dark in the hollows, where the wind wallows

by stiltonbasket

Summary:

“Supervisory office?” Jiang Fengmian repeats. “Wen Ruohan wishes to turn Lotus Pier into a supervisory office?”

“That’s right,” Wang Lingjiao coos. Less than six paces away from her, Ziyuan’s face is so red that she looks as if she might burst at any moment, and Wei Wuxian is sprawled on the floor with Zidian sparking over his back. His robes are still whole, so the whip must not have touched him yet: but the sight of his bitten lip, already pierced through in anticipation of pain, is more than Jiang Fengmian can bear.

“Very well,” he says simply. “If you want Lotus Pier, then take it. Given that, I wonder how you can still have the face to demand that I punish A-Xian.”

Or: the one where Jiang Fengmian decides to turn back on his way to Qishan, and the capture of Lotus Pier goes somewhat differently as a result.

Notes:

Title from "Lakes Learn From the Season" by Ralph Pomeroy.

Edit: Yu Zhenhong and Li Shuai are OCs from my post-CQL canon fic Twelve Moons and a Fortnight. If you've read TMAAF, you might pick up a few clues on how this fic is going to go. ;)

Chapter 1

“Supervisory office?” Jiang Fengmian repeats, when he returns early from his trip to Qishan to find his household in tumult and Wang Lingjiao sitting on his lotus throne. “Wen Ruohan wishes to turn Lotus Pier into a supervisory office?”

“That’s right,” Wang Lingjiao coos. Less than six paces away from her, Ziyuan’s face is so red that she looks as if she might burst at any moment, and Wei Wuxian is sprawled on the floor with Zidian sparking over his back. His robes are still whole, so the whip must not have touched him yet: but the sight of his bitten lip, already pierced through in anticipation of pain, is more than Jiang Fengmian can bear.

“Very well,” he says simply. “If you want Lotus Pier, then take it. Given that, I wonder how you can still have the face to demand that I punish A-Xian.”

Wang Lingiao blinks, clearly taken by surprise. “Well, losing a hand would teach him a good lesson. My gongzi said that he—”

“We accept your conditions,” Wen Zhuliu interrupts. “If you do not object to our presence here, then we have no quarrel with you.”

“Oh, not at all,” Jiang Fengmian smiles. “But I can hardly expect you to trust Wen Chao’s precious wife to our care, when you have demanded the use of our household. My lady and I will take our disciples and leave Lotus Pier to you, and you are welcome to do what you will with it afterwards.”

“Jiang Fengmian!” his wife screeches, while Wang Lingjiao bats her lashes and preens like a peacock at the compliment. “You miserable, spineless—”

Wen Zhuliu narrows his eyes. “Leave your weapons,” he orders. “You may take personal effects, but no spiritual tools. None of you will be permitted to leave without surrendering your belongings for examination first.”

“Of course. San-niang, boys, go gather your things. We will be leaving within the hour.”

*     *     *

“We’re just going to leave?” Jiang Cheng cries, the moment he and Wei Wuxian slam their sister’s door behind them. “Has Father gone mad? We can’t leave Yunmeng to the Wens!”

“Absolutely not,” Wei Wuxian agrees, his lips still trembling with shock as he and Jiang Cheng start gathering Shijie’s jewelry into a qiankun pouch. Jinzhu had warned them that Wang Lingjiao—whose rank as a mistress was far beneath that of even the lowliest legal concubine, and whose ornaments apparently showed it—would try to steal any fine thing of Shijie’s that she could find.  “What are we going to do?”

“Pack, I guess,” Jiang Cheng mutters. “It’s not like we have much of a choice with the huadan shou here.”

So they pack, stuffing their sturdiest hunting robes into bags and leaving their old training swords—which Wei Wuxian would have liked to bring along, to guard the little shidimei—behind in their stands. Jiang-shushu passes by their rooms when their packs are about half-full, to remind them to pack any books that cannot be purchased again at the print shop in town; and about an hour later, Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng make their way to the training field to wait for Madam Yu. 

Uncle Jiang is already there with a burlap sack slung over his shoulders, surrounded by white-faced junior disciples clutching their favorite blankets and toys. His attendants are standing in the middle of the field, a solid barrier of purple between the children and the Wen cultivators watching from a nearby bridge.

The pier is silent but for the wind and the splashing of the lake beneath their feet. No one dares to speak, even the Wen; and as the rest of the senior disciples come running out of the dormitories, laden down with qiankun bags and heavy cloaks, one of the little shimeis clinging to Jiang Fengmian begins to cry. 

“Hush,” he soothes, as the older disciples fan out into a protective ring around the little ones. “Don’t worry, Zhu’er. We’ll be all right.”

“What about Aunt Wang and her apprentices? And Shijie's maid?” Wei Wuxian asks. “We can’t just leave them.”

“I’ve already sent them down to the village,” Jiang Fengmian whispers, putting out a hand to draw him and Jiang Cheng a little closer. “Everyone without a golden core will be sheltering at Pan Gaolin’s hospital tonight; and in the morning, we will find a safer refuge for them.”

Jiang Cheng nods shakily. “The little ones, too?”

“No. We will take them with us.”

“Where?”

But Jiang Fengmian does not reply. He makes his way out of the huddled group of children, still holding his burlap sack, and presents it to one of the soldiers. 

“Hurry,” he tells them. “The sooner you finish searching our possessions, the sooner we can be away.”

One by one, the disciples come forward, surrendering their bags so that the Wens can search them for weapons. Wang Lingjiao upturns Wei Wuxian’s over the wooden floor of the training ground, making him flush with anger: but before either he or Jiang Cheng can step forward, Jiang Fengmian stoops and sweeps the jumble of trinkets and cultivation manuals back into Wei Wuxian’s bag, keeping his eyes fixed on the wall over Wang Lingjiao’s shoulder until Wen Zhuliu holds something out to him across his outstretched palms. 

Wei Wuxian blinks in surprise. 

Wen Zhuliu is holding Jiang Fengmian’s erhu. Wei Wuxian knows the instrument well; Jiang-shushu played countless lullabies with it to him and Jiang Cheng when they were children, and in later years, it served as a teaching instrument for Shijie’s music lessons, and then for Wei Wuxian’s. After that, Shijie was gifted a new erhu of her own, and the old one was retired to Jiang-shushu’s study; but he still plays it on quiet summer nights, soothing the little shidimei to sleep when the heat keeps them from resting properly.

That erhu is as much a part of Lotus Pier as Jiang-shushu himself, and the sight of it lying in Wen Zhuliu’s hands fills Wei Wuxian’s heart with such rage that even the theft of Suibian seems tolerable in comparison. 

“That was my mother’s erhu,” Jiang Fengmian says quietly—but in spite of the insult, he does not move to retrieve it. “Is Qishan Wen so impoverished that it cannot afford the loss of a treasure so ancient as this? The Wen-zongzhu I knew in my youth would not have touched something so roughly made with his boots, let alone put it to any use—though perhaps it might serve him well as a piece of firewood, if he were in dire need of it.” 

“Is it a spiritual weapon?” Wen Zhuliu asks, ignoring him. “I thought it might be, but if it belonged to the late Jiang-furen…”

The corner of Jiang-shushu’s mouth twitches. “My honored mother did not cultivate. It’s an heirloom, nothing more.”

Wen Zhuliu frowns and puts two fingers to the base of the skin-covered sound box, presumably confirming that the instrument does not possess a spirit of its own. Satisfied, he passes the erhu back to Jiang-shushu; and then he examines Yu Zhenhong’s qiankun bag before continuing down the line. 

“Come along,” Jiang-shushu calls, as the last little shimei snatches her things back from Wang Lingjiao. “A-Cheng, A-Ying—help me get the little ones into the boats.”

The Wens do not remain to watch them cast off. Perhaps they simply want to begin plundering Lotus Pier’s treasures as soon as possible, for more than half of them were left behind in the pavilion of relics. Wen Zhuliu stands guard by the quay until small Liu Miaomiao scrambles off the dock and tumbles into Madam Yu’s lap, but he too disappears before long—most likely to eat the hulatang Wang-bomu prepared for their dinner, Wei Wuxian thinks savagely. 

Suddenly, a warm, wriggling weight is deposited into his arms, and he glances up, surprised. Apparently, Madam Yu had picked Miaomiao up and handed him over to Yinzhu, who sent him along down the line of boats until he came to Wei Wuxian’s. 

“Shixiong,” Liu Miaomiao says miserably, after Jiang-shushu’s men split from the party and start rowing towards the village, “Is that stinky Wang-shi going to sleep in my bed?”

Wei Wuxian laughs in spite of himself.

“No,” he whispers, leaning close to Miaomiao’s ear. “Knowing her, she’ll try to sleep in Madam Yu’s.”

And knowing Madam Yu, she probably booby-trapped her pavilion when she went to pack her things. Wang Lingjiao might try to sleep in there tonight, but she certainly won’t be sleeping there tomorrow.

Jiang-shushu wouldn’t have booby-trapped his room, though, and Wen Chao would almost certainly try to stay in it. Wei Wuxian wrinkles his nose and says as much to Jiang Cheng, who looks absolutely miserable for a moment before shaking his head in relief.

“Wen Chao would hate Fuqin’s room,” he mutters. “It’s not nearly ridiculous enough. Father got rid of most of the wall scrolls when A-Niang moved to her own quarters, and you know he likes sleeping on mats when the weather is fine.”

With this heartening fact to comfort them, they finish the short trip to the shore on the far side of Lake Lianhua in silence. When they disembark, one of the shidis asks Jiang Fengmian if he means to camp on the northern shore of the lake; but before the Wu-shidi reaches the end of his question, Jiang-shushu lifts his rowboat by the bow and drags it further into the forest.

“Yes,” he calls back, over his shoulder. “But this is a poor place to camp. We’ll sleep on the cliff tonight; and tomorrow, I expect that we’ll be able to sleep in proper beds again.”

Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng exchange puzzled glances and follow suit. Most of the Jiang disciples camp in the swamp forest bordering Lake Lianhua at one time or another: but only ever as part of a feat of daring, for the swamp is heavy with resentment from the drowned corpses that wash down the Hanjiang each autumn. Wei Wuxian himself nearly drowned there during a night-hunt when he was thirteen: and though the short cliff overlooking Lake Lianhua is over two li from the nearest hunting ground, he would never have brought the little shidimei out to sleep there for any price.

One of the older shimeis says as much to Jiang-shushu, who only inclines his head before directing her up the path to the camping ground.

“I have business there,” he says gently, “and I would rather have you children near me tonight.”

For the rest of the evening, Wei Wuxian and the rest of the Jiang disciples receive no further explanation than that. They have their supper on the cliff—roasted fish from the lake, seasoned with the dried herbs in Jiang Cheng’s camping kit—before settling down for bed at a quarter past hai shi; but to Wei Wuxian’s astonishment, Uncle Jiang does not turn toward his tent. Instead, he chivvies the little girls into the one Jinzhu and Yinzhu are sharing, and the boys to the tent that Wei Wuxian shares with Jiang Cheng: and then he wanders over to the edge of the cliff and sits down on a flat rock, gazing out over the water with a faraway look in his eye.

The lamps at Lotus Pier are still burning. From where he stands, Wei Wuxian can see the little watch-light on the northern dock wavering in the dark, as it does whenever the flame within it runs low; and as he watches, a tiny black shape makes its way to the lantern and replaces the guttering candle with a fresh one.

The second half of hai shi comes and goes. At xu shi, someone extinguishes the lamp on the eastern dock; and then, one by one, the lights scattered throughout the rest of the compound begin to fade. But the north watch-light burns on, a lone beacon amid the darkness of the water—distant, and yet so near that Wei Wuxian feels as if he could lean down from his perch on the cliff and blow it out. 

“Time seems to have little meaning, tonight,” a soft voice murmurs just after midnight. “What is Jiang-zongzhu waiting for?”

Wei Wuxian jumps and turns around to find Yu Zhenhong looming at his elbow. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers back. Jiang-shushu has not moved from the flat stone at the edge of the cliff, save to retrieve his erhu from his pack and play it for the baby disciples who wanted to be sung to sleep; and under the faint, liquid light of the moon, his uncle looks like another oddly-shaped limb of the cypress tree at his back.

Yu Zhenhong frowns and opens his mouth, most likely to ask (for the dozenth time) why Jiang-shushu did not settle them among the inns in the village—but before he can speak, a small hand reaches out and tugs at the hem of his sleeve. Liu Miaomiao is standing behind them, clinging to his little blanket for dear life; and at the sight of A-Miao’s imploring face, Wei Wuxian mutters a prayer of thanks that the baby disciples had at least eaten a hearty lunch and been allowed to fetch their toys before Wang Lingjiao turned them out of the nursery. 

“I can’t sleep,” Miaomiao whimpers, rubbing his fists into his eyes. “Shixiong, hug A-Miao.”

At this, Jiang Fengmian rouses and holds out his arms. “Give him to me,” he says. “Come here, Jiangmiao.”

Miaomiao nods and runs to Jiang Fengmian, nearly tripping over his small feet in his haste to climb into Jiang-shushu’s lap. 

“Now,” Jiang-shushu yawns, after Miaomiao makes himself comfortable under one of his great purple sleeves, “would you like a story?”

“No. I want a lullaby.”

“Again?” yet another voice remarks, from somewhere to Wei Wuxian’s left.

He peers back into the gloom and spots Jiang Cheng leaning against one of the cypresses, looking rather rumpled. “What are you doing up?”

“Well, what are you doing up?”

“We’re all up,” Li Shuai calls, poking her head out of the girls’ tent. “Do you honestly think that any of us would be able to sleep on a night like this?”

Three more tousled heads pop up behind her. “Jinzhu and Yinzhu are sleeping, though,” Dai Lingxi announces.

“And Shimu,” says Ju Jiaofen.

“Shimu could sleep through a thunderstorm if she tried,” Lai Yuqi pipes up. “Li-shijie and Ju-shijie and I spent the last hour playing cards in a corner of the tent, and Shimu didn’t even twitch.”

At this last interruption, Miaomiao lets out a grumble of discontent and tugs at the neck of Jiang-shushu’s robes.

“Shifu,” he says, aggrieved, “what about A-Miao’s lullaby?”

Jiang Fengmian smiles. “Hush,” he chides, patting Miaomiao’s tousled head. “Come sit next to me—there, just so, so that my elbow won’t hit you.”

He picks up the aged erhu—which was still lying on the slab of rock at his feet, though Wei Wuxian offered to put it away after he finished his first round of lullabies for the baby shidimei—and draws the bow between its twin strings. The erhu lets out a tremulous note, then another which sounds eerily unattached to the one that preceded it—and then Jiang-shushu begins to play in earnest, filling the clearing with a melody that Wei Wuxian is fairly certain he has never heard before.

Or—not quite never , now that he thinks about it. Suddenly, he recalls nights filled with dark dreams and snatched glimpses of a yaoguai’s footprints in the wild country east of Yiling, and the dawning knowledge that whatever his parents were hunting in that last week had not been vanquished without a cost, if it had been vanquished at all; and on those nights, Jiang Fengmian’s lullabies were longer and more haunting than usual, and followed by at least twelve hours’ worth of deep, dreamless sleep.

But the old lullaby provokes no drowsiness in him tonight. He and Jiang Cheng are both wide awake—to say nothing of their disciple sisters and the rest of the Jiang shidis, who had crept out of their tents to listen to the erhu in their purple zhongyi and sleeping trousers—and as Jiang Fengmian’s bow-hand moves back and forth, repeating the lullaby’s refrain for the seventh time, Liu Miaomiao closes his eyes and sinks into a rumpled heap at Jiang-shushu’s side, asleep.

“At last,” Jiang-shushu murmurs to himself, clambering off the rock with Miaomiao in his arms. “Take him, A-Cheng.”

Jiang Cheng nods and whisks A-Miao away as bidden, returning him to the tent where the rest of the little shidis are sleeping. The child does not stir as Jiang Cheng lays him down on his bedroll and pulls a blanket up over his shoulders: and if Wei Wuxian recalls the effects of the old lullaby correctly, Miaomiao will not move again until early the next afternoon. 

“Come,” he hears his uncle call. “No—not you, A-Shuai. I only have need of the boys tonight.”

Puzzled, Wei Wuxian glances up just in time to see Jiang-shushu pry off his boots and stockings.

“What?”

“I want every boy above fifteen here, now,” Jiang Fengmian says. “Go wake them.”

The boys are summarily roused and assembled in the clearing without a murmur, for the disciples of Yunmeng Jiang are somewhat more accustomed to hunting at night than others. This is only natural, for Yunmeng’s waters—whether its lakes, its great rivers, or the little streams that surround its many rice fields—are stiller at night-time, permitting rowboats and swimming cultivators to travel through them unhindered; but more importantly, they almost seem to aid night-hunters under the cover of darkness, as if the shadows had wakened something in them that would not come forth in daylight.

Wei Wuxian and the others undress in silence, stripping down to their under-trousers before painting air-beneath-water talismans on their chests. Jiang-shushu gives no explanation for his orders, and none of the boys seem inclined to ask for one; but before he leads them down the cliff, he turns back to look at Li Shuai and says,

“If San-niang wakes before we return, tell her where we’ve gone. I expect we’ll be back before long, but in case—”

Li Shuai nods and draws her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. “Yes, Shifu.”

With that, he begins clambering down towards the narrow strip of shore at the base of the cliff with Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian close behind him. The rest of the senior disciple boys follow suit; and before long, all eight of them are clustered near the water, shivering a little in the chilly air.

“Now what?” Yu Zhenhong asks. “Should we get the boats ready?”

But Jiang Fengmian does not seem to be listening. Instead, he binds his hair up into a knot and wades into the lake, halting when his legs are submerged up to the knees. 

“Follow me,” he orders, with a brief glance over his shoulder: and then he ducks under the surface of the lake and pushes off from the shore, gliding slowly towards Lotus Pier like a large, silent fish.

Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng brace themselves and step into the water after him. Immediately, both of them gasp and leap back again—for the lake seems to be churning with invisible bubbles, bursting against the soles of their feet in a manner rather similar to the way they might do upon a ladle dropped into a cauldron full of boiling water.

“Come on,” Wei Wuxian whispers, shaking himself.

He plunges into the lake and strikes out after Jiang-shushu; and though the night is as clear and the water as still as he could wish, Wei Wuxian’s every limb and nerve seems to ache with dread.

Notes:

Omake!

Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng: "...What are we supposed to do now, exactly?"

Jiang Fengmian: "Swim." *air guitar*

---

Wang Lingjiao, in Madam Yu's bedroom: *puts on a "gold" necklace that makes her skin turn green*
*steals "expensive" makeup that gives her instant eyebags and wrinkles*
*lies in the middle of YZY's "luxurious" bed, only for the bed to fold in half and engulf her*
*tries to take a bath, only to discover that YZY's tub immediately cools the bathwater to 0.2 degrees celsius*

Wen Chao, arriving three hours later to find WLJ looking like she's been through a war: .....What happened to you?

Meanwhile, on the cliff:

Yu Ziyuan: ...You two booby-trapped my room, didn't you.

Jinzhu: Yes. (ꈍ ᴗ ꈍ✿)

---

Liu Miaomiao, waking up 0.5 seconds after JFM and the squad leave: I want another lullaby. >:(

---

Up next: Jiang Fengmian and the boys reach Lotus Pier, and Stilton writes her first half-decent action scene since 2020.

Come say hi on tumblr @stiltonbasket, and comment to feed your local Wangxian stan today!

Chapter 2

Summary:

In which the boys return to Lotus Pier.

When Wei Wuxian and the rest of the disciple boys reach Lotus Pier, they find the main compound nearly as dark as the surrounding night. 

The northern dock is completely unguarded. The watch-light is still burning, though the Wen soldier who replaced the candle is nowhere to be seen; and as the last few disciples drag themselves up onto the dock, Jiang Fengmian activates a fire talisman and looks about for signs of movement.

“Nothing,” he murmurs, a moment later. “Come along, and don’t dawdle.”

With that, he strides down the nearest corridor and opens the first door on the right-hand side. He stands on the threshold, listening for footsteps, and then he slides the door shut and moves to the one beside it.

“What’s he doing?” Jiang Ping whispers.

“Looking for Wens, I suppose,” replies Wei Wuxian. He wrings out his trousers and pads after Jiang Fengmian; but an instant later, he hears a stifled cry from the landing stage, followed by a gasp of alarm from Jiang Cheng.

“What? What is it?” he demands, bounding back onto the dock.

Jiang Ping raises a trembling finger and points into the gloom at the far side of the pier. A red-clad figure is resting against the wall, its face half-hidden in shadow; and in spite of the dimness of the night, Wei Wuxian recognizes him as the man who emptied his qiankun bag onto the ground when they left Lotus Pier that afternoon.

“He’s asleep,” Jiang Cheng notes, relieved. “Careful, careful— ”

But something seems to be wrong. The sentry is utterly motionless where he lies, and his breath is far too quiet; and when Wei Wuxian puts a hand to his wrist, the sentry’s pulse does not beat more than thrice in every ten seconds.

Presently, a pale hand emerges from the darkness and closes upon the sentry’s nose. Two keen eyes follow shortly after the hand, examining the sentry’s face for signs of distress; but the man does not stir, even as his lips and the beds of his nails begin to darken from pink to blue.

Wei Wuxian slaps Yu Zhenhong’s hand away. “Don’t do that!”

“Something’s not right,” Yu Zhenhong breathes. He sinks to his knees and reaches towards the man’s neck; and then one of the younger shidis lets out a yelp, for Yu-shidi has a short, sharp knife pressed to the sentry’s throat.

“Shall I kill him?” he asks. “If he wakes before Jiang-zongzhu’s work is finished, he might alert the others.”

“ But Shidi— !”

“No,” comes a disapproving voice from the corridor. “Put that knife down, Zhenhong.”

“I don’t understand, Shifu,” Yu Zhenhong frowns, as Jiang-shushu comes back into view. “Why shouldn’t I kill him?”

“It will make too much of a mess,” Jiang Fengmian says drily. “Have you any idea how difficult it is to wash bloodstains out of wood? If you cut his throat, he’ll bleed all the way from here to the other end of the dock.”

With that, he turns and walks back into the passageway; and this time, the boys shut their mouths and tiptoe after him.

“Check every room, and every closet large enough to fit a grown man,” he instructs. “If you find anyone you would like to keep alive, come and find me.”

Jiang Cheng seizes the hem of his sleeve. “But where are you going, Fuqin?”

“To your mother’s pavilion. I saw Wen Chao’s barge arriving around nightfall; and San-niang’s quarters are the only ones he might deign to sleep in, so he and Zhao Zhuliu must be there.”

“You’re going alone?” Wei Wuxian’s heart skips a beat. “What if the huadan shou attacks you?”

“He’ll be asleep, just like the rest. Now hurry, and make sure your shidimen don’t wander off alone.”

Jiang Fengmian leaves them without another word, striding briskly in the direction of Madam Yu’s pavilion with a long wooden pole—the kind used for punting boats in shallow water—slung over his shoulder. He gives no explanation for why he might need it; but Yu-furen burned the narrow bridge to her quarters the last time she and Jiang-shushu argued, so perhaps the pole will be called upon to serve its intended purpose.

“Come on,” Luo Yunkai whispers, after Jiang-shushu disappears. “Shifu told us to hurry. But Shixiong—if we’re not supposed to hurt anyone, what did shifu mean when he told us to choose whom we wanted alive?”

But this command made no more sense to Wei Wuxian than it did to Luo Yunkai. He says as much to his shidi, who subsides after a few more questions; and then they continue on through the compound, opening doors and calling softly to one another when they find an occupied room.

“Have you seen anyone you know?” Jiang Cheng hisses, when they finish searching the outer disciples’ quarters. 

Wei Wuxian nods. “I recognized two of the disciples who escorted Wen Qing to the Cloud Recesses in the summer. What about you?”

“No, no one. You don’t suppose…” and here Jiang Cheng falters, unable to look Wei Wuxian in the eye. “You…you don’t think she would have been sent here, do you?”

“Who? Wen Qing, you mean?”

Jiang Cheng inclines his head.

“I don’t see how having a medic here would have aided Wen Chao’s cause.”

“Why not?”

Silence.

“Wen Zhuliu let us go too easily, so he must not have thought his men were in any danger. What need would they have for a healer?” Wei Wuxian asks at last. “For a moment—when Yu-furen was about to whip me—I was sure it would come to bloodshed. But then Jiang-shushu arrived, and Wen Zhuliu all but drove us out himself.”

“Then,” Jiang Cheng says, gulping, “do you think it would have come to bloodshed, if Father hadn’t come back?”

Wei Wuxian shrugs his shoulders. “Madam Yu would never have surrendered Lotus Pier without a fight: but you remember how Wen Chao and his men behaved on Mount Muxi. If she had raised her sword, they would have started killing the little ones.”

With that dark thought to mull over, he and Jiang Cheng part ways. Wei Wuxian heads toward the family compound, taking Yu Zhenhong with him, and Jiang Cheng and his tangdi Jiang Ping go off to search the kitchens with the other disciple boys.

The inner compound is mercifully empty when Wei Wuxian reaches it. He nearly cracks a tooth in rage when he enters Jiang Yanli’s room: for while he and Jiang Cheng managed to salvage her jewelry, they did not have the time to pack her clothes—and her dresses had been removed from their proper places and tried on by someone rather too large for them, and then discarded like so much rubbish. 

Yu Zhenhong stoops to examine one of the skirts. “Shijie’s best gowns are gone,” he observes. “I don’t see her New Year’s dresses, or the gold ruqun Jin-furen bought her in Lanling. That Wang-shi must have stolen them.”

Wei Wuxian’s throat tightens with anger. 

“Never mind,” he says thickly. “We knew she would.”

They make their way out of Shijie’s room, closing the door softly behind them; and then Yu Zhenhong passes noiselessly into Jiang Cheng’s bedroom, leaving Wei Wuxian to search Jiang-shushu’s quarters.

Wei Wuxian’s own room is the last one in the corridor, directly across from Jiang Cheng’s. He goes to the door after checking Jiang Fengmian’s room (which was empty, like all of the other rooms on this side of the building) and lets himself inside: and then he springs back out again, electrified by the sight of a Wen disciple curled up in his bed.

His uninvited guest is lost to the same deep, unnatural slumber that claimed the rest of his disciple brothers; but unlike his fellows, this Wen disciple treated his temporary quarters with the utmost respect. There is no mud on the cheery rag-rugs—unlike the ones in the senior disciples’ common room, which were completely blackened by the dirt on the Wen soldiers’ shoes—and he can make out the shapes of two clean boots standing beside the door, accompanied by a paper umbrella. A traveling bag rests on Wei Wuxian’s nightstand, bound up with a set of leather straps; and though his uninvited guest had not been sufficiently diligent—or presumptuous—to put his scarlet robes away in Wei Wuxian’s drawers, he laid them neatly across the footboard of the bed before he retired.

A closer look at the head of the bed proves why.

“Wen Ning,” Wei Wuxian breathes. 

For it is Wen Ning, if a little more drawn and care-worn than he was when Wei Wuxian last met him in Qishan; and though he knows that a footstep on a creaking floor will not wake him, Wei Wuxian pulls the covers up to Wen Ning’s chin and leaves without making a sound.

“What is it?” Yu Zhenhong asks, when Wei Wuxian closes the door behind him. “Is there someone in your room? Who?”

“Wen Ning. It’s Wen Ning,” Wei Wuxian replies, his hands trembling. “Go—go and tell Jiang-shushu. He’s not to be touched.”

Yu Zhenhong nods and dashes off. He reappears within half a ke with Jiang Fengmian at his heels; for apparently, Jiang-shushu had finished searching Madam Yu’s pavilion and rejoined the others in the main compound.

“Is that Wen Ruojing’s son?” he asks, when Wei Wuxian indicates the slumbering figure on his bed. “Wen Qing’s younger brother?”

“Yes.”

“Then take him along. Don’t bother waking him—he won’t wake until morning, no matter what you do.”

So Wei Wuxian picks Wen Ning up and slings him over his back; and then he and Yu Zhenhong make their way back to the landing stage where the rest of the boys have gathered.

“Now what?” Luo Yunkai whispers, looking back and forth between his shixiongdi and the dark doorway behind them. “Should we start back for the campground?”

“No,” Jiang-shushu says, materializing at Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. “You will sit here and watch over Wen Qionglin. The rest of you, follow me.”

With that, he steps down into the lake, and vanishes. 

The boys scramble after him, activating their air-beneath water talismans as they scramble off the dock. Jiang Cheng and Yu Zhenhong land first, lighting the way for the others with a qingyu lamp in either hand; and in the glow of the airless lanterns, the disciples stare down at Jiang Fengmian as he sinks deeper into the lake. He holds up a finger, beckoning them further downward; and before long, the boys find themselves floating among the aged pilings under Lotus Pier, watching as Jiang Fengmian sends a burst of energy into the pillars.

The others imitate the motion, each more bewildered than the next. While they have transferred spiritual energy to the piles before—in order to extend them during the rainy seasons, so that Lotus Pier would not flood as Lake Lianhua began to rise—it has only ever been done through seals carved into the docks above. Unaided, the piles are capable of moving up to five chi in either direction; but when fueled by the spiritual energy of a strong cultivator, they can be raised or lowered by twenty feet or more.

And if spiritual energy were to be fed directly into the pilings themselves, rather than to the seals on the pier, then…

What would happen then?

Presently, Jiang Cheng touches Wei Wuxian’s shoulder and points upward. Jiang-shushu is already rising back towards the pier, with the younger shidis close at his heels; and a moment later, all twenty of them break the surface together.

“We are nearly finished,” Jiang Fengmian says tensely, some minutes later. “Yunkai, Zhenhong—carry Wen Ning, and make sure to keep his face above water.”

They swim back towards the cliff without looking back at Lotus Pier. Wen Ning bobs along behind Luo Yunkai like a cork, making no sound as Yunkai and Zhenhong tow him through the water; and when they reach the opposite shore, Wei Wuxian scrambles onto dry ground and calls softly up the cliff.

“Li-shimei!” he whispers. “We’re back!”

Above them, Li Shuai’s anxious face peers over the edge of the cliff, followed by Liu Miaomiao’s drowsy one. 

“Shixiong!” he cheers, reaching towards Wei Wuxian. “You’re here!”

Jiang Cheng stares at Miaomiao in disbelief. 

“Has he been awake all this time?” he hisses. “Didn’t Father put him to bed before we left?”

“He woke up less than a ke after that,” Li Shuai sighs, hugging Miaomiao tightly around his middle to keep him from falling. “Yuqi and I tried to put him back to sleep, but he wouldn’t even close his eyes.”

“Miaomiao,” Wei Wuxian says, despairing, “how can you be so naughty? Look at the rings around your Shijie’s eyes!”

Liu Miaomiao pouts and hides his face in Li Shuai’s neck. “I’m not naughty,” he grumbles. And then, pointing to Wen Ning: “Who’s that?”

“He is to be our guest at Lotus Pier for the foreseeable future,” Jiang Fengmian interrupts, surfacing at Jiang Cheng’s right. “And the sooner you go to sleep, Jiangmiao, the sooner you will be able to meet him.”

Having thus ensured Miaomiao’s swift removal to the boys’ tent, Jiang Fengmian hoists himself out of the water and helps A-Hong carry Wen Ning up to the camp.

“Ask one of the little shidis to change his clothes,” Wei Wuxian implores, as Wen Ning’s limp figure recedes noiselessly into the dark. “He’ll catch cold otherwise.”

This too is done swiftly and in silence. After Wen Ning has been redressed in dry robes and tucked into Wei Wuxian’s bedroll, Yu Zhenhong brings the a gaggle of the younger disciple-boys down to join the others; and Jiang-shushu follows suit with Yu-furen and the girls before wading back into the water.

He stands with his hands cupped at his chest, breathing in time with the waves lapping at the shore. For a moment, nothing happens—and then the disciples cry out and close their eyes, nearly blinded by the sudden radiance issuing from the water. It seemed to arise from Jiang Fengmian, and darts in a swift line towards Lotus Pier: and when Wei Wuxian looks up again, Lotus Pier is surrounded by a pool of white-gold light.

“Be ready,” Jiang-shushu whispers. “Fall into the dock-raising formation—or as close as you can, without the seals to guide you.”

Behind him, the senior disciples step into place. The latter ten are accompanied by a junior disciple apiece, to support their lingli if it should run low; and as they stand watching, hardly daring to move, Jiang Fengmian lifts his arms and raises two shifting walls of water on either side of Lotus Pier.

“Put your hands into the water,” he directs. “Now, pull.”

Wei Wuxian nods and plunges his arms into the lake. 

To his astonishment, he finds a swift current carving its way through the water just under the surface. It feels oddly solid under his fingers: and when he closes his fists about it and pulls, the current moves with him, almost like a mooring rope left abandoned in the shallows, and then—

“Oh!” gasps Li Shuai.

Before them, Lotus Pier seems to have moved. At this time of year, the pier stands nearly three chi above the water; but now, the base of the platform near the north watch-light is completely submerged.

“Again,” says Jiang Fengmian. His brow is lined with sweat; and as the white-faced shidimei look on, he displaces another surge of water from beneath the pier so that the pilings can sink without obstruction.

Over the course of the next half-hour, Lotus Pier descends by about ten feet and a half, while the walls of water surrounding its bridges and pavilions grow ever higher. At last, Jiang Fengmian tells his disciples to return to shore: and then he lets his arms fall to his sides, allowing Lake Lianhua to close over Lotus Pier.

“We’ll bring it back up in the morning,” he murmurs, staring at the stretch of empty water above the roof of the audience hall. “Come—A-Cheng, A-Xian. Gather up your shidimei; it’s time you went to bed.”

Back at the camp, none of the disciples say a word about what took place that night. The juniors retreat noiselessly to their respective tents, weak-kneed and trembling in the moonlight; and as Wei Wuxian undresses in the boys’ tent with Jiang Cheng and Yu Zhenhong, he spots a small, quaking lump tucked into the child-sized bedroll beside his own.

“Miaomiao,” he sighs, pulling the lump out into the light. “What’s the matter?”

“Shijie put me to bed, but I sneaked out again,” Liu Miaomiao whispers, “I was watching you from the cliff.”

Behind him, Jiang Cheng and Yu Zhenhong exchange troubled glances. 

“Ah,” Wei Wuxian says, dismayed. “So you saw everything, then?”

Miaomiao buries his face in Wei Wuxian’s shoulder. “Did you and shifu drown all those people, Shixiong?"

“Yes.” 

“So—so they’re all going to die?” 

“All of them, except for Wen Ning. Jiang-shushu took us back home to look for people we didn’t want killed.”

“It’s not as bad as you think, Jiangmiao,” Jiang Cheng says stiffly. “Wen Xu’s brutes killed six disciples no older than Lai-shimei at the Cloud Recesses, and he didn’t even have Wen Zhuliu with him. Who knows what Wen Chao might have done if we gave him the chance?”

At this, Miaomiao narrows his eyes.

“Was he the one who hurt shixiong?!” he demands. “If he was, I’m glad he’s dead.”

“Technically, it was the Xuanwu,” Wei Wuxian says, smiling. “But Wen Chao walling us all up in the Xuanwu's cave certainly didn’t help.”

Miaomiao blinks.

“Oh,” he says at last. “Good.”

With that, he crawls back into his bedroll and disappears from view.

 “Good night, da-shixiong,” his little voice chirps, from under the quilt. “Good-night, Jiang-shixiong. A-Miao is going to sleep.”

Yu Zhenhong pinches the bridge of his nose. “Finally,” he mutters; and in spite of themselves, Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian nearly laugh out loud.

The rest of the boys climb into their bedrolls, leaving Wei Wuxian to roll himself up in a spare blanket and curl up at Miaomiao’s side.

Suddenly, Wei Wuxian feels very tired despite having done no strenuous work that night; and as soon as his head touches the ground, he sinks into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

 

 

Notes:

Goodbye, Wen Chao. It wasn't nice knowing you.

Note: shout-out to elanor_pam, who figured out how the fic would go after reading chapter 1! For more Yunmeng dock drama, check out my fic Twelve Moons and a Fortnight.

On to the omake!

---

Liu Miaomiao, lips trembling: You killed all the Wens?

Wei Wuxian, internally: oh no oh no he watched us DROWN over fifty people while they slept oh no oh no--

Miaomiao, bursting into tears: without me??? QAQ

Wei Wuxian, Jiang Cheng, and Yu Zhenhong: "........"

---

Li Shuai: Born to battle Wens and defend my home, forced to babysit this little clown instead.

Liu Miaomiao: >:3

---

Jiang Fengmian, receiving a long-distance cultivation phone call from Wen Ruohan: Your son? You say he was supposed to be at Lotus Pier, and he never checked in? But we didn't invite him...ah, well. Wen Zhuliu too? Now, that is odd...but unfortunately, I have no idea where they are. Yeah, haven't seen them. You take care. Buh-bye. ;)

---

Up next: a tiring morning, and a way forward.

One more chapter to go! Come say hi on tumblr @stiltonbasket, and comment to feed your local Yunmeng disciple stan today. ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝⭐

PS: for any Nielan stans out there, the Nielan Gotcha for Gaza team will be accepting prompts starting on February 10! For more information, check out our Carrd; you can also find us on tumblr/Bluesky @nielan-action.

Chapter 3

Summary:

In which things are settled, mostly for the better.

Notes:

We're finally at the end of another multichapter project! Yay!!!!!!!

In the morning, Wei Wuxian makes his way to the edge of the cliff to watch Lotus Pier rise back out of the water. 

The compound looks oddly eerie from his perch. Wei Wuxian can just make out the sodden curtains clinging to the pavilion walls, and the new darkness clinging to the water-logged wood of the piers: but there are no bodies to be seen, even on the north watch-platform where they left the Wen sentry sleeping the night before.

“Shifu and his attendants went out to see to the bodies at dawn,” Yu Zhenhong says quietly, drawing up behind him. “I suppose they must have been turned over to Pan-yisheng by now.”

Wei Wuxian nods and wraps his shawl more tightly about his shoulders. Jiang-shushu’s attendants did not accompany the shidimen to Lotus Pier last night, for they had been sent away to the village on some mysterious errand of their own: and when they returned, hours after the piers were submerged, they let themselves into Jiang Fengmian’s tent and told him that they had destroyed all traces of the Wens’ presence in Yunmeng.

“There will be no evidence that they reached our lands at all,” they promised, as Wei Wuxian and the shidis listened in with bated breath. “Wen Ruohan will declare war sooner or later; but there is no proof left for him on this count.”

At the reminder of Wen Ruohan, Wei Wuxian turns towards Jiang-shushu’s tent and notices that the old erhu is standing on a rock by the oiled entry flap, as if it had been keeping watch over the camp while they slept.

“Uncle’s attendants were right,” he murmurs. “We will be going to war.”

Yu Zhenhong nods gravely. “But it might be a war soon won, shixiong. After all, Wen Ruohan no longer has the huadan shou in his clutches, so…”

His voice trails off into silence. Wei Wuxian mulls over the words in his clutches, suddenly quite certain that Yu Zhenhong must know something more about Wen Zhuliu’s strange attachment to Wen Ruohan than the vast majority of the jianghu: but before he can question his shidi on the matter, Yu Zhenhong turns on his heel and withdraws into the boys’ tent.

Wei Wuxian stands at the cliff’s edge for another hour, letting the soft lake-breeze blow into his face and chivvying the baby disciples away from the drop after they emerge from their tent in search of food: and at half-past chen hour, Jiang Fengmian returns to camp with the senior disciple-girls in tow.

“Where were you?” Weu Wuxian asks, addressing Li Shuai with no small amount of surprise. “We didn’t even know you were gone.”

“Fetching breakfast with shifu,” Li Shuai says briskly, divesting herself of the great brown bundle tied to her back. “You get the rest of the shidis up and make sure all the little shidimei have washed their hands, and we’ll do the serving.”

Breakfast is a pleasant meal, so far as unexpected camping-meals go. The disciples sit in close throngs about their campfires, eating fried noodles and steaming baozi from Lufeng’s open-air market; and after the baby shidimei are put back to bed in the tents, Jiang Fengmian shakes out his shoulders and sets off down the dark path that leads back into the swamp. 

If Wei Wuxian has guessed correctly, Jiang-shushu must be heading towards the village of Yangshuo. Most of the cultivators living there are masters of all matters pertaining to the natural world: and without their aid, it will be nearly impossible for Lotus Pier to be properly dried out before the day’s end.

With nothing left to occupy them, the senior disciples spend the rest of the morning playing on the cliff with the little shidimei. Wen Ning awakens just after midday, so bewildered by the hubbub in the camp that it takes him a full hour to understand Wei Wuxian's account of the night before; and though Wei Wuxian vowed that none of the Jiang disciples meant him any harm, Wen Ning seems convinced that they took him along as a prisoner.

“I don’t mind being a prisoner, Wei-gongzi,” he says earnestly, as Madam Yu lets out a pained sigh and retires to her tent at the sight of him. “It’s just that I don’t think I’d be a very good one. If he heard that I was being held captive, Junshang might take it as an excuse to declare war—but he doesn’t really care if his disciples live or die, you know.”

“En, that’s all very well,” Wei Wuxian sighs, for the fifth time, “because you’re not a prisoner.”

“But I could be a better prisoner, if you needed me to be. I could disguise myself as Wen Chao and let Junshang catch a glimpse of me from a distance.”

Wei Wuxian pinches the bridge of his nose. “Wen Ning, really—”

He could say no more after that, since Miaomiao and his gaggle of underlings came along at that moment and pounced upon the pair of them; and between the baby disciples’ meals and the littlest children’s nap-times, Wei Wuxian does not stir from the camp until Jiang Fengmian returns at sunset to summon them all home.

When they return, Lotus Pier looks as if nothing of note had passed there since they left it. The pavilions and living quarters show no trace of water damage, and the wood of the walls and furniture feels as dry to the touch as it did the night before; and when Wei Wuxian ventures into his bedroom, he discovers that the sheaf of notes he left on his desk remained wholly intact—though some of the shidimen were not so lucky, for not all of them had troubled to ward their less-important belongings to make them impervious to water.

“Your room came out better than I expected,” Jiang Fengmian tells him, when he passes by Wei Wuxian’s door at half-past xushi. “Did you ward everything, A-Xian?”

“Everything but the curtains and the rag-rug,” Wei Wuxian answers, laughing. “But Shijie made the rug, so I should have warded it as soon as she gave it to me.”

“All in good time. But for now, move it to the foot of your bed,” Jiang Fengmian advises him. “Fu Lan is bringing a cot from the storage halls for Wen Ning.”

With that, he withdraws: and a shichen later, the whole of Lotus Pier sits down to dinner in the main dining chamber. Wen Ning sits between Wei Wuxian and Yu Zhenhong, picking half-heartedly at his soup: and after the dishes are cleared away, he follows Wei Wuxian back to his room without another word.

He falls asleep easily that night, for Jiang-shushu plays his erhu on the training field after dinner: and after Wei Wuxian is certain that Wen Ning will not wake if he leaves the room, he tiptoes out into the corridor and sets off for the compound that houses Jiang Fengmian’s study.

Once there, he finds Jiang Cheng crouching beside the door, accompanied by Yu Zhenhong and a weary-eyed Li Shuai.

“You’re late,” Jiang Cheng whispers, as Wei Wuxian seats himself behind them. “What took you so long?”

“I had to wait for Wen Ning to fall asleep,” Wei Wuxian whispers back, before glancing back over his shoulder and sketching a silencing talisman on the door. “What have Uncle and the rest been saying so far?”

Jiang Cheng shakes his head and presses a finger to his lips: and as they sit listening in the corridor, they learn that all of the disciples above the age of six are to be sent away to remote areas of the Jiang sect’s territory, to shelter with the elder disciples who departed Lotus Pier to establish outposts of their own upon coming of age.

This was a tradition little-known to the other sects: but a long-standing one nevertheless, for Lotus Pier is ill-equipped to house more than a hundred disciples at a time. It is far smaller than the Jinlintai, or the Cloud Recesses; and as a result, grown disciples of the Jiang sect are obliged to leave Lotus Pier and make their way to some under-protected area near the borders, and watch over it for the rest of their lives.

“Why not send them to Meishan?” one of Jiang-shushu’s attendants asks: most likely Fu Lan, judging by the lilting tone of his voice. “Yanli-shimei is already there; and the snows in Meishan are so fierce at this time of year that even Wen Ruohan would be hard-pressed to break through to Beishanzhou.”

“He will not go alone,” Jiang-shushu says slowly. “And you forget that he has braved the slopes of the Northern Mountains in the wintertime before.”

Silence. 

“The road to Meishan will be watched,” Yu-furen opines, a minute later. “Fengmian is right on that count. It is one thing to have A-Li shelter there, when all the jianghu knows that she cannot lead Yunmeng Jiang alone—but it might spell the deaths of all my kin if we send A-Cheng and the rest to join her. It would be better for the children to join their shixiongjie in the country.”

“But if Wen Ruohan finds out—?”

“He will not find out,” Jiang Fengmian replies. “Wen Chao did not have the sense to look at the records while he was here—I know, for I set a locking talisman on the chest where those records were kept—and I burned them as soon as we returned. No one will know where the children have gone; and I have told some fifty of our senior disciples to come back to Lufeng after the children leave, so that Wen Ruohan will not find Lotus Pier empty when he arrives. He will suspect nothing when he does not see the little ones, for my father and I have never allowed the junior disciples to leave their quarters when the Wen were in residence here—so whatever happens to us afterwards, the children will be in no danger.”

“And what about the baby disciples?” Fu Lan, this time. “They have not started to cultivate; and A-Xian and the rest cannot carry them all the way to the borders, so where are they to go?”

“They will remain here. If the worst comes to pass, we can use some of A-Xian’s transportation talismans to send them to Disciple Xie and her husband; but it would do no good to move them with A-Cheng’s group. The nursery attendants are remaining here to assist, so they must stay.”

After that, the four eavesdroppers at the door creep back down the corridor and head for their respective rooms, since the sound of scraping chair-legs in the office made it plain that Jiang Fengmian and his attendants were about to disperse. They do not speak on the way back to the living compound, for all four of them are too preoccupied with their own thoughts to discuss what they had overheard—but when they reach the mouth of the hallway that leads to the girls’ dormitory, Li Shuai tells them that they ought to prepare to depart as soon as the next morning dawns.

“We might have to leave at any time,” she says in a low voice. “Wen Ruohan will learn about Wen Chao’s disappearance before this week is out; and as soon as he realizes, he’ll come looking for him in Yunmeng.”

The boys can hardly deny this conjecture, despite being too sick at heart to voice their agreement aloud; and a bare two days later, they find themselves bound for Xiangyang County with an escort made up of the senior disciples who taught them when they were children.

Though Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng have done nearly everything together since the day Wei Wuxian came to Lotus Pier, they were parted for the journey northward. Yu Ziyuan would not hear of Jiang Cheng’s sharing a safehouse with Wen Ning, and all of Lotus Pier agreed that Wen Ning would have to accompany Wei Wuxian: so the two of them are sent on to Xiangcheng, along with Liu Miaomiao and a handful of orphaned junior disciples between the ages of seven and nine.

Once there, they are escorted to the residence of Fu Lan’s older sister; and afterwards, they hear no word from Lotus Pier for over a month.

For the children’s sake, Wei Wuxian tries not to think too hard of the ones left behind in Lufeng. The youngest disciples would have been sent away to the safe-houses if Wen Ruohan’s presence were noted within fifty li of the Yunmeng border: and since Fu Jia’s closest shixiongdi in Zaoyang and Xiangzhou have heard nothing, there is naught left for the rest of them to do but wait.

And wait they do: until Miaomiao runs to Wei Wuxian’s bedside on a dim morning in the middle of Luyue, screeching at the top of his little lungs.

“Shixiong!” he shrieks, putting his face close to Wei Wuxian’s ear. “There’s a cultivator in the front yard, and he’s asking for you!”

Wei Wuxian sits bolt upright. “Who is it?” he asks urgently, already shoving his feet into his boots. “Is it Fu-shixiong? Or one of Uncle’s men?”

“No!” Miaomiao yelps, now hurrying to keep up as Wei Wuxian dives into the corridor that leads towards the front courtyard. “He’s dressed all in white, like the moon prince in shixiong’s bedtime stories, and he’s wearing a mo’e!”

Wei Wuxian’s heart stills at this last.

“Lan Zhan!” he cries, as he bursts into the courtyard with a groaning Miaomiao swinging back and forth under his arm. “Lan Zhan, you’re here!”

Lan Zhan leaps away from Fu Jia and turns to face him—so pale that Wei Wuxian is certain he must have come bearing bad news, for Lan Zhan had looked less shaken in the belly of Mount Muxi, as they hid in a stinking cave with a fool’s hope of escaping the Xuanwu—before wrapping his arms around Wei Wuxian’s shoulders.

“You are here,” he says hoarsely. “Forgive me—but I hardly dared believe it, even when Jiang-zongzhu vowed that you and Jiang Wanyin had simply gone into hiding—”

Wei Wuxian staggers back and grips Lan Zhan by the elbows. “You’ve seen Uncle?” he demands, his heart thundering in his breast. “Then—everyone at Lotus Pier—are they all right?”

Lan Zhan inclines his head.

“Yes,” he answers. “And there will be nothing to fear going forth; for Wen Ruohan is dead and Wen Chao is missing, and Wen Xu died the day before yesterday.”

“How?”

Lan Zhan goes on to explain that Wen Xu had marched upon the Unclean Realm three days previously, with the intention of forcing the Nie to set fire to their clan library as they did to the Gusu Lan. But as soon as he arrived, he found himself facing a platoon of Nie cultivators, all armed to the teeth; and the resulting battle had ended with the utter ruin of Wen Xu’s army and the death of Wen Xu himself.

“His head is hanging at the gate before the Bujingshi,” Lan Zhan explains, as Wei Wuxian and Liu Miaomiao gape at him in astonishment. “His body was laid in a coffin filled with salt and sent back to Qishan; but Wen Ruohan never received it, for he was already dead by then.”

“You have not told me how that came to pass,” Wei Wuxian says feebly. “But you look dead on your feet, so it can wait. Have you had your breakfast yet, Lan Zhan?”

At that, Lan Zhan is forced to confess that his last meal was at half-past mao hour the day before: so Fu Jia ushers him into the house and sets four places at the kitchen table. She and Wei Wuxian begin preparing breakfast while Lan Zhan narrates his account of the days following Wen Ruohan's passing, interrupted now and then by the irrepressible Miaomiao: and when the tale is over, Fu Jia is so overcome with shock that she puts her second helping of chili oil in her tea instead of her rice bowl.

“I’d never have believed it,” she breathes. “What is to happen now?”

“From what I have heard, the clan members left in Qishan will choose a new Wen-zongzhu by the beginning of Bingyue,” Lan Zhan tells her. “It is likely to be Wen Qing, I think. There are no close male relatives left, for Wen Ruohan had no siblings, and Wen Qionglin was with Wen Chao’s party when it disappeared.”

“Wen Qionglin is in one of my guest rooms,” Fu Jia says, waving a hand in dismissal, “but no one with a drop of sense would choose him as Wen-zongzhu over Wen-guniang: so Wen-guniang it will be.”

Beside her, Miaomiao begins to grumble in dissatisfaction.

“I want to know how Wen Ruohan got killed. You didn't tell us that,” he complains, plucking at the hem of Lan Zhan’s left sleeve. “Did he drown? I bet he drowned, didn’t he?”

Lan Zhan stares at Miaomiao, discomfited.

“He did,” he says slowly, “but I was told you had no contact with the sect members still at Lotus Pier since you arrived here. How…”

“He’s only guessing, since he watched us drown Wen Chao,” Wei Wuxian sighs. “Don’t pay any mind to him. Did Wen Ruohan—?”

After a long moment, Lan Zhan coughs and squares his shoulders, determinedly avoiding Miaomiao’s beady eyes. 

“It started thus,” he begins, closing his eyes. “He sent Wen Chao to turn the Jiang out of Lotus Pier, as you must know already; and when Wen Chao did not send word of a successful conquest, Wen Ruohan departed for Yunmeng…”

*     *     *

Three weeks after Chao’er was due to arrive at Lotus Pier, Wen Ruohan travels to Lufeng at the express invitation of Jiang Fengmian.

He was irritated when it became clear that he would have to make the journey south himself; but now, he was greatly concerned about Chao’er. Wen Ruohan had expected some delay—for Wen Chao always liked to linger at richly-appointed inns and flower houses during his trips abroad, and he generally hated to leave brothels he took a liking to before he was obliged to do so out of fear of his father—but even so, Wen Ruohan never anticipated that Wen Chao would fail to report back to Qishan for the better part of a month. In fact, he expected that he would hear from Chao’er sooner rather than later, for this venture was meant to soothe his pride after the slaying of the Xuanwu; and since Wen Ruohan’s spies had told him that Jiang Fengmian would be away when Chao’er arrived, Wen Ruohan had been certain that Yu Ziyuan would provide Chao’er’s people with all the excuse they needed to dispose of every last cultivator living at Lotus Pier. 

But if the Jiang were to be believed, Wen Chao had never reached Lufeng at all. The soldiers Wen Ruohan sent after him reported that there was no sign that he had ever crossed Yunmeng Jiang’s borders, let alone come to the lake-side town that housed Lotus Pier; and by the time he set off from Buyetian, Wen Ruohan had begun to suspect that Wen Zhuliu had betrayed him.

He had ever been wary of Wen Zhuliu: or Zhao Zhuliu, as he was when Wen Ruohan found him bleeding on the stairs beneath Beishanzhou all those years ago. To begin with, there was the troubling fact of Zhuliu’s past engagement to Yu Ziyuan—one that had not been broken at the lady’s will, though her father and brother nearly killed the boy when he tried to seek refuge with the Meishan Yu after the Zhao clan were executed—and though over twenty years have come and gone since then, Wen Ruohan never forgot that Wen Zhuliu had tried to persuade Yu Ziyuan to elope with him on the night before her wedding to Jiang Fengmian.

Perhaps it was a mistake to send Zhuliu on this errand, he thought. Wen Zhuliu joined him so that he might one day seek retribution for his suffering at the hands of Yu Ziyuan’s brother, but never by word or deed did he imply that he had ceased to want the woman herself; and upon reflection, Wen Ruohan could not be certain that Zhuliu would choose to save Chao’er’s life over Yu Ziyuan’s.

But even if Zhuliu had betrayed him, there should have been some sign of it. There should have been some proof of Chao’er’s presence at an inn, or a tavern, or rumors of a youth who went in to partake at a brothel for days on end while his servants were forced to seek accommodation elsewhere—but instead, there was nothing.

And then—after he had scouted along the road that Chao’er would have taken from the border, and crossed over into Lufeng—Wen Ruohan and his servants were received at Lotus Pier.

To his surprise, there was no stench of resentment about the place, much less the kind that would have resulted from the mass slaughter of Chao’er and his men. The waters beneath the pier were clean and sweet, filled with drying lotus pods and fishing boats bobbing up and down with the waves; and when he entered the audience hall where Jiang Fengmian sat with his wife, he found it so pristine that it seemed impossible that Chao’er could ever have been there.

Upon being questioned, Jiang Fengmian vowed that he too had seen no sign of Wen Chao or Wen Zhuliu. He seemed bemused that Wen Ruohan should be looking for Chao’er in Yunmeng at all; and when he was told that Chao’er had been on the way to Lotus Pier, he grew more bewildered than ever—for he could not understand what business Wen Chao might have had in Yunmeng, given the fact that the masters of the Wen and Jiang had stayed out of one another’s affairs since the time of Wen Ruohan’s great-grandfather.

It was at this point that Wen Ruohan interrupted him, weary of his host’s rambling, and asked after Jiang Fengmian’s son.

He received a vague, half-hearted reply; and if not for his worry about Chao’er, Wen Ruohan would have laughed aloud at the sudden tightness about Yu Ziyuan’s mouth and eyes. According to Jiang Fengmian, Jiang Wanyin had accompanied Jiang Yanli to Meishan as soon as he returned from Qishan in the autumn, taking Jiang Fengmian’s first disciple with him: and on the way back, the boys were invited to a festival in Leshan and let the young mistress Jiang go on to Yunmeng with her attendants.

“So Jiang-gongzi is in Leshan, with only a single servant?” Wen Ruohan asked, taking heart despite himself as Yu Ziyuan’s face grew paler still. “How daring.”

“Daring,” Yu Ziyuan muttered, under her breath. “Daring, indeed! That boy led him astray—-and see what has come of it!”

“Nothing has come of it,” Jiang Fengmian said placidly. “They will return soon enough; and by then I am sure you will wish that they had stayed away longer.”

“Nothing has come—!” Yu Ziyuan gaped at him in disbelief. “What in heaven’s name do you mean? Have you forgotten why we sent them to Meishan to begin with?”

“No, but—”

“They were meant to escort A-Li,” Madam Yu spat. “You were not satisfied with Jinzhu and Yinzhu—you said that they would attract rogues on the road, and put A-Li in danger—so you insisted on sending male guards, and when I told you that I did not want to leave her alone with a band of men, what did you say? You said that we should send A-Cheng along with her, so that she would have a guard related to her by blood in the company. It was your idea to keep her safe by sending A-Cheng—but now that A-Cheng is off in Leshan, indulging that thrice-accursed Wei Wuxian, you have nothing to say?”

Her diatribe ran on for at least half a ke, unbroken: and Wen Ruohan watched her with raised eyebrows, amazed that she could forget herself so in his presence. As far as she was concerned, Wen Ruohan and his attendants might not have been in the room at all: and though Jiang Fengmian attempted to turn the conversation back to Wen Ruohan and the question of Chao’er’s disappearance, Yu Ziyuan would have none of it. She accused her husband of caring nothing for his daughter’s honor, of caring nothing for his son whatsoever; and at last, Jiang Fengmian lost his patience and began to argue back.

It was immediately clear to Wen Ruohan that Jiang Fengmian was not generally given to wrath; but now that his anger had been provoked, it seemed to disturb the air more than his wife’s had done. His servants flinched when he raised his voice, though they stood at attention through Yu Ziyuan’s cursing without moving a muscle; and just as Wen Ruohan had resolved to threaten the pair of them in some way, so that they would not dare to be so tiresome in his presence again, Jiang Fengmian’s daughter let herself into the room.

Her eyes had red smudges about their corners, as if she had been crying: and Wen Ruohan could tell by her mismatched robes and jewelry that she had scrambled herself into whatever fine things were at hand and rushed to stop her parents from embarrassing themselves, so that Wen Ruohan would not be tempted to order a cleansing by fire as he did to the Gusu Lan.

“Mother, Father,” she said, in a trembling voice. “There’s really no need to fight like this. A-Cheng and A-Xian will be home the day after tomorrow—and if we must discuss their behavior, can’t we do it after our guests have had the chance to retire?”

Yu Ziyuan opened her mouth, more incensed than before: and the girl quaked where she stood, so that she looked as if she might swoon if her mother said another word.

“May I play for you, Wen-zongzhu?” she asked, before Yu Ziyuan could speak. She was clutching an erhu to her breast—an ancient, battered thing, whose neck had been warped by the countless wet summers that had elapsed since its construction—and at the sight of it, Wen Ruohan’s lip began to twitch so fiercely that he had to bite it to keep it still.

How in heaven’s name have these people survived for so long? he wondered. The Lan could not have come before me with such a filthy thing if their lives depended on it. I knew Jiang Fengmian’s daughter was good for nothing in the way of cultivation—but no one told me that the girl was a fool as well!

He would have thrown away a boot that so much as touched the old erhu, decrepit and devoid of spiritual energy as it was; and here was Jiang Yanli, the young mistress of the Jiang sect, holding it as if it were as worthy an instrument as Lan Xichen’s Liebing was said to be.

“Very well,” he said, and Jiang Yanli seemed to melt with relief, now certain that her parents would say no more until he left the room. “But make it a pleasant song, little mistress; for I have been on the road for days, and I will have to keep looking for Chao’er tomorrow.”

She blinked, her eyes full of tears, and made her way swiftly to a seat at the side of the room.

“Be silent,” Wen Ruohan drawled, when Yu Ziyuan parted her lips to call her daughter back. “It has been a long journey, Yu-furen—and since I have had no hostess’s welcome from you, be so kind as to let me enjoy your daughter’s hospitality instead.”

The girl’s shoulders seemed to straighten then—in the way that his rough-born talents in Buyetian always did, upon hearing praise after a lifetime of abuse and ridicule—and despite himself, Wen Ruohan found that he took some slight pleasure in observing the change in her confidence as she placed the erhu on her lap. 

Jiang Yanli smiled at him with guileless eyes, and set her bow to the strings.

 

 

Notes:

And that, dear readers, is the story of how Jiang Yanli killed Wen Ruohan. :D

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Omake!

Wen Qionglin: I could be your prisoner.

Wei Wuxian, about to lose it: Wen Ning, I already told you; you're not a prisoner.

Wen Qionglin: But I could be the best prisoner. If you wanted me to be.

Wei Wuxian: OTL

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Li Shuai, being sent into hiding: ...Is Miaomiao coming with us? Because if he is, I'll take my chances with the Wens. (¬_¬)

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Wen Qing: So between you and me, you killed Wen Chao and Wen Zhuliu, right?

Jiang Fengmian, enjoying his daily Soup Break: What, no...absolutely not, haha...

Wen Qing: My uncle is dead, Jiang-zongzhu. What do you have to be afraid of at this point?

Jiang Fengmian: Here, have a lotus-paste bun. :)

Wen Qing: ('''– ⌓ –)＝３

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And that's a wrap! As always, thank you all for reading and commenting, and come say hi on tumblr @stiltonbasket!

For more on the Wen Zhuliu/Yu Ziyuan backstory, check out my fic Twelve Moons and a Fortnight.

Note re: my recent updating schedule—I'm a bit burned out from my weekly posting schedule (I've kept it up since joining the fandom in 2020!) so I'll be taking a break from posting until sometime in late August so I can work on my zine/gotcha WIPs and take care of my real-life responsibilities. See you then! ヾ(＾∇＾)