Chapter Text
⊱༒︎ARC ONE༒︎⊰
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The Burial Mounds is a place shrouded in mystery—a place where those who venture in, willingly or otherwise, never return. A land where danger lurks in every corner, a playground for the resentful dead. The tales told about the Burial Mounds were often used to frighten children, stories of creatures coming to steal them away in the middle of the night should they misbehave.
Wei Wuxian had long since decided that none of these tales did the Burial Mounds justice. Inside, thick clouds of resentful energy shrouded everything, robbing him of sight and leaving him to rely solely on his remaining senses. He almost wished for his sense of smell to abandon him as well, for the stench of death and decay hung heavy in the air. It was a rancid testament to the countless corpses scattered across the ground, decomposing in various stages. Some had dissolved into piles of dust and bones, while others were still being devoured by maggots and other such creatures.
Weeks—at least, what he guessed were weeks—passed as he joined the ranks of these ‘other creatures’, surviving in the grim, consuming atmosphere of the Burial Mounds. Here, time itself lost meaning, with the thick fog blotting out any sunlight, leaving day and night indistinguishable.
He needed to survive.
The promise he’d made to the late Madam Yu—wicked though she had been—bound him, as did love. His duty was to his martial siblings, especially now that his actions had led the Wen Clan’s wrath to fall upon the Jiang Clan of Yunmeng. Sacrificing his Golden Core for Jiang Wanyin was only the beginning of his penance. He had to ensure that Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli were safe, that they could rebuild their clan and reclaim their home. The love he felt for his martial siblings a thread he could hold on to. This desperate resolve pushed him beyond his limits, forcing him to crawl through the Burial Mounds, past the agony of shattered bones and open wounds.
When hunger clawed at him enough, he found himself eating alongside the maggots.
Then came the screams—shrill, piercing, like the roar of a furious storm. At first, Wei Wuxian thought he wasn’t alone, that others had been condemned to this hell. But it didn’t take long to realize it wasn’t the living that screamed. It was the dead. Horrifying cries for justice, for vengeance—anguished wails echoing around him, relentless and shrieking. Rest was impossible, meditation a distant memory. Wei Wuxian began to feel as if he, too, was screaming. Only when sheer exhaustion forced him to collapse did he sleep, yet his dreams offered no reprieve. They were filled with more resentment, more decay—an endless loop of waking torment replayed in his mind.
He truly didn’t know how long it had been since he’d been tossed down here, but he could still feel the terror that had flooded his veins when they’d tossed him from their swords.
Down. Down. Down.
Time lost all meaning in this place where Wen Chao had thrown him. Desperation drove him to claw his way through the Mounds, clinging to one coherent thought: if he just kept moving, he might eventually reach the other side. Over time, he learned to channel the resentment in the air, using it to fuel himself and keep him alive. The first time he did, he was taken back to the battle against the Xuanwu of Slaughter, when he’d felt the same freezing chill deep in his bones, when those the beast had killed screamed their anguish inside his skull. Channeling resentful energy felt nothing like drawing on his Golden Core; there was no warmth, no surge of life.
No.
It felt like needles driving through his veins, like turning himself inside out, draining his strength and warmth. It didn’t fill the void left by his Core’s removal; it fed on his desperation. He meditated when he could, to attempt at discerning the voices, their anguish and desires. He tried to draw strength from this newfound source of power, directing it to strengthen his broken bones, knit open and festering wounds. It was nothing like the healing he experienced with his Golden Core. Not the soothing, warm feeling as it spread to his injuries. Instead, it felt like flames so hot they burned cold, cauterizing his wounds with resentment. A temporary measure, he was sure. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew if he ever let the resentment slip, his body would crumble. It mattered little now, he would do what needed to be done.
Along the way, he found a dizi by a corpse—a black flute somehow preserved in the decay. He named it Chénqíng. With it, he gained more control over the resentment, though it did nothing to silence the voices. The dead still screamed in his ears, a thunderous echo reverberating through his skull, an incoherent cacophony. Sometimes he could make out tales of their deaths, gruesome and vivid in the imagery. He’d was sure he’d been begging for release at some point, as he was dragged from one nightmare to the next. For death to come take him into sweet oblivion. His throat raw and bleeding from the screams that tore from him. Nothing seemed to silence their cries for vengeance.
Yet sometimes… Sometimes he could make out a whisper, someone calling his name. Just a faint, soothing sound, like a calm breeze on a scorching day, offering him brief relief in the storm raging around him. He searched his dreams for the voice’s owner, desperate for a respite from his torment. And he always woke up screaming, sometimes even weeping. How much longer would he endure this? Would he die here, in this hell where no one would find him? Be doomed to roam this cursed land alongside the spirits now housed within him? He couldn’t let it end here; he had so much left to do, people to protect. But in his weakest moments, it wasn’t his martial siblings he thought of. It was a cool gaze, golden eyes touched by a faint disapproval, the constant, subtle frown etched into an otherwise calm face.
Wei Ying.
There it was again, as gentle as a summer breeze rippling across still water. He lay there, unmoving, a soft smile ghosting across his lips. Aiyah, why is it your voice that reaches through the screaming, he thought. He was so tired, too tired to move, his battered body finally refusing to obey.
Wei Ying! This time, it was urgent, almost desperate.
Then, hands touched him—cool palms pressed against his fevered cheeks. This must be a dream, he thought, leaning into the touch. If this was dying, he didn’t mind. “Wei Ying!” The person this voice belonged to shook him, hands that were once gentle now gripping his shoulders, firm and almost painful. He frowned; something was wrong. This wasn’t like his dreams and nightmares, they had never felt this real… This tangible.
The hands shifted from his shoulders to hold his own, they felt warm and comforting. A kind of warmth he hasn’t felt in ages. He didn’t want to open his eyes, to shatter this fragile hope that it was real. He wasn’t sure he could take any more, but how he longed for it to be real. For the owner of that voice to be standing before him.
“Wei Ying, please.” There it was again—a desperate, raw longing that urged him to open his eyes. His resolve shattered in an instant, an inconceivable need to see the person calling him so passionately.
Slowly, groggily, he opened his eyes. He squinted, blinking against the flash of white.
“L-Lan… Zhan?” he rasped, his voice cracked and dry. That was the only person he could think of that would call him by his name, dressed in mourning robes that he had once laughed at.
“Mn.” A cold hand took his fevered one, anchoring him in this reality. That sounds about right, he thought, though he couldn’t understand how Lan Wangji was here. “How—” His sentence dissolved in a fit of coughing, his hand slipping from Lan Wangji’s as he doubled over, heaving onto the dry ground. “Wei Ying!” An urgent cry as those cool hands steadied him once more, pulling back his surely matted hair as he heaved. Blood and spit dripped from his lips; he wiped his mouth with his torn sleeve.
“Aiyah…” he groaned, slumping back against the tree where he’d been propped up. How did he get here? He couldn’t remember, but they seemed to be outside of the bounds of the Burial Mounds. He supposes it matters little how he managed to got out, he did get out, didn’t he? What if it was a dream still? What is this was the Mounds way of torturing him before he died, giving him a taste of what he missed so desperately?
But then he looked into those golden eyes, how could dreams recreate the way they glowed as if molten stars had settled themselves inside of his irises. It seems impossible, so this must be real. Shame rises in him as he realizes what he must look like, when the very image of perfection swims in front of him. “For you to see me like this, Lan Zhan… How embarrassing…” His voice was a mere whisper as his eyes drift shut, too heavy to keep open.
“Not embarrassing, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji’s voice was firm, though Wei Wuxian couldn’t see the alarm etched in his expression, faint as it was. A small smile tugged at his lips, exhausted. “Lan Zhan… my savior, as always,” he murmured. “Wei Ying, open your eyes,” Lan Wangji commanded, and he obeyed, though his vision swam dizzyingly. “Stop dancing, Lan Zhan…” he managed a weak joke, Lan Wangji did not seem to think this too funny. Instead the crease between his brows deepened as he reached for Wei Wuxian’s hands.
He was too distracted looking into those golden eyes, to delirious with fever and pain to realize what Lan Wangji was doing until a harsh intake of air dragged him from his thoughts. Lan Wangji looked at him, expression devastatingly sad, a type of anguish Wei Wuxian decided he never wanted to see on this man’s face again. It was then that he registered the warm flow of spiritual energy running through his meridians, finding nowhere to settle, only the cold and empty void that had once contained his vital source of power.
“Wei Ying…” his name tumbled from Lan Wangji’s lips, his breath hitching.
Dread settled cold and dead inside Wei Wuxian’s stomach as he pulled his hand from Lan Wangji’s.
He knows. He knows.
Wei Wuxian had intended to take this secret to the grave, had intended nobody to ever find out. How ironic for it to be Lan Wangji to discover it first. Wei Wuxian supposes it was to be expected, if it was to be anybody it would be Lan Wangji. He’d be the only one whose mere presence could distract him enough for him to forget his secrets, to become an open book in an instant.
“Don’t,” Wei Wuxian growled, his voice icy, as he struggled to rise. His legs felt detached, as if he was made up of the wet clay found at the bottom of the lakes surrounding Lotus Pier. He trembled with the effort. The world swayed before him, his knees buckled and for a moment he was sure he’d crash painfully into the ground, strong arms caught him, warm and tender against his freezing skin.
“Wei Ying!” The last thing he heard was Lan Wangji’s anguished shout. Ah, Lan Zhan, he thought, what am I to do when you call my name with such emotion?
And then there was only quiet. Finally, peace.
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