Chapter Text
It was ice-cold in Yiling. Snow had been falling all day in a thick blanket over the entire city, and by the evening, the sky was darkened and the streets were empty.
Those with homes had hidden away in them — families with mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. Wei Ying only had vague memories of such things, of a mother and father who had loved him, cared for him, been his entire world. And then suddenly, they were both gone. He didn’t know where they had gone or why, only that they were no longer there for him and he had to survive on his own.
He had found a spot in an isolated street to hunker down for the night, where the snow hadn’t drifted too high. The skin of his face and hands was reddened and cracked from exposure to the cold, and his lungs hurt with every breath he took. It was the coldest night that he could remember in his short life, and he felt like he might freeze solid. And he couldn’t sleep tonight — if he did, he might never wake up again.
Still, he didn’t feel that he was too badly off. He hadn’t managed to get any scraps for dinner, but he had eaten the day before. His ragged, too-small clothes covered most of his small body, and he had managed to find some rags to wrap around his bare feet. And he had found some sticks to build a meager fire, which almost warmed him if he sat close enough.
Wei Ying blew on his fingers to warm them, and then turned back to the small figures he had crafted out of straw. One large, one slightly smaller, and one half the size of the other two. Father, mother, child. A family.
He made such figures whenever he could, out of cast-off straw, twigs, leaves. In a way, it made him remember the feeling of warm arms clasped around him, kind voices murmuring in his ear as he was carried effortlessly. Safe. Loved. Able to depend on someone, no matter what happened. When he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that Mother and Father were right beside him.
Just then, he heard the soft pat-pat of feet crushing fresh snow. He looked up automatically, waiting with curious eyes to see who it could be. Perhaps they might even have some food they could spare..
It turned out to be a boy his own age — five or six — but not like any child he had seen before. His face was delicately beautiful, with pale eyes shining in the moonlight and thick dark lashes. His simple robes were perfectly clean and neatly arranged, and they were the same color as the snow he was treading on. A white, embroidered ribbon was bound around his brow and tied behind his head.
Wei Ying’s eyes widened in amazement. He had never seen someone like this boy before. Just at a glance, he could tell that the boy was rich — REALLY rich, not just better off than a beggar — and he looked so immaculate and beautiful that he almost didn’t seem real. He looked like someone had sculpted him out of the newly-fallen snow, and brought him to life.
The boy stopped at the end of the alley, and looked over at Wei Ying with those strange, striking eyes. The wind blew his long, smooth black hair over his shoulder, and sent little cyclones of snow dancing around his feet.
Wei Ying smiled at the boy, feeling his cold-burned cheeks cracking. “Hi!” he said cheerfully.
The boy didn’t respond right away. He looked a little dazed, as if he didn’t entirely know what was going on.
“Are you lost?” Wei Ying asked. “I can help you if you are. I know these streets better’n anyone.”
The boy shook his head. He took a few hesitant steps towards Wei Ying, wrapping his arms around yourself. “Why are you out here?” he asked in a quiet voice.
“I’m staying here tonight,” Wei Ying said, waving a hand at the fire.
“Why… are you not in your home?”
“I don’t have one.”
The other boy’s brow furrowed, and he moved a little closer to the fire. “What about your mother and father?” he asked.
Wei Ying pointed at the straw dolls he had made. “This is them.”
The boy in white looked at the straw figures, with no expression on his small face. He instead came even closer and crouched beside the feeble flames, solemnly contemplating Wei Ying’s face. He was rich, Wei Ying reflected, which meant he probably had never even seen a child living on the streets. He probably had a mother and father too — maybe even brothers and sisters.
He held his hands in front of the fire to warm them, and smiled brightly at the boy in white. “My name is Wei Ying. What’s yours?” he asked cheerfully.
The boy in white thought for a moment, before raising his own hands before the fire. “Lan Zhan,” he said.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying said, grinning. “I like that name.”
The boy in white looked up at him with those wide, strikingly light eyes, barely even blinking. He looked as if he were drinking in the sight of the ragged, dirty little boy in front of him, studying his cold-reddened face and bright, lively dark eyes. His lips opened and then closed again, as if he was struggling to say something.
“You’re not from here, are you, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying prompted.
“No. I’m from Gusu.”
“What’s it like there?”
Lan Zhan looked a little startled by the question, as if he had never thought that someone else might not know about his home. He contemplated it for a moment, before saying, “We live on mountains. There are lots of clouds and waterfalls. We play a lot of music there. I’m learning the guqin.”
“Sounds nice there,” Wei Ying said a little wistfully. A shiver ran through his small body, as a gust of icy wind blasted down the street. “What are you doing in Yiling?”
“My uncle is visiting the Wen Sect in Qishan,” Lan Zhan said in a subdued voice.
Wei Ying had no idea who the Wen Sect were, but they must be someone important if a rich boy’s uncle was visiting them. “Why is he visiting them? Are they friends?”
Lan Zhan shook his head. “They're nobody’s friends. Uncle only visits because he has to, because Father…” His words trailed off, and a troubled look came into his light eyes. It was as if something had jabbed him at the mention of his father, and he was afraid that the pain would return if he spoke of his father again. He looked down at his small fists on his knees.
“So is your uncle back at your inn?” Wei Ying prompted.
“No. He should be back tomorrow.”
Wei Ying raised his head and looked up at the snow blowing across the road in little clouds, and then at the stars and moon casting their icy glow over the city below. He knew that he should probably be jealous of Lan Zhan — the other boy had family, a home, a warm place to sleep tonight. But he didn’t. He was just glad that Lan Zhan wasn’t lost like he was, and that he had people who loved him.
“You shouldn’t be out here at night, though,” he said. “It’s — it’s pretty cold. You’ll get frostbite if you’re not careful. Maybe I can see you tomorrow before your uncle comes back?”
Lan Zhan looked up from the feeble fire, his strange striking eyes staring intently at Wei Ying, as if he were reading words printed on his face. His lips moved slightly, as if he were reciting something to himself that only he could hear. Then his lips pressed together tightly, as if he had made up his mind to do something, and he rose to his feet sharply. “Get up,” he said in a tight little voice.
“’Scuse me?” Wei Ying asked.
Lan Zhan seized his rough, ice-cold hand in his own smooth fingers, and pulled so hard that Wei Ying almost tumbled over. “You’re going to come with me.”
Wei Ying stood up as instructed, wincing as the bleeding cracks in his rag-wrapped feet touched the ice and snow. A gust of wind blew a whirlwind of snow across his feeble campfire, smothering it into a few small red embers. Lan Zhan gazed at him through the blowing snow, looking strangely stern for someone so young. “Come with me,” he repeated.
“Where?” Wei Ying asked.
“Home.”
And with a final pull on Wei Ying’s hand, Lan Zhan broke into a run down the snowy street, with the homeless boy following a few steps behind him. Wei Ying’s wide eyes looked at the back of Lan Zhan’s head as he followed him through the snowdrifted streets, then fell down to where their hands were tightly clasped together. A smile spread across his face, cracking the skin of his cheeks.