan wangji stays quiet.
“then you will need one,” meixu concludes. “what about gengzhong?”
“mn.”
most people, after all, cannot see lan wangji underneath divine aura unless they look closely enough. lan xichen and lan qiren will always look closely enough, though, and when lan wangji shows up at the gates of the cloud recesses, lan xichen nearly cries before he tells lan qiren, who does cry.
lan wangji is a god now, a god of cultivation but also a god of blessings, for what other purpose is there for a god but to offer aid to a broken, cruel world? he takes his brother’s right hand and lets it be the origin of blessing.
one: may your spirit be as agile as your fingers, that it may see grief and release it to make room for anticipation of the future and its joy. the first encasement of gold showers over his brother.
two: may your truth be well-heard and well-received, that your voice carries your responsibility. and gold glows around his brother again.
three: may love and forgiveness flow hand in hand and follow where you go, clearing a path before you and leaving a trail behind. the last gold encasement tightens on his figure and then all the gold disappears, sinking into his flesh.
“wangji,” his brother murmurs.
“i will have to leave,” he says. “is everything well here?” lan wangji knows, but there is no harm in making sure.
“yes,” his brother says. “stay safe.”
for in the end, a bird must leave its nest; with every change comes new role and movement, and lan wangji is no longer man but god.
in the next years, lan wangji travels. he goes where the chaos is; spirits, demons, corpses are all dispatched; souls flock to him and he listens to their stories before putting them to rest; he aids reconstruction and blesses some — blessings work as far as the recipient will work, after all. and lan wangji hears the stories of demonic cultivators, too; they take the path for hope, for protection, for their loved ones, and in them lan wangji eases their resentment and trusts that they will not overreach — and for those who do , who have and spit angrily at anything and everything, who trample orphans like them, lan wangji tugs a golden string and their life is exhaled in one fell swoop.
it is repetitive work but it is work that reminds lan wangji why he is still living — why he has not retreated to the other side, where all the deities reside after they have looked on the world and grown tired of its cruelty. there are people who ask him where he has been all this time and lan wangji just says, “i was not a god back then.” people fall silent after that, for it is implied that once lan wangji was human and has presumably suffered.
well, suffering could be another way to sum up the experience of love — a cruel thing, but beautiful, and not a game, which makes it so much worse.
but in the next seven years, he does not go to the yunmeng-jiang or jin clans. he does not think he can — he is not welcome. and attempting the impossible is left to those humans like those in yunmeng-jiang (wei ying, golden and ascending, his traitorous mind whispers in the blackest part of the night), not for the gods, for there are limits that a god knows. lan wangji is not certain of this limit, but he does not wish to test it.
one night, he visits the mo village and comes across mo xuanyu, a former cultivator of the jin clan. (from his mouth, he hears the outpouring of betrayal, something familiar although the ensuing anger is not familiar. but between wei wuxian and jin guangyao, one of them was not in control and the other knew exactly what he was doing, so lan wangji thinks some anger is forgivable. he cannot kill jin guangyao, however easy it might theoretically be, though, because nie mingjue is dead and jin guangyao is lan xichen’s last sworn brother and as long as jin guangyao keeps his backstabbing to a minimum, lan wangji will not add to his brother’s grief.) he sets mo xuanyu free from his relatives, gives him a set of blessings (confidence, a new spark of life, an acceptance of change) and a pouch of gold coins, and sends him on his way.
another night, he visits the nightless city and runs into a fake-blind girl. he does not ask for her name and she does not ask for his, but lan wangji knows the name xue yang and it is his pleasure to cut the golden thread of his life and to bring back the spirits of song lan and xiao xingchen. it is good that lan wangji knows the art of hiding loss; he tucks it carefully away, all the loss and the lost confusion, and does his job with divine light in his eyes and oaths following his footsteps. he makes promises, he alters fate where he can, he salvages what a cruel world has left behind, and that is his duty as a god. to stop chaos where possible, to clean up the aftermath otherwise, and there is no time for feeling lost in that all-encompassing duty. he blesses this girl, the one that song lan and xiao xingchen call a-qing, with strength, action, and trust.
he does not visit the yunmeng-jiang territory or the jin but he writes back to his brother when possible and occasionally returns to places he has visited, just to see what the blessed have done and to see pockets of peace in a world of chaos. oaths follow his footsteps and he has plans to fulfil them.
one night — it has been thirteen years now — on the path back to mo village, he pauses by another small town. at the tavern he finds himself in, he’s regaled with tales of woe that have befallen the villagers of the town, as well as stories of worship of a ‘dancing goddess’, a natural sculpture in a cave. lan wangji knows well that wishes have power so he listens carefully — first a man who suddenly finds himself rich and married, then dying on his wedding day, cold and without excuse; stories like his continue. only one girl has survived but her father died almost as if in her place, but that girl has not been the same since; she dances and smiles, insane. it explains why there are so many cultivators here, at least.
lan wangji asks a villager to take him to the cave of the dancing goddess. he waits there, for lan wangji has not always been patient but he has learned its virtue, and has his seven gold daggers floating before him. at some point, the rock will wake; there’s an overabundance of cultivators, and thus energy, for the rock to draw from. the night wears on.
then, there is a loud voice, groaning, “i wish the monster would just come out and greet us already.”
lan wangji stands and his eyes, gold, are piercingly bright.
“gengzhong?”
people are coming into the cave now. lan wangji fixes his eyes on the stone figure, who has been exchanging wishes for souls, and now begins cracking — moving.
“leave,” he orders.
most people do leave, all rather hurriedly.
“jingyi, we should go,” one voice says quietly.
“we can’t leave him!” jingyi responds. he’s the one who’s made a wish.
“you must go. if she gets you, she has your soul,” lan wangji says. “ now .” for the goddess has fully turned and taken a step off of her pedestal now. (of course, the three boys do not listen. junior disciples tend to not do that, sometimes.) but lan wangji cannot pay too much mind to them; his seven gold daggers glint as they weave back and forth, parrying and striking. as he guides them with his mind, he takes out his guqin and begins to play, notes which flow out naturally — beautiful and dangerous. he uses the chord assassination technique because he didn’t watch lan yi play for nothing ; note by note, the stone in front of him staggers and chips, and finally lan wangji feels a tiny wave of frustration. he sends an exploding talisman at the rock; upon contact, both burst into fragments and the demon’s power evaporates. the souls it’s eaten lift up in the air, silvery gold, and lan wangji plays them to rest before the seven gold daggers and his gold guqin disappear. he turns to the three. there is recognition for one of them —
a-yuan ?
a-yuan.
lan wangji takes three deep breaths and carefully tucks away the sense of loss and being lost.
“you three should go to your clans,” he says. he realises that jingyi is a lan, a surprising turn of events, with all things considered. a-yuan is in yunmeng-jiang purple and there is another boy there, dressed in jin clan gold robes. an odd trio, certainly, but lan wangji supposes he has seen more surprising things, and his own brother is sworn brothers with a deceased nie and a backstabbing jin.
lan wangji is not certain how he ends up facing the jiang sect leader but the fact of the matter is that the three junior disciples have followed him out of the cave and immediately, all three of them have called out to jiang wanyin. they might have exchanged some sort of thanks and then the three boys had said something and now, jiang wanyin waits expectantly for an answer — would you like to come to lotus pier?
his breath catches. “if you’ll have me,” he ends up responding.
and so he sets foot in yunmeng-jiang.
wei wuxian has always been able to see lan wangji, past all the trails of divinity which the world has given him, and he sees both lan wangji and gengzhong now.
“eat, wei ying,” jiang yanli encourages quietly. it is true that wei wuxian looks dangerously thin now, an expression of loss and being lost written in his eyes and across his face, and that his black robes hang too loose on him and his plate remains untouched. lan wangji wonders what it all means.
“what — oh. yes, shijie,” he says and smiles, thin. it doesn’t reach his eyes. then he turns to look at lan wangji again, confusion evident on his face.
that night, lan wangji hears the notes of a familiar melody; inquiry floats across the rooftops. lan wangji goes down to see wei wuxian playing.
“who are you searching for?” he asks, because it has been thirteen years.
“a — well — hanguang-jun,” wei wuxian mutters. “are you him?” there is a sad resignation in his eyes, one that lan wangji can hardly bear, because wei wuxian is so much not himself and so much himself still that it is nearly heartbreaking.
lan wangji hesitates still. “yes,” he finally says, a single word that will not erase the grief of thirteen years, but hopefully will ease it. “wei ying.”
wei wuxian turns, finally, and looks, scarlet ribbon fluttering in the wind. he breathes a sharp inhale. there is moisture in his eyes, glinting in the moonlight, and his hands clutch his dizi too tightly. “lan zhan.”
"yes," lan wangji says again. "i am here."