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The spring water is blessedly invigorating against his ash-touched skin. A far cry from the clear, pristine lakes of his ancestral home in the Gusu mountains, with their currents of silk and hues of shifting jade, but Lan Wangji is grateful all the same. He had not expected to find such a place amidst the fallow bones of this mountain, where the rocks still echo with the uneasy voices of the slain, and inhuman eyes seem to follow his every move from the shadows.
He takes several deep breaths. His cultivation level has always been high, and no harm will come to him from mere ghosts. Besides, Wei Ying — the Yiling Laozu — has already made sure of that. Long before Lan Wangji’s arrival, he had already begun placing wards and talismans around the landscape, in an educated attempt to keep the creeping whispers at bay.
Lan Wangji strips off his clothes. Neither hurriedly nor furtively, moving with calm conviction, showing no fear. He will wash his garments, then himself, then meditate while waiting for them to dry. His core would keep him warm, and his heart would keep him focused. And then at dusk, he would make his meandering way back to the little Wen village, and once again attempt to convince the Yiling Laozu to allow him to stay.
You cannot, the Yiling Laozu had said, simply and baldly, upon Lan Wangji’s arrival at the ramshackle village several days ago. There they had faced each other down, separated by a desolate stretch of poor soil, the pale ends of spoiled produce peeping through the cursed earth like grave worms. The Yiling Laozu had placed his head to the side, tapping the tasselled end of his flute contemplatively against his open palm, even as he continued to regard Lan Wangji with dull, flat eyes. Eyes that had seen too much, known too much, endured too much.
Hanguang-jun, is it? There is nothing you can do for me or these people that I cannot already do myself. If memory serves me correctly, you are a decorated young master from one of the prominent clans, a shining example to the junior generation. Your family is probably very worried about you. You should return to them. This is no place for someone like you.
He had not shown any recognition toward Lan Wangji at all, and the realisation of that had stung, though in a markedly different way. In the present, Lan Wangji grimly ponders this as he spreads his wet garments over a flat rock to dry. He supposes that he can count himself extremely fortunate that the Yiling Laozu had not seen fit to attack him.
Still, the Yiling Laozu had not needed to state the obvious: that Lan Wangji’s mere presence was a danger to everyone in the village. Sooner or later, the allied clans would close in on the mountain, desperate to snatch their lost scion from the clutches of evil. They would descend upon the hapless Wen refugees in a flurry of spiritual blades and orthodox talismans, and Lan Wangji would be helpless to stem the tide of the slaughter, even with the veritable Yiling Laozu on his side.
Is there truly any point in staying, then? He has made his choice. He does not recall the moment of our first meeting, nor does he care about the significance of this gesture, the magnitude of my gift. He wants to fight alone, to die alone, to save as many lives as he can before they tear him to bloody pieces. He does not know that I will continue to defend him, always, even in the deepest reaches of death and shame and ruin.
A sudden gust of grey wind soughs through the dead trees above him. Brittle fragments of bark rain down upon his head, fickle as the flight of paper ingots around a funeral pyre. Lan Wangji shivers violently, wrapping his arms around his bare torso in a futile attempt to stave off the bracing chill. He must hurry. It would be sheer foolishness to remain outdoors past sundown. Under the cover of night, the limbs of the mountain would creak and yawn to life, and the hunting spirits would awaken and billow forth, drawn to the golden beacon of his core like moths to a flame.
He cups his hands in the spring. Wets a small handkerchief, draws it carefully over his face and arms and belly. Dips it in again, wrings it out, brings it down and in between his legs —
“Omega.”
Lan Wangji spins around, spiritual energy surging to the fringes of his meridians with the boom of his pulse, heart crashing into his throat, a frisson of cold sweat breaking out across his scalp with the full, devastating weight of his shame and panic. He will fight, he will rend, he will kill if he has to with tooth and nail and bone, for now his clan’s best-tended secret is out, and they know, they all know —
The Yiling Laozu lounges against a fallen tree at the edge of the clearing. His lips forming the shape of a single damning word, uttered in what Lan Wangji had immediately and instinctively assumed was a mocking tone of voice. But his wan countenance betrays him, and Lan Wangji’s heart gives an inexplicable twist at the sight of it, for he has never before seen anyone who looked less like they wanted to pick a fight. There are dark circles under the Yiling Laozu’s eyes, oily and purplish as the gathering dusk, and his skin is translucent, paper-thin, stretched far too tightly over the stark frame of his face. A pallid monster of a man, a nightmare laced with traces of forgotten beauty, a cursed being shaped by all eighteen reaches of suffering and grief.
“Hanguang-jun,” the Yiling Laozu repeats. His ancient eyes rove rudely over the tender expanse of Lan Wangji’s naked flesh, observing and cataloguing with mild, dispassionate intent. “You’re an omega.”
And Lan Wangji wants to weep. He tamps down on the impulse, considers instead capitulating, denying, apologising. And then, he thinks of taking the Yiling Laozu — Wei Ying, his tortured mind supplies — into his arms, of doing his best to flood that broken, impassive shell with his spiritual energy. He thinks of smoothing the limp strands of hair from the Yiling Laozu’s bloodless forehead, of wrapping his emaciated body in a silk quilt and carrying him down the mountain, step by treacherous step, back toward home.
“So they all lied.” The Yiling Laozu takes a step closer. He is taller than Lan Wangji, and thinner and older, and his voice crackles with a low note of startled recognition, the whisper of dead leaves sliding against frost. “Your father, your uncle, your brother. I recall them making a public announcement about you being an alpha. It has been years, but all the clans still believe it to be true.”
Thoughtlessly, Lan Wangji reaches down to cover himself with his hands. Humiliation cuts through him, a wintry knife. Never in his life has he felt more violated, exposed, small.
“Wei Ying…”
“Why would they lie, though?” The Yiling Laozu murmurs, almost to himself. His expression is closed, pensive, and he spins his flute against his palm as he talks, turning the highly polished shaft deftly through his long fingers. “If I had to guess at a reason, I think your father felt ashamed. He did not want anyone to treat you the way he did your mother. Or perhaps your uncle was the one who harboured sentimental feelings. He did not want you to marry out; instead he wanted to be able to choose someone to marry in. Or maybe your brother considered it a good political manoeuvre. As an alpha, you would have been accorded more prestige and opportunities, socially speaking. So, Hanguang-jun. Which of these assumptions is correct?”
Lan Wangji clenches his jaw, hard, ignoring the persistent flush of humiliation blooming along his face and neck, the pitiful stiffening of his cock, the unmistakable wetness spilling down his legs. All of them. He can feel the Yiling Laozu’s pitiless gaze on his body, moving up and down in a graceful, calculated sweep. He imagines attacking Wei Ying, then. Of charging forth, and pushing the length of his sword through that gaunt, pale husk. Of falling to his knees and begging, with all his heart and honour, for undeserved mercy and discretion. And finally, most shamefully, of pulling Wei Ying close. Of sliding his fingers through the heavy moisture trickling down his inner thighs, and pushing them deeply into Wei Ying’s open, waiting mouth.
“I will keep your secret,” the Yiling Laozu says, without the slightest trace of irony. And all of a sudden, Lan Wangji notices the fine lines at the edges of his eyes, the premature wisps of grey at his temples. “There is nothing in it for me, anyway.”
He turns to go.
“Wait,” Lan Wangji calls.
Impetuous, strident, needy. Clear as day, the palpable tremor in his own voice, the choked inflection at the end. Here and there, his resolve is crumbling, dissipating around his feet, careless and fragile as the sifting dust on an abandoned battlefield. And he resents it, with a steady vehemence that trudges through his blood like poison.
Slowly, the Yiling Laozu turns to face him. Lan Wangji’s breath catches, even as they regard each other in the ensuing silence, clouded and difficult. I have always wanted you, he wants to say, but the words are catching in his throat, held back by his fear, and the crude fetters of his own youthful indecision.
“You want to ask me how I knew,” the Yiling Laozu says. He makes a halfhearted gesture with the hand holding the flute. “For one, the size of your nipples. No alpha has nipples like that. For another, the shape of your cock. You have no knot. And finally — you are extremely wet for some reason, even though you are not currently in heat. I can smell it all the way over here. Hanguang-jun. It does not matter to me either way, but you really should be more careful if you wish to preserve your family’s dignity. Had it been someone else other than me, they might decide to expose you… or worse.”
It does not matter to me either way.
Recklessly, Lan Wangji lets his hands fall to his sides. He does not miss the way the Yiling Laozu’s eyes flash at the movement, a quicksilver spark of understanding lighting up his face from within, vivid as a bolt of lightning across a fiery sky.
All decorum gone, all reservations abandoned, all caution thrown to the winds. And, if I am to be completely honest with myself, this was exactly what I intended to offer, the moment I decided to step foot into Yiling.
“Hanguang-jun,” the Yiling Laozu rasps, through cracked lips. “What are you doing?”
“You can have me,” Lan Wangji says. Even as he feels his heart splintering, fragments of his past and present collapsing softly into the silken blackness of the abyss, into the same place where Wei Ying’s soul and smile and vitality had once boldly ventured, never to return. “My strength, my energy, my being. I place all of these things in your hands, for you to use as you will. Wei Ying, I have measured your heart, and seen your purpose. And now, I wish to make it my own as well.”
And all around them, the haunted mountain holds its breath and waits.
The Yiling Laozu’s expression does not falter in the slightest. One step toward Lan Wangji, and then another, his feet in their shabby boots making no sound against the tainted earth. A chill breeze whips up around him as he moves, stirring his ragged sleeves to distraction, yet ensconced as he is in the circle of the Yiling Laozu’s attention, Lan Wangji remains stubbornly, unseasonably warm.
“Hanguang-jun.” The Yiling Laozu has stopped before him. Carefully, oh so carefully, extending a scarred hand to brush Lan Wangji’s hair from his face. This close, it is impossible not to notice the traces of his wasted youth, which hang from his elegant features in ruins and tatters. Lan Wangji finds himself thinking of a summer’s afternoon eight years ago, when he had laid eyes upon Wei Ying for the first and only time. Wei Ying had been seventeen or eighteen then, suave and alive and carefree in his flowing competition robes, and Lan Wangji had watched, spellbound and more than a little envious, as Wei Ying had effortlessly taken down a darting hare with a single arrow from his longbow. Afterward, they had exchanged superficial pleasantries at the behest of their elders, and that had been that. The next time Lan Wangji had encountered Wei Ying again had been just several days ago, on this very mountain.
In the present, Lan Wangji swallows, heart banging against his ribs, his throat. Down below, he feels another gush of hot fluid escape him.
“Wei Ying…”
“Will you submit?” The Yiling Laozu whispers. His words seem to slide around Lan Wangji like an incantation, the timbre of a thousand different voices pushing and parting the still air.
Lan Wangji licks his lips, fighting to draw breath. The Yiling Laozu’s question pins him firmly in place, and there is only one answer to give, one way forward. The crushing weight of the truth, and everything in this world that he already knows to be right, and real, and worth fighting for.
“I submit.”
The Yiling Laozu is quiet. He tips his head backward, drinking Lan Wangji in. Wholly, uncompromisingly, hungrily, and Lan Wangji finds himself drawn irresistibly forward, arching willingly into the brutal darkness of the Yiling Laozu’s gaze. He is a fish caught in a vast net, a boat swept along by the surging tides. No longer a creature of free will, but a nameless bundle of sensation, a tool created for a single, intended purpose.
And in that surrender, there is honour, and affection, and no small amount of relief. A pair of worn hands closes in around him, and Lan Wangji finds himself lowered sweetly to the stony ground, twigs and ice and dead leaves crunching softly below his exposed back. He is cold, and then he is warm again, for the Yiling Laozu — Wei Ying — is straddling him: flute abandoned, robes hiked up, trousers rolled to his ankles. He is hard, Lan Wangji is fairly shocked to see, his erection pushing up proudly against his lower belly, tangible evidence of a raging desire once assumed forgotten. And, at the base of his cock — a knot as thick and hard as sin. Larger than a clenched fist, infinitely hotter than anger, or betrayal, or revenge.
Alpha.
“I… Wei Ying…”
“I will not shame you by deflowering you,” the Yiling Laozu says. Eyes hooded, he braces himself, one hand on Lan Wangji’s chest, the other on Lan Wangji’s jaw. Holding him close and steady, like one would a sword, a cup of wine, a star-crossed lover. “Instead, I offer you this. Hanguang-jun, you promised to submit. This is your first test. I want you to fuck me, and come inside.”
And Lan Wangji gasps, twisting uselessly against the barren earth, anointing it with the shameful, seeping evidence of his arousal. “But you are an alpha. This is not the way. You should — we should not — I thought…”
“My path is my own. It is a winding mountain road in twilight, a poem whispered under an oiled umbrella in the rain, a rickety bridge made from a lone wooden plank. As you already know, there are things in this world that I value far above the meaningless binaries of black and white, and right and wrong. Do we blindly adhere to tradition just because society and our betters demand it of us? I think you feel the same, Hanguang-jun. Haven’t you always been possessed of a rebellious heart, and is it not the reason you have come here, to my mountain? If you disagree, tell me now, and I will put an end to this. You can then leave this wretched place with your honour and secret intact. Go back to your family, like a pearl willingly returned to the palm of its bearer. And submit yourself instead to the whims and mores of the cultivation world, without sorrow, or guilt, or regret.”
A strangled whimper bursts from Lan Wangji’s throat. The Yiling Laozu’s words are not cruel, but he feels the stinging rebuke in them all the same. I will not leave you now or ever, Lan Wangji thinks, fiercely. I made a promise to myself to see this through, because there is nowhere else I would rather be, than here with you.
“Wait,” Lan Wangji protests. His thoughts flying up and over the trees like startled birds, for the Yiling Laozu is already grinding down. Up and down, back and forth, dragging the unforgiving length of his cock against the copious slick on Lan Wangji’s lower belly and thighs, filling the polluted air with the strong, dizzying scent of his precome. “You are — you need — you do not have…”
And the Yiling Laozu whispers, “But you do.”
Lan Wangji bites back a moan. He thinks, then, of what his brother and uncle would say, if they could see him now. Ungrateful, disloyal, unfilial. A person consumed by the base desires of the flesh, dispossessed of the rigour and gentility of his upbringing and values.
Ears burning, he reaches down, in between his legs. His hands tremble only slightly as he scoops up his own warm wetness into his palm. There is a lot of it, and it spools luxuriously down his wrist and along the bare length of his forearm: sharp as guilt, sticky as fealty.
“Good boy,” the Yiling Laozu breathes. “Now open me up.”
Heat. Rough and tight and inviting, a vise around the tips of his fingers, a brand against his soul. How strange, that he should be wet down here, where the Yiling Laozu is not. And so, he gives of himself as generously as he can. Smearing his own fluids into and against; thrusting cautiously ahead, patiently seeking invitation. Moving with the utmost solicitousness and gentleness, trying to convey as much as he can without words.
They all failed you. But I will not.
“Enough,” the Yiling Laozu croaks. The first hint of dull crabapple red sliding over his cheeks, interrupting the greyish cast of his skin with its unprecedented vibrance. He reaches behind him, gripping and guiding with a purposeful hand, and Lan Wangji throws his head back and cries aloud at the sudden, delicious pressure enveloping the head of his cock.
Stars burst and bloom behind his eyelids, suffusing his vision with a riot of spiralling colours. Lan Wangji sobs and wheezes, hips jerking uncontrollably upward, jet after fresh jet of slick spurting from him as his body yields to the close, unknowable madness of the Yiling Laozu’s body. Never had he previously imagined that he would someday get to have this: the reversal, the sacrifice, the supplication. And still the Yiling Laozu continues to ride him, straight-backed and relentless; lips parted in an uninhibited display of pleasure, wild-eyed and rosy and warm.
“Hanguang-jun, I remember vividly our first meeting. You were just a boy then, thirteen or fourteen. It was your first tournament, and you were watching as I aimed my bow at a hare. Everyone else looked at me as though I was merely a spectacle to them; a form of entertainment, a yardstick against which to compare their own useless offspring. They hated me, all of them — for outshining their sons, for smiling at their daughters, but most of all, for daring to rise above and win. My parents were poor servants, and I of all people should have known my place. But you were different. I saw the spark in your eyes as you watched me, and later, when we greeted each other beside the tournament field. I knew, then, that you were the only one who saw me, and the only one who would understand.”
So he does remember. Lan Wangji shivers at this, a jolt of recognition spiking deeply through him, crisp and resonant as the aftermath of a storm. Unbidden, overcome, he reaches up to place his hands on the Yiling Laozu’s narrow hips. The skin there is deliciously smooth, flushed blood-hot with vitality and wanting.
“Hanguang-jun —”
“Lan Zhan,” Lan Wangji interrupts. Bravely, he catches the Yiling Laozu’s palm, presses it tightly to his cheek. “Let me be Lan Zhan to you always, for as long as you wish it.”
He sees it before him, then, lurid as a memory. The minute shift in the Yiling Laozu’s expression at these words: a glimpse of the old hint of boyish elation, the simmering innocence below. And then the Yiling Laozu is coming with a carrying shout, hoarse and honest, a rain of heavy white ropes soaring from the tip of his swollen cock to paint the full, exposed length of Lan Wangji’s chest and belly. And oh, what an unforgettable picture he makes, resplendent as he is in the raw throes of orgasm: hair flying, throat exposed, knot sensuously swollen.
Lan Wangji perceives all this as if from afar, before he himself is coming in a slow, interminable explosion, clenching down and around the emptiness within him, his spiritual energy overflowing like a great river breaching a dam. Outside and in, over and through, and amidst it all there is no one but him and Wei Ying, inextricably intertwined as they are with each other, without beginning or end.
“Wei Ying,” he hears himself calling, faintly. “Wei Ying.”
“I’m here.”
A hand against his cheek, his neck, his chest. A young hand; a strong one, sun-touched and calloused from months of manual labour in the fields. Wei Ying is atop him, holding him close. His brow is unlined, his lips full, his breathing stable. He looks, Lan Wangji muses, as much like himself as he once did, eight years ago.
“Lan Zhan.” Quiet as a dream, a sob, a prayer whispered before the ancestors and heavens. “You really stayed.”
“I did.” Lan Wangji strokes his hair. Unspeakable and irreversible; the shattering evidence of their devotion mingling and drying between their bodies, running down their thighs to soak freely into the arid earth beneath their skin. Spring will come, Lan Wangji thinks then, with a surety as deep and immovable as his bones. He and Wei Ying will make love over and over again, even as the rains pour from the skies, the radishes burst from the soil, and the first blossoms begin to sprout on the trees. This mountain that had once been a graveyard would soon be awash in its new flowing silks of green and pink and yellow, and he would invariably find himself standing shoulder to shoulder with Wei Ying, ready to leap to the defence of the living souls in the village at a moment’s notice.
“They will come,” Wei Ying murmurs. Sombrely, almost sleepily, he reaches down between Lan Wangji’s legs to palm his sensitive, softening cock. “And when they do, what will you tell them?”
And Lan Wangji catches his wandering wrist. Looks deeply into his eyes, past the blurred boundary between resurrection and death, seeing the full, expansive measure of the man behind. The poet, the warrior, the outcast, the lover. Let us become one, so that you never have to be alone, ever again.
“When they come,” he says, “I will tell them the truth.”