Chapter Text
Nie Mingjue would be the very first to admit that devious plotting was not his strong suit – if anything, it was a point of pride: that he didn’t need to be underhanded, that his strength came from straightforward skill rather than lies and treachery. But as the years trickled by, his soul and body both torn into pieces by someone he’d cared for, someone he’d trusted, and his spiritual consciousness trapped on this plane as if by an anchor, he eventually grew to admit that perhaps, maybe, there was a place in this world for schemes.
His brother’s vengeance, for one thing. That was extremely well done – but it shouldn’t have had to get done.
Not by his baby brother, his little Huaisang, who he’d tried so hard to protect from the world.
Still, Nie Mingjue learned from his mistakes, even if it took time, and he was as ruthless with himself as he was with anyone else. The forbidden ritual from the deepest darkest depths of his family’s coffers was said to be agonizing beyond agony, the consequences of using it grave beyond telling, but the second he regained enough of his mind to move the fingers of that raving mad fierce corpse he’d become, trapped inside a coffin for a hundred years, he used it without a second of hesitation.
He woke up in his bed at home.
Baxia quivered in his arms, which were still small and a little pudgy: as he’d hoped, it was the first night after he’d chosen her, or she’d chosen him, however it went. He was twelve years old.
There were still nearly three years before Wen Ruohan would murder his father, leaving him to scramble to lie about his age to avoid any questions about his eligibility as Sect Leader – he’d only just barely gotten away with it, between Qinghe’s tradition of being secretive with personal information, never sharing given names and rarely birthdays, and the fact that he was so abnormally tall for his age – and even longer before Wen Ruohan’s intentions were finally revealed to the world.
Before the Sunshot Campaign - and everything that followed.
He got up out of his bed, Baxia obediently slipping into her usual place on his back, which made him trip; she was still the same, but he was much smaller.
It had taken him months to tame her, at the beginning, and by the time she'd finally consented to ride on his back he'd been tall enough not to notice, but there was no such problem now. Qinghe Nie rituals were always centered on the saber: Baxia been the vessel by which he’d come back and the consequence that he accepted for having done so.
She was the same blade she’d been when he died, full of resentful energy as if he’d been through a war, while his cultivation had returned to how it had been. It would be an even greater struggle to control her in the future, though at the moment she was quiet, almost as if she were pleased to see him again.
He opened his door and walked down the hall, knowing already what he would find.
Huaisang was in his bed, with altogether far too many fluffy pillows by his side: he was four years old this year. A year younger than the peers he would meet at the Cloud Recesses some years hence, and three years younger than Meng Yao – oh, Nie Mingjeu would have to decide what to do about Meng Yao. He couldn’t trust him, of course, but maybe if someone got to him early enough, before the brothel and the world’s disappointment corrupted and twisted his mind into dishonor…he'd never quite given up hope of saving the man from his own worst instincts, not even after he'd died at his hands. There was Wei Wuxian, too, and that was an open question; he remembered that his brother had once remarked that he’d lost his parents at the age of five. He would be five now, so obviously if there was still a chance to save his parents from their fate, Nie Mingjue would be honor-bound to try to do so…
There was a lot to do, if he wanted to fix everything before he succumbed to his already too-vicious blade. This time around, though, he’d do better. He wouldn’t leave everything for Nie Huaisang to fix.
Careful not to wake his little brother up, he leaned down and pressed his lips to his forehead.
“Thank you for being a good brother,” he murmured, aware his words were insufficient to repay the debt of gratitude he owed him, the way he felt for what the future Nie Huaisang had done in his name, the way he'd avenged him – perhaps he’d try to be slightly less overbearing about training in this lifetime….well, after Nie Huaisang formed his golden core.
He wasn’t going to let him avoid cultivation entirely.
Mind made up, he straightened up and headed back out of his brother’s room, not looking back.
Perhaps if he’d looked back he would have seen Nie Huaisang’s eyes opening, glassy with unshed tears from a lifetime of regrets, or the way his fists tightened or heard him whisper, “Don’t worry, dage. This time – I’ll do better.”