Work Text:
On the same day the contingent of Wens based at Lotus Pier woke with throbbing heads to find the Jiang heir was missing, a messenger from Buyetian arrived at their door with a letter from the Chief Cultivator.
Wen Zhuliu showed the messenger to the entrance hall and stood opposite Wen Chao’s table with his hands clasped behind his back. He watched the rest of the Wens wander around with vacant stares, clutching at their heads and muttering frantically as they searched the place for any sign of Jiang Wanyin’s whereabouts.
Wen Zhuliu could not count himself to be among the ranks of the other Wens. He had woken at his usual hour with no dry mouth, no sick feeling in his stomach, and no pain stabbing at his temples.
He also knew exactly what had happened to Jiang Wanyin.
Wen Chao, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. Wiping at his bloodshot eyes with the back of his hand, he read the letter from his father’s messenger, then threw it to the side and buried his head in his hands.
“Fuck,” he said. The messenger took a faltering step back, trying to fade into the Qishan Wen banners that now hung on the walls.
Wang Lingjiao draped herself across Wen Chao’s back, trying to peer at the crumpled letter over his shoulder. All morning, she had been clinging to Wen Chao, trying in vain to shake him out of the haze of misery that wreathed him like a storm cloud. “What’s wrong, Wen-gongzi, what does it say?”
Wen Chao looked up. He looked small and shaken, sitting hunched over at the table with his bleary eyes watering as they fixed on Wen Zhuliu. When he pointed at the discarded letter, Wen Zhuliu went over.
As he lifted the paper from the table, Wen Zhuliu had no idea what to expect. Wen Ruohan was unpredictable, these days, the Yin Iron corroding his mind each time he used it in his experiments. For even Wen Chao to react so poorly to his father’s wishes, it couldn’t be good.
The letter was written in scrawled calligraphy, ink blotting some of the characters until they were almost unreadable. Slowly, phrase by phrase, Wen Zhuliu pieced together the wishes of the Chief Cultivator:
Excellent news about the capture of the Jiang boy. Never let it be said that the Chief Cultivator is ungracious to his loyal men: in celebration and as a reward, I propose a marriage. Send Zhuliu to Yiling to marry Wen Qing and keep an eye on matters in Yiling. She has been informed of the match.
Now that you have Lotus Pier under the control of your men, I am sure you have no need of a personal bodyguard for the time being and can spare Zhuliu for this purpose.
See to it at once.
Wen Zhuliu placed the letter back on the table. For once in his life, he found himself in agreement with Wen Chao.
Fuck.
*
The Yiling supervisory post was not far from Yunmeng. Wen Zhuliu would have preferred a longer journey, if only to avoid confronting what lay at its end. Wen Ruohan didn’t yet know what had happened, but it couldn’t be hidden forever. Even a witless fool like Wen Chao could only draw one conclusion, on finding Wen Qing’s brother missing along with the Jiang heir. It was only due to fear of his father’s wrath that Wen Chao had decided to stay behind in Yunmeng and say nothing of Jiang Wanyin’s disappearance for the time being; it had taken the combined efforts of Wang Lingjiao and Wen Zhuliu to convince him not to go storming straight to the Yiling supervisory office and raze the whole place to the ground.
So, Wen Zhuliu headed to Yiling alone, Wen Chao’s vile curses for Wen Qing ringing in his ears. He sat in a boat surrounded by what few possessions he owned, rowed downstream by a man with a thick Yunmeng accent who broke the silence only to inform Wen Zhuliu that they would shortly be arriving in Yiling.
Wen Zhuliu had no illusions about the welcome that awaited him. Wen Qing was smart enough to realise that the only reason she was being saddled with a husband – and one so beneath her in status, at that – was because Wen Ruohan was growing suspicious of her motivations. And now that her brother had betrayed Wen Chao to save Jiang Wanyin, she was enmeshed even further into a position no one would envy.
Wen Qing met him at the gates with a frosty nod. Her eyes were blank of emotion, allowing no hint of fear or uncertainty to slip through. She was flanked by her brother and another Dafan Wen man, who both scurried to take Wen Zhuliu’s belongings at a glance from Wen Qing.
“Wen Zhuliu,” she said, when the two men were gone. “Or should I say, husband?”
Wen Zhuliu met her assessing gaze in silence. He could hardly pass on Wen Chao’s greetings to her, so he considered it wisest to say nothing, for the time being.
Wen Qing rolled her eyes. “Well, are you coming in?”
He followed her into the courtyard, where a few Dafan Wen cultivators were sparring. As Wen Qing and Wen Zhuliu passed by, the cultivators halted their fight to greet them. The glances they darted at Wen Qing were wary, despite her cool demeanour while she spoke with them. Their swords remained silent long after Wen Qing bid them goodbye and walked away with Wen Zhuliu at her side.
They entered the meeting hall, where a table was set with tea. Wen Qing gestured for him to sit, then knelt and began to prepare the tea. Her motions were quick, seamless enough to hide the effort that went into her careful pouring.
She did not look up at him as she handed him the warm cup and said, “What does marriage mean to you, Wen Zhuliu?”
He had never before given it much thought: why would he? His life belonged to Wen Ruohan. All of his loyalty and duty were owed to the man who saved his life and raised him from his lowest ebb. There had been women, over the years, but none were ever more more than a fleeting connection for a night or two. Certainly, he had believed he would never take a wife of his own.
Wen Qing was watching him, tapping her fingers slowly against her own cup. Her nails made a quiet, hollow sound. Neither of them drank.
“I’ll tell you what it means to me, then, shall I?” she said. “The heavens know I’ve had time to think about it, these past few days.” She sighed, putting the cup aside with a sharp clink. “I believe a marriage should be founded on trust and respect.”
There was little enough of either to be found among the Wen sect, these days, and they both knew it. Wen Zhuliu inclined his head – acknowledgement, rather than agreement.
“Why do you still do his bidding?” said Wen Qing.
He fell still under the weight of her question. He could feel it lying across his shoulders, fixing him in place. There was no need to ask who she meant.
It was impossible for him to give an answer that would satisfy her. Even if the words would come, he could never give an honest account of his reasons for following Wen Ruohan – and the words would never come, banished as they were to a place in the farthest reaches of his mind that he preferred to leave undisturbed.
“I owe him a great debt,” he said, finally. It was the answer he always gave to anyone who asked, and it made her lips thin in displeasure. For a moment, he was reminded of the Violet Spider: her cold fury blazing bright in her eyes as she faced him, purple sparks wreathing her in momentary glory when she swung forth with Zidian.
Then, Wen Qing blinked, shifting back on her heels, and the likeness faded.
“I obey him out of fear,” she said. Her candour startled him, and she seemed to notice it written in the furrow of his brow. She shrugged. “Did you expect me not to admit it? He has me right where he wants me, with my brother’s life in his hands.”
It was often whispered among those who populated the Chief Cultivator’s court that Wen Ning was Wen Qing’s only weakness. Wen Zhuliu thought they overestimated her in presuming her weaknesses numbered only one. He also thought that was precisely how she liked it.
“Are you going to tell him I said that?” said Wen Qing, perhaps misunderstanding his silence. She gave a laugh that was devoid of mirth. “No doubt you’ll be sending off the report tonight.”
“There is no report,” said Wen Zhuliu. “The only order given to me by the Chief Cultivator was to marry you.”
“And what happens when he sends more orders?” Wen Qing was quick to aim at the heart of the matter. “Who will you belong to, once you are married?”
Wen Zhuliu looked down at his cup, watching the flecks of tea leaves float through the clear green liquid. Again, he was unable to respond to her question. Not because he did not want to, but because he did not yet know the answer.
His life was shaped around his duty to Wen Ruohan and his sect. Without that centre point to his life, what would be left of him?
Wen Qing had long grown tired of his reticence. She sniffed, shaking out her sleeves as she swept to her feet. Leaving her full cup to cool on the table, she turned away.
“In the morning, we’ll take our bows,” she said. “Maybe you should think on your answer before we do.”
*
The next day dawned too early. Wen Ning came to fetch Wen Zhuliu from his rooms. Although he was little more than a nervous kid, too afraid to look Wen Zhuliu in the eye, there was resentment in the slope of his shoulders as he led Wen Zhuliu to the makeshift shrine next to the meeting hall. He had to know that, even if the proof never materialised, every Wen at Lotus Pier suspected him of being the one behind Jiang Wanyin’s disappearance – but there was nothing to suggest his nervousness was anything other than his usual shy demeanour.
Wen Qing was at the shrine already, a single servant at her side leaning in to fix her red veil. When Wen Ning saw the servant girl was in the room, he stiffened and cleared his throat. Wen Qing glanced up from beneath her veil. He could see her sharp intake of breath, before she turned and murmured something to the girl, whose hands stilled in Wen Qing’s hair.
Slowly, with her head tilted so far down that Wen Zhuliu was surprised she didn’t bump into the shrine as she passed it, the servant shuffled towards the door at the opposite end of the room and slipped out. There was a moment, when she turned to the left before the door had fully closed behind her, that Wen Zhuliu caught a glimpse of her face in profile – a face so familiar that for a moment he almost thought there had been a mistake, that Yu Ziyuan had survived the fall of Lotus Pier and somehow escaped to Yiling.
Then, heart crashing into his ribs, he caught himself.
It was bold, indeed, for Wen Qing to allow Jiang Yanli to act as her attendant.
The ceremony was short and silent. Their first bow was easy enough, but the second was more complicated. Wen Qing’s parents were dead, and their memorial tablets did not reside in this hastily occupied Yiling outpost. Meanwhile, Wen Zhuliu’s parents had no tablets to speak of – for they were no longer honoured by their son at all.
Instead, Wen Zhuliu and Wen Qing both turned northwest, to face the seat of Wen Ruohan’s power in Buyetian. It was a cruel reminder of the reason for their union, as if either of them could forget it.
As they turned to one another to make their final bow, Wen Zhuliu saw Wen Qing’s knuckles whiten, her hands fisting in the skirts of her robes. Wen Ning shifted awkwardly behind them, their only witness.
When it was done, Wen Qing rose to her feet and walked from the room without a word. Wen Ning took Wen Zhuliu back to his rooms in that same silence. There, Wen Zhuliu sat on the edge of the bed and thought about his wife. It was a strange word in his head. He tried saying it aloud, but it sounded ridiculous to him.
After a while, he stood and went to the door. He expected to see a guard nearby, watching over him, but there was no one. He stepped outside and walked a loop of the courtyard. There was a corridor branching off from the main path around the yard, and he wondered if that was where Yu Ziyuan’s children were hidden away.
His first instinct, honed by years of service as a spy and a soldier for the Wen sect, was to investigate further. But if he knew – if he saw with his own eyes – that Wen Qing was harbouring them, then he would have to make a decision. That brief glimpse of Jiang Yanli’s face earlier could be written off as a moment of delirium, a trick of the imagination. Seeing their hiding place for himself would be a different matter.
He felt a presence behind him. Perhaps he had been hasty to assume that the lack of a guard posted outside his door meant he was not being observed at all. He turned to find Wen Ning watching him.
“Jiefu,” he said, ducking his head in a small bow of respect. Brother-in-law. That was somehow even stranger than thinking of Wen Qing as his wife. It felt pointed, sharp enough to cut, even when said in Wen Ning’s soft voice.
Wen Zhuliu took a step away from the entrance to the corridor. “I was hoping to speak with my wife.”
He knew Wen Ning was not stupid enough to believe that, but it served them both to pretend that there was an innocent explanation for Wen Zhuliu wandering the outpost unsupervised. No one needed tensions to reach breaking point without due cause.
“S-she’s at work with a patient,” said Wen Ning, stammering a little. “I…” he paused, biting his lip. “I can show you to her surgery?”
“It can wait,” said Wen Zhuliu. “I’ll return to my rooms.”
Wen Ning offered him a faint smile. “I’ll let Jiejie know you were looking for her.”
*
It was growing dark by the time the door to Wen Zhuliu’s rooms creaked open. He shook himself from his meditative pose on the floor and rose to find Wen Qing lingering on the threshold, her expression hidden in the shadow cast from the doorway.
“Husband,” she said. “Have you had time to think on my question?”
Loyalty.
Duty.
For years, he had conflated them. To owe loyalty to Wen Ruohan was a debt to be paid with dutiful servitude. But now, faced with Wen Qing’s question, he wondered if the two were more separable than he had let himself believe.
Did one necessarily require the other in order to exist?
“I am not sure I’ve reached a conclusion which would please you,” he told her.
She snorted and stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click. “How would you know what pleases me?”
He tilted his head to acknowledge her point. They barely knew one another at all.
“Would it help you to come to a decision if the marriage was consummated?” she asked, so brisk that for an instant, he wasn’t certain he had heard her correctly.
“No,” he said, when the sour look of regret on her face told him that she had in fact said it. He didn’t want her to think that he expected anything more from her than what they had been ordered to share. “No, it makes no difference to me.”
Was he imagining the barest hint of relief that flitted over her features before she pressed her lips together and slipped back into her mask of cold disinterest?
“My brother tells me you were snooping around today,” she said.
“I walked around the courtyard,” he said. “No further.”
Her lips thinned further. “You are not a prisoner,” she said. “You can go where you please.”
“Your brother said you were attending to someone,” said Wen Zhuliu. “I did not want to disturb you while you were at work. Is your patient well?”
This time, her reaction was less muted. Her nostrils flared, hands clenching into fists for a moment before she forced herself to relax. “No,” she said. “My patient is not well.”
“That is unfortunate,” said Wen Zhuliu. Was he goading her? He knew it was not necessary to keep prodding at her like this, but part of him was curious to see how far they could stretch their words without brushing up at the edges of the truth. “I am sure you will do your best to cure whatever ails them.”
“There may well be no cure,” said Wen Qing, then shook her head. “But it’s none of your concern, of course.”
“You are my wife,” he said. “Whatever concerns you now concerns me.”
She stepped closer, and he saw what her wedding veil had obscured that morning: the black crescents beneath her eyes, the tightness in her shoulders. She looked like she had not slept in days.
“Is that right?” she said. “And does that go both ways?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“You know, I’ve always wondered,” said Wen Qing, folding her arms across her chest and giving him a hard stare, “how you came to be the Core-Melting Hand.”
Wen Zhuliu’s ribcage squeezed tight around his heart. He moved over to the bed and sat down at its edge, gesturing to the space beside him. After a moment of hesitation, Wen Qing also took a seat.
“What is it you wish to know?” said Wen Zhuliu. It was easier when he wasn’t standing directly opposite her, looking her in the eye.
Wen Qing drew in a slow breath at his side. “Is it hereditary?”
“No.”
“So, it’s a skill you learned?”
He let his silence answer for him. Undeterred, she continued her line of interrogation. “Is it a skill any cultivator could learn?”
“No,” he said. “There is no one who could teach it to a cultivator.”
“You can’t teach it, or you won’t?”
He paused. Was there really a difference? He wanted to tell her that he wouldn’t teach it even if he had the ability – but that was not the truth. She was not the first to ask such questions, after all.
The truth was that, if Wen Zhuliu knew how to teach a cultivator to melt cores, then Wen Ruohan would have learned how to do it many years ago.
He sighed. “The technique cannot be taught to cultivators.”
“Could someone else not learn it on their own?” said Wen Qing. “Someone in the Zhao sect had to be the first to do the research and figure out how it worked. Why couldn’t someone else do it?”
Wen Zhuliu looked down at the hands in his lap. So much devastation lay in the lines of one palm. Throughout the years, he became used to the idea that it was his duty to use the technique to benefit Wen Ruohan, whether he agreed with its targets or not. Their screams and pleas were of no consequence to him, their hollow eyes and weakened bodies not his concern.
At least in the service of Wen Ruohan, he told himself as he destroyed life after life, his ability benefitted someone.
“Perhaps someone else could work out the method,” he told her. “But it would be impossible for any other cultivator to put the method into practice.”
He would not tell her more. That was too close to telling her how he came to be the Core-Melting Hand, a truth which no one still alive yet knew.
Wen Qing sighed, seeming to give up on pressing him further. “Is there a way to undo the damage?”
The weight of the question hung between them for a long time.
“No,” said Wen Zhuliu eventually, aware of what the admission meant: for him, for her, and for Jiang Wanyin. “There’s nothing that can fix it.”
Wen Qing shifted beside him, her shoulder knocking into his. In another world, it would have been a normal, quiet moment of intimacy shared between husband a wife. In another world, he would have reached out with a gentle hand to steady her, and she would have smiled back at him.
In this world, Wen Qing pulled away, the warmth of her body leaving a draft in its place as she stood and walked to the door.
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
Then, she was gone, and Wen Zhuliu was left alone to stare at the hands that knew only how to tear down and destroy. There was no use wishing for a different world; the damage was already done.
*
The next day, Wen Zhuliu rose early and left his room. If Wen Qing told him he was not a prisoner, then he would take her at her word. He walked to the meeting hall, where Wen Qing was standing in front of a messenger in Qishan Wen robes, her lips pressed into a thin line as she held out her hand.
“I’m sorry, my lady, but the Chief Cultivator gave strict orders that the letter should only be passed to your husband directly.”
“Yes,” Wen Qing said, her voice cool but with a darker undertone of anger threading through the words. “He is my husband, and I will see he receives the letter. There are no secrets between a husband and his wife.”
The messenger shifted uncomfortably under her fierce stare.
“Be that as it may, Wen-furen…”
Wen Qing’s jaw twitched. She took a step forward, fixing an unpleasant smile on her face.
“My wife is correct,” said Wen Zhuliu before she could argue any further, stepping inside the hall as he spoke. “There should be no secrets between us.”
Both Wen Qing and the messenger froze. Then, the messenger spun to face Wen Zhuliu, bowing deeply.
“The Chief Cultivator has asked that this letter is delivered into your hands,” he said, looking almost faint with relief as he thrust the letter at Wen Zhuliu. It was clear he wasn’t about to be convinced – not when the Chief Cultivator was on the lookout for even the slightest hint of disobedience among his ranks.
There was nothing to be done. He took the letter. Wen Qing’s face paled, eyes flashing with unspoken fury.
“Many thanks,” said Wen Zhuliu.
The messenger bowed again, then backed away. As if from nowhere, two Dafan Wen men appeared from across the courtyard and spoke to the man, leading him towards the gates. It appeared the messenger was not going to receive any more of Wen Qing’s hospitality – nor, if the pace he set off at was anything to judge by, did he seem keen to linger.
When he was gone, Wen Zhuliu held out the letter to Wen Qing.
“Take it,” he said. It was hardly a solution to the problem – but it was a way to hold it at bay, for now.
Her mouth opened, like she was about to ask what he was playing at, before thinking better of it. She snatched the letter from his hand and slipped it into the sleeve of her robe.
“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” she said. “Seven more men came in wounded last night.”
Wen Zhuliu didn’t need to hear more to know it was the same story: Wen Ruohan ordering raids on yet more minor sects.
“Do you need help?” he asked. If he were a man of less fortitude, he would have quailed at the withering look she cast at him in return.
“Are you a healer?” Her eyes flickered to his right hand, then away.
He resisted the urge to hide it behind his back. What good would that do? They both knew that he was far more adept at causing harm than healing the wounded.
“No,” he said, “but I know the basics.” Enough to patch up his own injuries or, more often, those sustained by Wen Chao.
She sighed. “Fine. Who am I to refuse?”
She strode past him, pausing at the door for only a brief moment to spare him a backwards glance. “Well? Have you already changed your mind?”
*
The injured Wen cultivators were not in imminent danger of dying. Once Wen Qing checked them over and gave infusions of qi where necessary, she left the rest to her brother – and to Wen Zhuliu, under Wen Ning’s watchful supervision. Wen Zhuliu followed his instructions to the best of his limited abilities, making poultices for wounds, cleaning and bandaging cuts and scrapes, fetching water and food for the injured men.
Wen Ning spoke little, other than to give quiet orders. When it was time to eat, he took Wen Zhuliu to the dining hall, where a few other Dafan Wen cultivators were gathered. Although the portions were limited and the food was bland, he could not complain; it was the first time Wen Zhuliu had eaten since he arrived.
As he ate, he glanced around the hall, recognising none of the faces. Everyone’s eyes slid away from him before they were forced to acknowledge his presence.
He looked back at Wen Ning, who was staring down into his bowl as he chewed.
“Is your sister not joining us?” said Wen Zhuliu.
Wen Ning coughed, hiding his face behind the sleeve of his robe.
“Jiejie eats in her rooms,” he said. “She’s too busy to come to the food hall.”
“Busy with what?” Wen Zhuliu knew it was probably better to avoid pushing the matter, but there was part of him that was genuinely curious. Obviously, Wen Ning would not admit the truth, but Wen Zhuliu wanted to know what lie he would come up with to cover for his sister.
“Research,” said Wen Ning, putting his chopsticks down and shifting his bowl to one side. It didn’t seem that he was inclined to elaborate on that.
There was little for Wen Zhuliu to do that afternoon, Wen Ning informed him as they rose to leave the hall – it would be a waste of his time to come back to the infirmary.
Wen Zhuliu accepted the dismissal without protest, but he did not go back to his rooms as he was sure Wen Ning had intended. Instead, he went in search of his wife. When she left the infirmary that morning, Wen Zhuliu watched the direction she set off in; now, he traced that path, striding down winding corridors in search of Wen Qing’s surgery.
He passed several Dafan Wen cultivators who gave him puzzled glances, but no one tried to stop him. Even so, he didn’t ask them for directions in case it gave them cause to challenge him.
Finally, he turned a corner and saw a door that was slightly ajar. The faint scent of pure alcohol and some kind of wormwood disinfectant reached him from where he stood. He went closer, keeping his footsteps silent as he leaned forward to peer through the small gap in the door.
Wen Qing was sitting at her desk, her black hair falling loose around her shoulders. She was propping her head on one hand, flipping the pages of an old book with the other. As he watched, Wen Zhuliu spotted a small paper figure on the desk at her side, in the shape of a man. It looked like a talisman of some kind – the figure was able to stand and walk about, its head tilted to read the same pages Wen Qing pored over.
She looked tired. Watching her, Wen Zhuliu was struck with the urge to go in and take the book from her, to remind her that she could not live without food and sleep forever, even if she did take time to meditate. For a brief, ridiculous moment, he wished he was the sort of husband who could disturb his wife at work just to see the tired, worried lines etched into her forehead lift as she smiled at the sight of him.
He shook his head at himself. It was more than ridiculous; it was impossible. Such things weren’t for people like them.
Wen Qing yawned, fingers reaching for the next page. The paper man leapt onto the book to stop her turning the page too quickly for its liking, and she batted at it, rolling her eyes.
Then, she glanced up at the door and locked eyes with Wen Zhuliu.
Her shoulders stiffened, one hand falling down over the paper man and flattening it against the page. She removed her hand and quickly closed the book.
“What are you doing, lurking in my doorway?” she said to Wen Zhuliu. “At least have the decency to knock.”
Wen Zhuliu lifted his hand and rapped twice on the door. There was a short, disgruntled pause.
“What do you want?”
He took it as tacit permission to enter, pushing open the door and stepping inside. Although it seemed scrupulously clean – particularly the corner with a doctor’s bench and various medical utensils on the shelves behind it – Wen Qing’s surgery was far less tidy than he would have assumed. Wobbling stacks of books surrounded her on either side of her chair, and sheets of paper full of detailed notes in a messy doctor’s scrawl were littered over the surface of her desk.
He glimpsed the title of the book she was reading – Studies on the Progress of Cultivation Begun Later in Life – before she grabbed a handful of papers and covered it up.
“Your brother told me you were doing research,” he said. “As he has no need for me at the infirmary this afternoon, I thought I would see if I could lend my assistance here.”
Wen Qing’s lips pressed into a thin line, like she was trying hard not to say something she would regret.
“There’s nothing you can do to help,” she told him.
“Nothing at all?”
She flicked her eyes up at him, looking him over with a brutal, assessing stare. “Why are you really here?”
Perhaps he would have it in him to be more honest with her, if he didn’t know there was another person in the room with them, compressed between the sheets of her book. The last thing he needed was for Wei Wuxian to do something drastic in the service of some misguided attempt to protect his family.
“I was wondering if you were eating properly. Your brother said you eat in your rooms,” he said. “But I don’t see any bowls.”
Wen Qing scowled at him. “I don’t need you on my case about my eating habits, too.”
“It’s none of my business,” he said, “but in my experience, whatever you’re researching, it’ll be easier on a full stomach.”
He left before she could find a way to argue with him on that. As he turned to slide the door closed behind him, he saw a small paper figure slither out from between the pages of the book, head tilted in the direction of the doorway, its eyeless face watching him without realising that Wen Zhuliu was looking back.
*
The next day, Wen Zhuliu went to the infirmary again, for lack of anything else to do. His wife was already there at the bedside of one of her patients, manipulating his broken arm and asking occasional questions as the man closed his eyes and forced out answers through gritted teeth.
“Good,” she said to the young man, rising from his bedside just as Wen Zhuliu entered the room. “You’ll be fit to leave tomorrow.”
Her patient did not reply, but the look on his face as Wen Qing turned away suggested that he did not think the news was good. He was little more than a kid, around the same age as Wen Ning, clearly unused to fighting outside of the sparring ground.
Wen Zhuliu met his wife’s cool gaze and tried not to wonder: whatever the outcome of the war Wen Ruohan was gearing up to fight against the other sects, how many of the young cultivators among the Qishan Wen would survive it?
“There’s nothing for you to do here today,” said Wen Qing.
He shrugged a shoulder. “Then, is there something else I can do?”
She watched him for a moment, drawing to a halt at the doorway. He stepped back to allow her through. Her fingers grazed the frame of the door as she walked past.
“Come with me,” she said, without looking back to see if he would follow her.
He did, of course.
In her surgery, they sat on opposite sides of her desk. It was clear of papers and books today. All that lay between them was the letter from Wen Ruohan – if a single, stark order could be considered a letter.
I know she is not loyal. Once you have the proof, bring her back to Buyetian.
He was relieved, reading it: there was no direct command for him to search out the proof, or to do any particular action that would lead to its discovery.
“What are you going to do?” she asked him.
“I have no proof of anything,” he said.
“It’s convenient, I suppose,” said Wen Qing, “for you to obey only the exact letter of his words and ignore their spirit. It helps you avoid making the choice.”
“You think me a coward,” he said.
She laughed, a brief flash of dark amusement clouding her eyes. “No,” she said. “I think myself a coward.”
He looked at her, at a loss. He was too used to crass people like Wen Chao and Wang Lingjiao, whose every thought and feeling was displayed openly on their face and in their words. Wen Qing was careful, most of the time – but then, when she chose to be candid, it made him second guess her. What was she really trying to tell him?
“Many would say a coward would not act as you have done,” he said.
“Traitor is a better word than coward. Is that what you’re saying?” Her lips twisted. “I’m sick and tired of playing this game, Zhuliu. I know you know. Would you just decide what you’re going to do?”
He could have told her that he knew nothing. If he wanted to keep hiding behind this thin veil of plausible denial, he should have said it. But, looking at her, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. She was worn down from endless days of walking along a blade’s edge, knowing that a single slip could not only slit her own throat, but also lead to the death of her brother and the people she harboured.
Surely, as his wife, she deserved to know what she could expect from her husband.
“I have made a choice,” he said. She frowned at him, lips parting to speak, but he continued before she could decide what to say. “Choosing not to act is still a choice.”
Wen Qing closed her eyes. When she opened them, she met his gaze steadily.
“Marriage means that much to you, then,” she said.
“I swore as much to you as I did to Wen Ruohan,” said Wen Zhuliu.
“But you owe me less.”
That much was undeniable. Still, a marriage was not solely about who owed the other, and how much. The remnants of a marriage built on such debts were hidden away in this very supervisory office: three orphans left to bear the weight of their parents’ mistakes.
“I will say nothing,” he said. “Do nothing. I have no desire to do further harm to the Jiang children.”
It was as plain as he could be without telling Wen Qing that there was a time when he could have sworn himself to another, different from Wen Ruohan in almost every conceivable way – to a woman with fury in her eyes and a violet whip of lightning at her fingertips. Instead, that woman had died at his hands, and he had robbed her son of his birthright. In life, she asked for nothing from him, even when he would have given her anything. Now that she was dead, he could do nothing for her.
But perhaps nothing could be enough.
Wen Qing pursed her lips, displeased. “If the Chief Cultivator says to you, in his next letter, to find them – or if Wen Chao turns up and asks you outright to turn them over – you wouldn’t choose to ignore the order.”
“No,” said Wen Zhuliu. It was not in his nature, to disobey a direct order, and she would not believe him if he told her he would do it. “But I think Wen Chao will not be rushing to tell his father that Jiang Wanyin escaped him. He will ignore the problem for as long as he can, if it means avoiding the consequences. Besides, if it came to that, I trust you are smart enough to stop me from finding anything that could be used against you.”
“Is that meant to flatter me?” Wen Qing’s voice was flat.
“I am trying to be honest,” said Wen Zhuliu. Perhaps he was growing tired, too – tired of being at odds. Perhaps, however little it was deserved, he wanted to be someone she could trust in. “I cannot be other than I am. But nor do I want to see you hurt or dead.”
She gave him a tight smile. “How romantic.”
He let his own lips quirk up in acknowledgement. “It’s the truth.”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “It’s somewhere to start, at least, isn’t it?”
*
The next few days were easier, the weight of their predicament resting a little lighter on their shoulders. Wen Qing relented and gave Wen Zhuliu some medical texts to scan through for possible leads. They were, of course, trying to discover a way to restore Jiang Wanyin’s core.
It was something that Wen Zhuliu thought was not possible. If there was a way to medically replenish a cultivator’s melted core, would it not have been found by one of the physicians among the great sects? What were the chances of the elusive cure being hidden in plain sight on the page some old textbooks tucked away in a dusty Yiling outpost?
Still, when so much of the fraught good will he had established with Wen Qing rested on the possibility of undoing the damage he had caused, it seemed better to keep his opinion to himself.
One night, she came to his rooms long after dark, carrying an armful of scrolls and a couple of thick tomes. Her knock on the door was more of a bump, the stack in her arms being leveraged to rap against the wood. When he let her in, she dumped the pile of texts in the centre of his bed.
“These are the ones I think it’ll be easiest for you to read through,” she said, at his questioning look.
He looked down at the stack, noting the wealth of titles with technical terms referencing concepts he had only heard of in passing. “If these are what you consider easy, I have to doubt your judgement.”
She snorted. “I said easier,” she reminded him. “Not easy. Nothing in life worth knowing comes easy.”
He supposed that was true enough, at least for a doctor. She seemed the studious sort, but even with the advantage of brains and motivation, the depth of knowledge she had amassed in little more than twenty years of life could not have been the result of anything but tremendous effort on her part.
It struck him then that he knew almost nothing about her, other than what was already common knowledge among the Qishan Wen sect – and he had never cared to learn more, back when it was wisest to avoid connections he knew would only be used against him by others. But if they were to be married, linked against their will forever, then at least he was bound to someone who made him curious to know more.
“Did you always want to be a doctor?” said Wen Zhuliu.
She blinked at him, lips parting in surprise. Whether it was at the change in subject, or the fact that he had asked at all, he couldn’t tell.
“I… yes,” she said. “As far back as I can remember.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “When my brother was very young, he fell down a flight of stairs and bruised his leg all the way from his knee down to his ankle. It was fascinating watching the colours change on his skin. I wanted to find out why the human body did that, and how.”
It wasn’t what he expected her to say, and she knew it. Her lips twitched. “What, you thought I was going to say I wanted to be a doctor because I felt called to heal the sick and injured?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “Something like that.”
“Are you disappointed?” She raised an eyebrow, pleased with herself for surprising him.
“I think I like your answer more,” he said.
She smiled a little, her eyes glinting in the dim light from the candle at the side of his bed. There was a pause, silent and heavy – broken by a hideous scream from outside, like the sound torn from the throat of a tortured man.
Wen Qing’s shoulders jerked, her face draining of colour. She took a step towards the door, then glanced back at him, faltering. Wen Zhuliu could only imagine it was Jiang Wanyin; who else would have a reason to be making such a noise?
The scream came again, falling ragged and raw into the silence between them like a hunk of bloody meat torn from flesh.
Wen Qing flinched.
“We forgot to renew the silencing charms,” she muttered. “I have to go.”
He watched her from the window of his rooms as she hurried across the courtyard and disappeared down the hallway on the opposite side. Did it mean something that she didn’t look back? That she trusted he would not follow her?
He looked back at the pile of texts strewn across his bed, Jiang Wanyin’s screams of terror ringing in his ears. Grabbing one at random, he unrolled the scroll and sat down beside the light of the candle. Maybe the answer would lie on this page: probably not. But the least he owed Yu Ziyuan’s son was to read it and hope.
*
Wen Zhuliu woke the next morning with grit in his eyes and an ache building between his temples. He collected the armful of texts he had spent almost the whole night scouring, and set off in search of the library to return them and pick up more.
As he approached the grandly carved wooden doors to the library, he heard raised voices from within. Ducking into an alcove just outside the door, he paused to hear what was being said.
“Wei Wuxian, have you lost your mind?” That was Wen Qing, her voice sharp as a whip.
“If anyone can do it, you can.” There was Wei Wuxian’s voice, lowering into a plea. “I swore to him I’d fix this mess. And this is the way to do it.”
“It’s madness!” Wen Qing snapped. “A core transplant… there’s barely a chance it’ll work. You read what it says in that book. It’s never been successfully performed.”
“You’ll be the first to do it, then,” said Wei Wuxian. Wen Zhuliu could almost hear his nonchalant shrug. “I’ve already weighed up the options, and this is the only one that’s even got the smallest chance of working. I know you can do it, Wen Qing. Won’t you help him? He can’t live a mediocre life – he was born to be a sect leader.”
“And what about you?” said Wen Qing. “What will you do, without a core?”
Wen Zhuliu’s knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the stack of texts he was carrying. Only a reckless fool like Wei Wuxian could dream of giving up his own core to be transplanted into the body of another.
“I’ll survive,” Wei Wuxian told Wen Qing. “I’ll figure the rest out later.”
He probably would. Over-confident and brash as he was, Wei Wuxian was talented and resourceful. He might be able work out a way to attain some measure of his old power – if he survived the procedure in the first place.
And what of Jiang Wanyin? Would he survive the transplant? Would he be able to live with the weight of his brother’s sacrifice crushing him from the inside out?
Then, there was Wen Qing. She was still young, still only at the beginning of her career and the early blossoming of her potential, but she was capable of pulling it off. He was sure of that. But nothing good could come of it. If she did this and failed, she would have blood on her hands. But if she succeeded, it would be worse still.
What would Wen Ruohan do with her, if he knew she could transplant a core from one body to another? What horrors would he make her enact, using her brother’s life as leverage?
This transplant would destroy her, either way.
Wen Zhuliu closed his eyes. Behind his lids, an old memory played out in bright, ugly flashes.
Childish fingers splayed across a chest, cool adult hands slicing flesh open. A soft voice explaining how to reach inside, to carve a pathway through the meridians of the squirming body strapped to the table.
“That’s it, do you feel it?”
A golden core, pulsing beneath the press of his fingers, intangible but bright all the same.
“Take it. Make it yours.”
The books in Wen Zhuliu’s arms slipped. He snapped back to attention, catching a scroll just before it could clatter to the floor. He stared down at the title at the head of the scroll.
Outcomes for Later Life Core Building.
They were bad. Those were the outcomes of building a core in later life: uniformly weak and unsatisfactory. Nothing a sect leader should aspire to. As far as Wei Wuxian and Wen Qing knew, the only possibility was an experimental transplant that had never been performed successfully.
But Wen Zhuliu knew that there was another option. He just had to tell them before Wen Qing caved to Wei Wuxian’s demands and signed herself up to be the agent of her own destruction. He knew enough about that. All these years, based off one fateful, reckless decision as a child. He had no choice but to be what he had made himself, however unwitting he was at the time he made his choice. Once he had become the Core-Melting Hand, there was never another path for him follow.
Until now.
He took a steadying breath. Then, he put the armful of books down, stepped out from the alcove, and walked up to the door.
“Please, Wen Qing,” said Wei Wuxian. “There’s no other way.”
“There is another way,” said Wen Zhuliu, pushing the door open and stepping inside.
Wei Wuxian and Wen Qing both froze, turning to stare at him. Then, Wei Wuxian unsheathed his sword and leapt at Wen Zhuliu with a fierce snarl.
Wen Zhuliu stepped back, hand dropping to his own sword, his reactions slowed by the knowledge that Wen Qing would never forgive him if he killed Wei Wuxian. Before he could decide how to respond, Wen Qing drew her own sword and met Wei Wuxian’s mid-air. The clash of metal rang through the room. Although Wei Wuxian was more of a swordsman than Wen Qing was a swordswoman, his surprise kept him from overpowering her. He blinked down at the point where their blades met, then back up at Wen Qing.
“Don’t be stupid, Wei Wuxian,” said Wen Qing. “You kill him, then what? I get blamed.”
It took a moment, but eventually, Wei Wuxian pulled back, although he did not put his sword back in its sheath. Wen Qing kept hers out, too, a physical barrier to keep Wen Zhuliu and Wei Wuxian separated.
When she looked at him, he could see the fury in her eyes. There were strained lines on her forehead, a vein in her temple pulsing as she stared him down.
“Go on, then,” she said, her voice harder than the steel she held in her hand. “Enlighten us.”
Wen Zhuliu knew that she thought it a betrayal; he knew a way to help Jiang Wanyin, and he had not disclosed it. But, as with everything in life, it came with a cost. A cost he had not even thought he would be the one to pay, until he was faced with the prospect of Wen Ruohan using Wen Qing to experiment on the cores of prisoners, on enemies – or on her brother, weak as his golden core was.
“On our wedding night, you asked me how I became the Core-Melting Hand,” said Wen Zhuliu, looking only at Wen Qing even as he heard Wei Wuxian’s sharp intake of breath. “The truth is, no cultivator can learn the skill. It can only be acquired by someone without a core.”
There was a beat in which Wen Qing’s face turned grey, so ashen he thought she was about to faint. He stepped closer, reaching out a hand to steady her, but she shrank back.
“You’re saying… you’re saying that you gained your core by taking it from someone else?”
Wen Zhuliu nodded once, a sharp incline of the head. He did not trust himself to speak. Wen Qing’s lips curled in horror. Her sword hand shook, the blade trembling in the air.
“How old were you?”
It wasn’t the question he was expecting her to ask, but then, she always managed to catch him unawares.
“Fourteen,” he said. The only reason his core was so strong, given his late start in cultivation, was due to the person he had taken it from.
“So Jiang Cheng could take my core from me without you needing to perform the surgery?” Wei Wuxian broke through the heavy silence to ask. He spoke solely to Wen Qing, refusing to so much as glance in Wen Zhuliu’s direction.
“I…” Wen Qing trailed off, looking to Wen Zhuliu for confirmation.
“Wei Wuxian isn’t the only one with a core that could be used,” he said, and watched realisation dawn on Wen Qing, who shuddered.
“No!” she said. “No. Absolutely not.”
“What are you playing at?” Wei Wuxian snapped, fingers tracing his sword’s hilt as he finally turned to address Wen Zhuliu directly. “Are we really supposed to believe you’ve decided to offer up your core out of the goodness of your own heart? Marriage has really tamed you that much, has it?”
“No,” said Wen Zhuliu. “I am offering my core to Jiang Wanyin because I will not let my wife risk everything she has worked for on a procedure that might not even work in the first place."
“That’s not up to you!” said Wen Qing. "And you have no idea if it would work or not."
“I know you can do it,” said Wen Zhuliu. “If anyone can make it a success, you can. That’s exactly the problem. Do you really want Wen Ruohan to find out you can transplant a core between bodies?”
Wen Qing’s jaw snapped shut, eyes widening. Sleep-deprived and desperate as she was, it clearly hadn’t even crossed her mind – the implications of what she was about to agree to do.
“You could just explain the method to us and leave us to it,” said Wei Wuxian, and now he just sounded like a confused child. “Why offer yourself?”
Wen Zhuliu knew Wei Wuxian would not believe him, no matter what reason he gave.
“It is a chance to settle an old debt,” he said. It wasn’t true, exactly: the Violet Spider had never laid out terms for him to agree or reject. But neither was it entirely a lie: had she lived to see her son in such a state, she would have finally worked out what Wen Zhuliu owed her, and she would have demanded her dues.
Wei Wuxian glared at Wen Zhuliu, leaning back on his heels. “I don’t trust him, Wen Qing.”
Wen Qing sighed, letting her sword drop to her side as she met Wen Zhuliu’s eyes. “Are you sincere?”
“Yes,” he said.
“What will you do without a core?” It was the same question she asked Wei Wuxian, but she sounded less furious. Now, all that was left was weary resignation. She knew she wouldn’t talk him out of it. Nor, he suspected, did she intend to.
“I will follow your lead,” he said. “I married into your branch of the sect, after all.”
Her lips pursed. “And what will we tell the Chief Cultivator?”
“That the Jiangs overwhelmed us, and one of them learned my technique.”
Wei Wuxian gave a low whistle, eyes narrowing. “You’ve really thought this through,” he said.
Wen Qing shook her head. “This is ridiculous. There’s not a chance Jiang Cheng will agree.”
“He might,” said Wei Wuxian. “If I sell it to him.” He was watching Wen Zhuliu with something dark and cold in his eyes that made Wen Zhuliu want to shiver. No doubt the pitch Wei Wuxian made to Jiang Wanyin would go into great detail about the revenge it would allow him to enact on Wen Zhuliu.
Well, that was fine. Jiang Wanyin could have his revenge along with his core. If it saved Wen Qing from Wen Ruohan’s whims, Jiang Wanyin could have whatever he wanted.
Wei Wuxian leaned closer to Wen Qing, murmuring something in her ear. Then, without another word, he strode from the room, letting the doors slam shut behind him.
Wen Qing and Wen Zhuliu were left alone.
“Are you truly set on this?” she said.
“I am.”
She sheathed her sword and pressed a hand to her temple, fingers glowing faintly with qi as she relieved her own headache. He watched her and longed to reach out. To be of some comfort to her, instead of yet another burden she had been saddled with.
She saw him watching her, and her hand fell away from her face.
“I’ll need to examine you first,” she said. “To make sure you don’t have some hidden disease that means you’ll just drop dead without your core.”
He gave her a faint smile. “Whatever you say.”
She scoffed, shifting away towards the door. On the threshold, she paused, then turned back to face him. She reached out a hand and laid it on his arm.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He looked down at her spindly fingers on his leather arm brace. Before he could think better of it, he covered her hand with his own.
“There’s no need for thanks between a wife and her husband,” he said.
She closed her eyes. He felt her fingers twitch beneath his own, but she didn’t pull away.
“Alright,” she said. “We’ve got a lot to do. And I’ve got a lot of questions. Will you answer them?”
“I’ll do my best,” he said.
Perhaps his best wouldn’t be enough, in the end. But when she opened her eyes and offered him a small smile that lit her whole face with a sheen of hope, he couldn’t help but hope with her – that together, they could begin to undo at least some of the damage that lay at his feet.
In that moment, basking in the glow of her smile, he could almost believe that it was possible.