Chapter Text
It’s not unusual for Lan Qiren to find himself taking tea at the Jingshi with his nephew on a mild spring afternoon. It is, however, unusual to find anything out of place in Wangji’s ever-pristine quarters. That’s why Lan Qiren notices it the very moment he crosses the threshold: a letter, left carelessly on the low cherrywood table. It's slightly crumpled, its corners gently folded, as if someone had pressed it in their hands—not aggressively, not intentionally, but just enough to mark it. That, however, becomes secondary the instant Lan Qiren sees the brushstrokes. Or more precisely—the way they are written. The handwriting seems strangely familiar… like a smudge on the edge of recognition… and—no. No. Of course it’s familiar. How could he forget? He spent hours in the past reviewing rule after rule written in that exact same script. Wei Wuxian. Who else could it be? How dare he write to my nephew! Isn’t it enough the way he already makes him suffer? Impudent little—
The door opens with barely a sound, revealing his nephew just returned from the library. He pauses, then steps inside and closes the door gently behind him.
“Shufu,” Lan Wangji greets him with a flawless bow. Or rather, it would appear flawless—if one didn’t know him. Which, frankly, most people don’t. Lan Qiren returns the greeting with a nod. But… there’s hesitation, perhaps a flicker of awareness that his uncle has seen the letter. Still, he says nothing. With calm restraint, Lan Wangji gestures for him to sit and, almost casually, he collects the letter from the table, folding it neatly and tucking it into his sleeve the way one might clear away fine porcelain. Then he begins to prepare the tea. Lan Qiren doesn’t bother to fill the silence. He seats himself with composed dignity.
Lan Qiren cannot soften the stern look on his face—the faintly furrowed brow, the mouth turned subtly downward. Lan Wangji soon sets down a steaming cup of jasmine tea before him, and serves himself as well, finally taking a seat across the low table. One sip, then another. Lan Qiren almost doesn't register the heat on his tongue, the warmth trailing down his throat. When he finishes, the small cup meets the table with a clink—perhaps a touch too firm. He does not release it.
“You've been written to,” Lan Qiren states, his voice tight. He notes how his nephew has barely touched his tea. Lan Wangji lifts his gaze and nods solemnly, letting silence settle over them once more, cloaking them like an extra layer of silk robes.
It doesn’t last. One of them must give in. And Lan Wangji does. He knows his uncle will never let this go—he might even fly straight to Wei Wuxian to demand answers. So he retrieves the letter. Perhaps he holds it too tightly, because a few seconds pass before he hands it over. Once in Lan Qiren’s possession, he wastes no time reading it.
And… it’s not so terrible. It stirs something unexpected in him: pity. Because what Wei Wuxian asks is no ordinary request—it’s a plea. A heartfelt, desperate plea. And for what? He is begging his nephew to accompany him to Jin Rulan’s one-month celebration. Nothing more. It reads like the words of a man crying through ink, and it doesn't sound like Wei Wuxian. Is he unwell? Maybe he’s simply reaching out to Wangji for help. And truthfully… that thought brings a strange relief to Lan Qiren’s chest. Isn’t that what his nephew has always longed for? Perhaps, once this is over, Wangji will no longer be consumed by longing.
But… something feels off. Would Wei Wuxian harm Lan Wangji? No. The answer crystallizes in Lan Qiren’s mind immediately. No, he would not. But something about this still gnaws at him. What if he intends to abduct him? Hold him for ransom? Blades? Provisions? Weapons? Supplies for the army they say he’s building? But they’re dead—what would they do with such things? Maybe for the Wen cultivators he’s taken in?
That’s when something rings in Lan Qiren’s mind. Shouldn’t I ignore gossip? Shouldn’t I investigate? Verify? Isn’t indifference a punishable failing?
So why hasn’t he acted yet?
Because it’s Wei Wuxian, says a voice louder than the rest. Is this not the chance to make amends?
Lan Qiren folds the letter in on itself and sets it gently on the table. His eyes return to his nephew, who has remained perfectly still, watching his every move, reading the faintest twitch of brow or breath as if it might betray a blow.
“Wangji.” Lan Wangji almost flinches at his name. Were he any other man, he’d be squirming in his seat, asking frantic questions. But he is Hanguang-Jun. He remains seated, posture flawless, though his spine may be just a bit too straight, his hands gripping his robes a bit too tightly, lungs perhaps holding in more air than needed, and—
“Wangji,” Lan Qiren repeats. “I will go with you.”
Of course Wei Wuxian hadn’t planned on waking up. How could he? He was dead. He wanted to be dead. That was the whole point. He’d imagined his lungs would never again feel the weight of air filling them—and yet, here he was, eyes heavy and blinking against the irritating light filtering through the mouth of the cave, the cold rock pressed against his back, the stabbing pain that filled his body—the one he’d gotten used to. Of course it had to be this place, of all places.
Who knows how long I have to live again before I die, again. Are they all gone already? Would it be quicker to drown in that pool of blood—or is there still time? Wen Qing? Shijie? Wen Ning? Jin Zixuan? What would it matter, either way? He already knows how this ends. He’s tired. His strength left him long ago. Wasn’t dying once enough? Does he have to go through all of this shit again just to die at the end anyway? Maybe this is his punishment.
A sudden crick in his neck forces him to turn his head slightly. And that’s when he sees it: The elegant golden invitation, stamped with the Jin clan’s seal, resting atop the makeshift stone table.
No… No. Please. So it really is happening again. This was the beginning of the end—wasn’t it?
Okay, fine. Maybe he really did try to drown himself in the red pool. Maybe Wen Ning did find him. Maybe Wen Qing really did scold him half to death, panic etched all over her face. And maybe—honestly—he didn’t react at all. Maybe he just let the tears fall in silence, staring into the void as soon as he saw them both. Maybe—maybe—he ended up crying into one of their arms (he couldn’t tell whose, maybe both), with soft, pitiful sobs, clinging like a child who’s broken his favorite toy— except he’s not a child. He’s twenty-one. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to let go for a while.
But he doesn’t feel better. He feels like shit. And it’s worse because— Instead of thinking of a way to save them, he thought of a way to die. And sure, what would it change? They died because of him—didn’t they? If he leaves, they die unprotected. If he stays, the clans come again—and they still die.
What should he do? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He has no will left. He’s so tired, tired, tired—and—
Oh. The invitation.
He could simply go alone. And die. Well, fuck it. Wen Ning can’t go with him—he wants to protect him this time. He doesn’t deserve to carry the burden of guilt—not his own—that led him and his sister to die in vain.
Be less selfish, Wei Wuxian.
But he’s so tired. He doesn’t know if he can do it alone… and maybe, maybe if someone came with him—someone with enough prestige— they wouldn’t attack.
… Shit. That means asking for help, doesn’t it?
All right. He’ll ask for help from… from…
he doesn't have many options, does he?