Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The small village is empty. It feels dead.
Just like him.

The silence in the Burial Mounds is heavier than usual. Wei Wuxian stands at the edge of the ruined path, eyes tracing the outlines of crooked rooftops and collapsed walls. There's no wind. No birdsong. Nothing but the faint echo of Wen Yuan’s giggle somewhere behind him.

He knows what’s coming.

It’s not fear he feels anymore — not even anger. Just a strange, hollow acceptance, like a man waiting for a sentence already written.

“Xian-gege! Look!” Wen Yuan’s voice rings out, full of light. The boy runs up to him, chubby fingers holding a tattered ribbon he found in the dirt. “Pretty?”

Wei Wuxian forces a smile, crouching to ruffle his hair.
“Very pretty,” he says softly, voice catching in his throat.

He doesn't want to cry. Not in front of Wen Yuan. Not today.

So instead, he picks him up and spins him in the air, just like he used to when things still felt bearable. Wen Yuan squeals in delight, arms flailing, laughter echoing through the empty village — a sound too pure for this place, too alive.

Wei Wuxian wishes he could freeze this moment, bottle it and keep it close when the end finally comes.

He knows it's selfish. He’s not doing this just for Wen Yuan — he’s doing it for himself. This one last memory. This one last laugh. He needs it like a dying man needs air.

They play for a while in the tall grass where the sun barely touches. He hides behind broken stones and lets the child find him. Pretends to be defeated when caught. Lets himself fall to the ground in mock surrender, and Wen Yuan climbs on top of him, triumphant.

“You’re too strong,” Wei Wuxian chuckles, brushing dirt off the boy’s cheek. “I never stood a chance.”

Wen Yuan grins, wrapping his little arms around his neck. “Xian-gege is silly.”

Above them, the sky is starting to turn. Faint clouds gather in the distance. He knows the clouds will come with swords and hatred.
But for now, there's only this.

This fragile joy.
This breath of life before the storm.

Wei Wuxian straightens up, still holding Wen Yuan in his arms.

He hears it before he sees it — rapid footsteps, cutting through the quiet like a blade. He tenses instantly, body on edge. The sound is wrong. It's not angry or clumsy. It's… urgent. Purposeful.

Before he can say a word, Wen Yuan squirms in his arms and points excitedly toward the path.
“Rich gege!” he shouts, beaming.

Wei Wuxian’s heart skips a beat.

Rich gege…?

His eyes narrow as he slowly turns toward the figure approaching through the mist. His voice comes out low, disbelieving.

“Lan Zhan?”

There’s no time to ask why he’s here. No time to feel anything at all. Because the moment their eyes meet, Lan Wangji speaks, his voice calm, but sharp — like steel half-buried in snow.
“You have to go. Why are you still here?”

“Xian-gege?”

The soft voice cuts through the air, barely above a whisper. Wen Yuan’s little hand tugs at Wei Wuxian’s sleeve, eyes wide with confusion. He can feel the tension in the older man’s body, sense the shift in the air. Something isn’t right — even he can tell.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t answer immediately.

He looks up at Lan Wangji, their eyes locking for the briefest of moments. He doesn’t need to say anything out loud. Lan Wangji understands. He always has.

Without a word, Wei Wuxian lowers his gaze and whispers a short incantation, his fingers tracing gentle patterns in the air. A soft glow surrounds Wen Yuan for a second, and then his tiny body slackens, head resting against Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, fast asleep.

He holds him close for a moment longer, pressing a silent kiss to the boy’s hair. His arms are steady, but his heart isn’t.

Only once Wen Yuan’s breathing evens out does Wei Wuxian finally raise his voice.

“Why are YOU here?” he says, sharper than before. His eyes flash, not with anger — but with concern. “It’s dangerous. What if someone saw you? What if they’re following you?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t flinch. He stands still, robes immaculate even in the dirt and decay of the Burial Mounds. He looks at Wei Wuxian the way he always has — like he’s the only thing in the world that matters.
“They didn’t,” he says simply. “I was careful.”

“That’s not the point,” Wei Wuxian replies, his voice lower now, more strained. “You shouldn’t be here, Lan Zhan. Not now.”

Lan Wangji doesn't move. His hands are clenched at his sides, hidden beneath long sleeves, but his eyes—his eyes stay fixed on Wei Wuxian like he’s trying to memorize him.

Wei Wuxian adjusts Wen Yuan in his arms, cradling him close. He doesn’t meet Lan Wangji’s gaze this time. He can’t.

“I need to get him somewhere safe,” he says, voice almost gentle now. “Somewhere quiet. He deserves peace.”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Wangji steps forward. “Then let me help you.”

Wei Wuxian finally looks up, and this time, his smile is real. Soft. Tired. The kind of smile people give when they’ve already let go.

“You’ve already helped me,” he says, “more than you know.”

Lan Wangji frowns, tension visible in the line of his jaw. “You’re not coming with me, are you?”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t answer right away. He looks up at the sky — the gray clouds are rolling in, slow but sure. Time is running out.

He softens with another small smile. “You shouldn’t be here. If anyone sees you, they’ll drag you down with me. And you… you’re not meant to fall, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Wangji says nothing. But his eyes search Wei Wuxian’s face as if he might find a crack in the calm, something—anything—that will let him believe this isn't goodbye.

“I’ll see you again,” Wei Wuxian says quietly. He reaches out, brushing his fingers against Lan Wangji’s sleeve. “When all this is over. I’ll come find you.”
The lie tastes bitter on his tongue. But he says it anyway.

Because Lan Zhan deserves hope.

Because the truth would be crueler than silence.

Lan Wangji’s jaw tightens. His hand twitches as if he wants to reach for him — pull him in, stop him — but he doesn’t. He can’t.

“Wei Ying…” he murmurs, voice raw, voice cracking.

Wei Wuxian just shakes his head, eyes soft.

“Go,” he says. “Before someone sees you.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t move right away. But eventually, slowly, he takes a step back.
Then another.
And another.

And Wei Wuxian stands there, still holding Wen Yuan against his chest, watching him go —
carrying the weight of a lie he needed to tell.

The mist deepens as the hour wanes.

Wei Wuxian walks in silence, arms wrapped tightly around the small sleeping form of Wen Yuan. The child doesn’t stir — the spell is gentle, protective, meant only to lull and shield, not trap.

He finds the hollow tree at the edge of the forest, long since fallen and split open. He used to play here with the children of the Burial Mounds, once. Back when laughter still echoed in the air.
Now, it's just quiet.

Kneeling, he lays Wen Yuan inside the trunk, brushing stray strands of hair from his forehead. The bark smells of earth and rot, but it’s dry inside. Safe enough.
Wei Wuxian raises his hand, drawing an array in the air, fingers glowing faintly.

A sound barrier.
A spiritual ward.
And one last incantation — one that will mask the boy’s presence, hide him from sight, from qi, from everything. The magic hums low as it seals around the tree like a lullaby made of silence.
He looks down one last time.

“I’m sorry, A-Yuan,” he whispers. “Be good. Don’t be afraid...”

He smiles, just enough, and turns away before it breaks him.

When he returns to the core of the Burial Mounds, the air feels heavier. The sky darker. The silence deeper.

He knows Lan Zhan is gone. He felt it — the shift in energy, the distance between them stretching like thread snapping loose. He’s gone back to his people. To the war.

To the place where Wei Wuxian will become their enemy, one last time.

Wei Wuxian walks slowly into what was once his home, now a ruin. The candles are out. The talismans on the walls flutter faintly with the wind. Everything smells of ash.

His hands shake.

He breathes in. Then out.
Again.

But the tremble won’t stop. Something inside him twists, pulls, like a scream with no voice.

He grips the edge of the broken table. The wood splinters under his fingers.

And then, suddenly — without thinking, without ceremony —
he pulls the ribbon from his hair.

Dark strands fall around his shoulders.

His chest tightens.

And with trembling hands, he reaches for the dagger by his side.

He doesn’t cry. Not yet.

But he raises the blade… and begins to cut.

Each slice is slow. Clean. Deliberate.

Hair falls in clumps to the floor, pooling like shadows around his feet.

With every lock that falls, it feels like a piece of him disappears — his past, his pride, the dreams he once carried like fire in his chest.

This is the end.

Not because he wants it.

But because he sees no other way.

The wind changes.

It’s sudden. Sharp. The kind that carries more than air — it carries intent.

Wei Wuxian feels it immediately, the shift in pressure, the subtle tremble of the ground beneath his feet.
He steps out of the ruined house and looks toward the horizon.

In the distance, lights flicker — not fireflies, not lanterns. Swords.
Talismans.
Anger.

The great sects are here.

He doesn’t summon Chenqing yet. He simply stands there, eyes on the valley below as shadows begin to rise over the ridges.

The mist thins. They want him to see them coming.

Let it be known — this is not justice. This is vengeance.

He exhales.

Behind him, the Burial Mounds are silent. He knows the children are gone, scattered, hidden. He knows Wen Yuan sleeps where no one can find him.

There is nothing left to protect.

Nothing left to lose.

Only him.
Down in the valley, the shouting begins. Orders barked. Names called. Sect robes ripple in the wind — Jiang purple, Nie silver, Lan white, Jin gold.

They come as one, but not united.
They come to kill, but not to understand.

And Wei Wuxian…
He lifts Chenqing to his lips and plays one long, shivering note.
The ground trembles. The wind howls.
And the dead rise.

Not as monsters. Not as demons.
But as what they are — shadows called by sorrow, bound by grief.
His grief.

On the other side, Lan Wangji stands among the others, still. His expression unreadable.

But when the flute sounds, something in him breaks.

He knows.
He knows Wei Ying is not going to run.
He never intended to.
And still… he hopes.

Wei Wuxian floats forward like a ghost. His robes are black. His hair — shorter now, uneven, still damp with sweat and blood and ritual.

But his posture is steady.

He doesn’t scream.
He doesn’t laugh.
He just walks into war, one step at a time.

The first sword strikes.
He dodges.
Another flies.
He blocks.

But there are too many.
Too much rage.
Too much fear.

The undead swirl around him like a shield, but it won’t hold forever. And maybe… it’s not meant to.

Above the chaos, he plays again.

Not a war song.
Not a spell.
Just a note.
Soft. Beautiful. Final.

From the battlefield, Lan Wangji sees everything.
He watches the waves of cultivators clash with the corpses. He hears the screams, the fury, the chaos. But all of it blurs behind the single thread of his focus — a black figure standing alone in the storm.

Wei Ying.

And then — through the smoke and talismans burning in the air — he sees Jiang Cheng.

His purple robes fly behind him like a banner of vengeance, Zidian crackling in his hand. His face is twisted, not with hatred, but with something deeper. Something that hurts more.
Betrayal. Grief. Rage.

He screams something — a name, a curse — and lunges.

Wei Wuxian turns too late.

Zidian coils around his chest like a serpent, searing through fabric, flesh, and spirit. The sound he makes is not a scream. It's worse — a low, strangled gasp, as if the pain isn’t from the blow, but from who struck it.

And then — a second strike. This time, Sandu.

The blade slashes across his side, and Wei Wuxian crumples.

Lan Wangji steps forward.

“Don’t,” his uncle says beside him.

He doesn’t stop.

A senior shouts. “Do not interfere!”

But he is already running.

Jiang Cheng stands above Wei Wuxian, Zidian still hissing with spiritual energy. His breath is heavy, wild. His hand trembles — not from hesitation, but from the weight of what he's already done.
Wei Wuxian looks up at him, coughing, blood on his lips. Their eyes meet for a second.

And Jiang Cheng says, voice broken but cold:
“You’re already dead to me.”

He doesn’t strike again.

He turns.

Lan Wangji falls to his knees beside Wei Wuxian the moment he reaches him.

“Wei Ying—!”
Wei Wuxian tries to laugh, but the sound turns into a sharp breath. His robes are soaked in red, his face pale. His eyes flutter, trying to stay open.

“I told you… not to stay,” he murmurs.

“Don’t speak.” Lan Wangji’s hands glow faintly as he presses them over the wound. He begins transferring qi, pouring it into Wei Wuxian without hesitation, even as the spells around them flicker with resistance.

“Stop—Lan Zhan—it’s no use,” Wei Wuxian breathes. “Don’t—waste it—”

“You’ll be fine.”

Lan Wangji’s voice is soft, but shaking. “You will be fine.”

But it’s not working.

The qi flows, but there’s nowhere for it to settle. No core to receive it.

The golden core is gone.

Lan Wangji realizes it in a single, horrific moment — and his hands falter.

Wei Wuxian closes his eyes. “Now you know.”

Lan Wangji’s throat tightens. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would it have changed anything?” Wei Wuxian whispers.

Lan Wangji’s hands press harder over the wound, desperate. His qi surges, wild and unfocused now. It lashes out, trying to hold together something already broken.

But it’s no use.

So he does the only thing left he can do.

He hides him.

A cave — deep in the shadow of the cliffs, far from the eyes of the clans. The world outside burns with war. But here, it’s quiet.

Lan Wangji lays Wei Wuxian down with infinite care. He lights a small lantern with a touch of his spiritual energy. His hands still shake.

Wei Wuxian drifts in and out of consciousness. His breath is shallow.

Lan Wangji kneels beside him, robe stained with blood not his own.

He says nothing.

Just watches. Just stays.

Because leaving him now would be the true betrayal.

END OF CHAPTER ONE

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian was fading.

He could feel it — the cold, the stillness creeping in under his skin, heavier than exhaustion. His vision blurred at the edges. Sounds dulled. Everything was becoming distant… except for one thing.

Lan Zhan.

He was still there. Holding him. Refusing to let go.

Wei Wuxian blinked, trying to focus on him, on those eyes that had always seen too much. “Lan… Zhan?” he whispered.

Lan Wangji’s hands were shaking as he held Wei Wuxian’s bloodied robes together, as if he could hold the life in him too. His voice broke low in his throat.

“Wei Ying… I love you.”

Wei Wuxian blinked again, as if he hadn’t heard right. Or maybe he had. But everything sounded like it came from underwater now. His brows furrowed, confused, soft.

“…You… what?” he breathed, the words barely formed.

Lan Zhan leaned closer, voice tight with unshed tears. “I love you. I have for a long time. You don’t have to answer. I just— I needed you to know.”

There was a long pause.

Wei Wuxian let out a soft, wet laugh, almost a cough. His fingers brushed Lan Zhan’s cheek, trembling. “Always so serious… and you wait till now to say something like that?”

He looked up at the cave above them. Then back at Lan Zhan, his gaze softening.

“I wish… we had more time.”

Lan Zhan closed his eyes for a second, shaking his head, pressing Wei Wuxian’s hand to his lips. “We do. We will. You’ll be fine. I’ll make sure—”

Wei Wuxian cut him off gently. “No, Lan Zhan. Don’t lie for me.”

He paused, breath shallow.

“But thank you… for loving me. For staying. Even when I was…” He swallowed, voice rasping. “Even when I wasn’t worth it.”

“You were always worth it,” Lan Zhan said firmly. “Always.”

Wei Wuxian smiled faintly, almost dreamily. “If I’d met you again… in another life. Maybe then, things could’ve been different. Maybe we…”

His voice faltered. Then steadied just a little, as he squeezed Lan Zhan’s hand one last time.

“You’ll take care of Wen Yuan, won’t you? He’ll need you.”

Lan Zhan’s voice cracked. “He still needs you.”

Wei Wuxian didn’t respond at first. Just leaned into the warmth of Lan Zhan’s hand. The last warmth he wanted to remember.

“…It’s okay,” he whispered. “He’ll be fine if he’s with you.”

The last breath leaves Wei Ying in silence.

For a moment, Lan Wangji cannot move. The weight in his arms is still warm, but the pulse beneath his fingers is gone, as if stolen by the wind. The world is muted. All he hears is his own heartbeat hammering in his ears — too fast, too loud, too wrong.

He presses his forehead to Wei Ying’s, inhaling the faint trace of sandalwood and smoke.

“Wei Ying…”

The name breaks apart in his throat.

Lan Wangji stays there until footsteps approach, until the shadows of white robes fall across the mouth of the cave.

“Second Jade of Lan.” The voice of the lead elder is calm, but the judgment in it cuts sharp.

“Step away from him.”

Lan Wangji rises slowly, keeping Wei Ying cradled in his arms. “No.”

“You defy the clan for a man who is—”

Lan Wangji’s eyes flash, colder than the steel at his side. “Say it, and I will cut the words from your tongue.”

The elders exchange glances. The air thickens.

When they move to take Wei Ying’s body, Lan Wangji’s sword clears its sheath in a single breath.

Thirty-three elders.
One man.

The fight is not a battle of victory — only of refusal. Lan Wangji stands like a wall of ice, every strike precise, every step measured. Their numbers press in, but none pass him. Not while Wei Ying rests in the shadows behind him.

They drive him back with sheer force. His knuckles split. His breathing grows ragged. But he does not yield.

Finally, the oldest elder lowers his sword. “You cannot keep him from judgment forever, Hanguang-jun.”

Lan Wangji says nothing.

He leaves the cave under the weight of thirty-three eyes, Wei Ying in his arms, blood streaking the white of his own robes.

Cloud Recesses feels emptier than it ever has.

Lan Wangji lays Wei Ying to rest in the mountains, in a place only he will ever find. No stone bears his name. No marker stands. Only a single ribbon, red and fraying, tied to a branch above.

It is on the seventh day, when the incense still burns low in his quarters, that he hears the crying.

At first, he thinks it is his mind playing cruel tricks. But when he follows the sound down the path from the mountain pass, he finds a small figure in a hollow tree.

Wen Yuan.

The boy’s face is pale, skin fever-warm. His tiny hands clutch the hem of Lan Wangji’s robes without even seeing who he is.

“Xian-gege…” he mumbles, voice slurred with delirium. “Where…?”

The word dies into a weak cough.

Lan Wangji gathers him up. Wen Yuan’s forehead burns against his neck.

He takes the boy back through the mountain mists, into the quiet halls of Cloud Recesses, where the healers work through the night. The fever is deep and stubborn. Days pass before the boy stirs, and when he does…

His gaze is blank.

No recognition. No spark of the memory that once made him run into Wei Ying’s arms.

“Where… am I?” Wen Yuan whispers, clutching the blanket.

“You are home,” Lan Wangji says softly, though the word tastes wrong.

Raising him is an ache that never heals.

Lan Wangji teaches Wen Yuan to read, to write, to play the guqin in slow, patient lessons. He answers the child’s endless questions with the same quiet steadiness he once gave another boy long ago.

But at night, when Wen Yuan sleeps, Lan Wangji stands in the courtyard, staring at the moon, hearing a voice that will never answer again.

Wen Yuan never remembers. The fever took those days away. The sound of Wei Ying’s laugh. The warmth of the Burial Mounds at sunset. The feel of a hand ruffling his hair and calling him “A-Yuan.”

Lan Wangji remembers enough for them both.

The world moves on.

But he stays, holding what remains after.

THE END