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[besanii]

Bess! I’m rereading certain parts of SM (again lol) and just realized - did we ever get the scene where WWX finally agrees to marry LWJ? Would love to see that at some point too pleaseeee 🥺

Shattered Mirrors #74

[ set some time after #16 and before #27 ]

Nighttime in the Imperial City is quiet, the darkness of the wide, empty streets punctuated by the soft lamps hanging along the walls and arches; servants padded about as they completed their duties before quietly shuffling off to their beds. The only movements came from the sentries patrolling along strategic routes, their footsteps rhythmic and regular, and the gong sounding each hour.

Lan Wangji has always enjoyed the quiet stillness. As a child, he had enjoyed sitting in the courtyard of his own palace after the evening meal, sometimes to play the guqin or simply to sit and meditate to cicada song. When he grew old enough to be assigned to patrol with the sentries, he would enjoy walking the empty streets, or standing along the turrets and in the towers, looking out over the great expanse of the Imperial complex and out into Caiyi City beyond.

“Lan Zhan, why are we here?” Wei Wuxian asks as he follows Lan Wangji to the base of the watchtower at the northern gates. When Lan Wangji responds with only a finger to his lips, he snorts. “Who would have thought the great Hanguang-wang would resort to sneaking about the Imperial City in the middle of the night like a common thief?”

“Not sneaking,” Lan Wangji replies drily, helping him step over the threshold. He nods to the guards standing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the tower itself; they bow and leave to stand just outside the door instead. “We are merely not announcing our presence.”

Wei Wuxian shakes his head with a laugh. “Wangye is wise.”

“Impudent.” There is no heat in his voice, however, and he motions to the stairs. “After you.”

“How kind.” Wei Wuxian accepts the offered hand with a smile and starts up the steps. “You still haven’t told me what we’re doing here.”

“You’ll see. Come on.”

As they climb up the stairs one at a time, Wei Wuxian’s hand held firmly in his, he is suddenly overcome with nerves. He wonders if Wei Wuxian can feel the dampness of his palms, or the thrum of his pulse beneath his skin—he has always been good at hiding outward displays of emotions, but Wei Wuxian has also always been good at seeing right through his facade—and keeps his attention fixed ahead until they reach the landing. He stops just before the door leading out onto the tower.

He takes a deep breath and feels Wei Wuxian’s fingers tighten around his.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian asks quietly, concerned. “What’s going on?”

He exhales.

“It’s nothing,” he says, squeezing his hand in return. “Come.”

They step out onto the parapets and Wei Wuxian gasps.

“Lan Zhan!” He takes several steps forward until he’s right up against the balcony’s edge, eyes wide. “This is—”

Dozens upon dozens of lanterns rise from the streets below, drifting and flickering like fireflies, casting a warm glow in the night sky. He joins Wei Wuxian at the wall, their hands resting atop the cool stone, a hair’s breadth apart, their shoulders brushing together as they look out over the Imperial City.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says after a long moment. Wei Wuxian responds with an inquisitive little hum, tilting his head to look back at him, his grey eyes bright in the darkness. It evokes a different image in his mind’s eye, from deep in the recesses of his memory.

Er-dianxia! Do you like it? It’s for you!

His breath hitches, throat tight. Something akin to understanding flickers over Wei Wuxian’s face as he watches Lan Wangji formulate his thoughts; the smile on his face slips a fraction and the light in his eyes dim. Lan Wangji clears his throat, looks down at their hands resting beside each other on the wall.

“Wei Ying,” he tries again. His fingers twitch, brushes against Wei Wuxian’s ever-so-gently. “I—”

“Lan Zhan—” Wei Wuxian says at the same time.

They both pause and turn to face each other. It is only then they both realise how close they are standing, close enough for their robes to brush, for Lan Wangji’s next outward breath to skim the top of Wei Wuxian’s head.

Wei Wuxian exhales and shifts backward automatically, his hand slipping away from the wall. Lan Wangji reaches out before he can pull away, holding it securely in his own; like this, he can feel the heat of their palms pressed together, and the trembling in Wei Wuxian’s fingers. It’s strange, he thinks. They have touched, he has held Wei Wuxian in his arms and kissed him, and yet somehow the sensation of Wei Wuxian’s hand in his, their fingers intertwined, feels infinitely more intimate than all the embraces that had come before.

“That year,” he begins hesitantly, eyes fixed on their joined hands. “You brought me here, saying you had prepared a surprise. Do you remember?”

“Eh? Oh.” Wei Wuxian’s fingers tighten their grip and he laughs, embarrassed. “Ah, I—that was so long ago, I’d almost forgotten. It was your birthday and I’d kidnapped you from your patrol duties. You were so annoyed with me!”

Lan Wangji hums, amused.

“You were very insistent,” he agrees. “But it was not an unwelcome diversion.”

“What’s this?” Wei Wuxian laughs. “Do my ears deceive me? So you didn’t want to throw me off the tower for dragging you away from your duties?”

“Wei Ying…” There is a hint of long-suffering despair that colours Lan Wangji’s tone and it makes Wei Wuxian laugh again. “I have never wanted that.”

“Oh?” Wei Wuxian asks curiously. He turns to face Lan Wangji then, their hands still joined. “Really? If that is the case…dare I ask what it was that Lan-er-dianxia wanted back then?”

Lan Wangji smiles. “Guess.”

The expression of curiosity on Wei Wuxian’s face gives way to surprise, before melting into something excruciatingly gentle. He curls a finger over his lips and ducks his head in an attempt to hide the light dusting of pink high on his cheeks, visible even in the dim lantern-light. Lan Wangji chuckles, little more than a soft huff of air, suffused with fondness.

“Wei Ying,” he says. Wei Wuxian hums in response, his eyes darting up toward Lan Wangji and then back down again. “I have something to say to you. And something to ask.”

“Ah…” The flush on Wei Wuxian’s cheeks darkens. “Then…go ahead.”

The lanterns have drifted so far away by now they are little more than pinpricks in the night sky, leaving only the light of the moon to illuminate the darkness around them. Lan Wangji reaches for Wei Wuxian’s other hand, turning him around gently so they are standing face-to-face once more, and Wei Wuxian does not resist.

“Wei Ying.” He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, his heart hammering in his chest. “Marry me.”

Wei Wuxian inhales sharply. “What?”

“Marry me,” Lan Wangji says again, tightening his hold on his hands.

“A-Are you sure?” Wei Wuxian stammers, eyes wide. “Lan Zhan, you don’t know what you’re asking—”

“I have never been more certain of anything in my life,” Lan Wangji tells him with absolute conviction. “Wei Ying…fourteen years ago, we missed our chance and I—I thought I had lost you.” He surges forward to wrap his arms around a still-shocked Wei Wuxian. “Wei Ying…I can’t lose you again.”

“Lan Zhan…” Wei Wuxian shudders, before bringing his own arms to wrap around Lan Wangji in return, clutching at the back of his robes with shaking hands. “We can’t—I’m not—it will ruin you. I will ruin you. I can’t—you can’t ask that of me—”

“Huangxiong has already given his blessing,” Lan Wangji tells him. He pulls away just enough so he can cup his face in both hands and look him in the eye. “He will grant you a title, should you wish for one, to acknowledge your contribution to the Sunshot War. There will be an Imperial decree to legitimise your social status, and to recognise your former position as an ambassador from Yunmeng. There will be no shame, no ruin. You only need to agree, and it shall all be yours.”

Wei Wuxian begins to tremble and his breathing grows heavy as he stares up at Lan Wangji in shock. His mouth opens and closes wordlessly for a long while as struggles to comprehend Lan Wangji’s words. Lan Wangji realises that perhaps he is putting too much pressure on him, asking for too much too soon—he is half afraid Wei Wuxian will refuse him again, like he has done in the past whenever he tries to raise this topic—but for him, there has never been a clearer choice.

“Wei Ying,” he breathes, brushing his thumbs over the sharp lines of Wei Wuxian’s cheeks tenderly. “Wei Wuxian. From the moment I first laid eyes on you all those years ago, I had already set my mind on you, even if I did not know it at the time. This has never changed—will never change. In this lifetime, there can be no one else for me but you.”

Marry me, Wei Ying. If you will take me, I promise to love you, to cherish you above all others. To protect you, to take care of you. To fight by your side, to fight for you. Wei Ying, I love you.

Wei Wuxian bows his head, hiding his face from view. Lan Wangji’s heart sinks as Wei Wuxian raises his hands to cover his, as if to pry them away.

Something warm and wet trickles onto his fingers.

“Lan Zhan…” His name falls from his lips, thick and heavy with tears. “Lan Zhan, ah, Lan Zhan…”

When Wei Wuxian looks up again, he is smiling—small and wavering through his tears, but a smile nonetheless. He grasps tightly at Lan Wangji’s hands, presses them closer against his skin, and sighs.

“Lan Zhan,” he says breathlessly. “Lan Wangji. I am the same.”

He turns and presses a kiss to the palm of Lan Wangji’s hand.

“In this lifetime, there can be no one else for me but you.”

--

Notes

LWJ’s line “I had already set my mind on you” is basically 我已經認定了你, and “In this lifetime, there can be no one else for me but you” is 我這一生，非你不可. Such romance!

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HAHA you guys thought I forgot about this verse, didn’t you?

(I almost did, there were many, many distractions, and I almost didn’t get this done. But I DID IT!)

There isn’t a lot of story left to tell. I might write a couple more bits post-JYL’s return...but otherwise, if you guys have any particular scenes you’d like to see, please drop me an ask! I’ll do my best to fill those, and then we’ll call this verse a wrap <3

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[besanii]

shattered mirrors 73

[ set after #69 ]

He’s stumbling forward before he even realises he’s moving, knocking into the low desk with his foot and almost falling over if not for Lan Wangji’s steady hand around his elbow. His limbs feel like lead and his body moves as though wading upstream against a rushing river. His ears are ringing, his vision spotting at the edges, but through all of that he sees the person before him.

“A-Xian.” A sob bubbles up inside his throat at the sound of his name in her voice. “A-Xian.”

She too is stumbling towards him, arms outstretched and tears in her eyes. He wants desperately to fall into her arms, to bury himself in her embrace and let her warmth wrap around him and wash away the horrors of the last fourteen years. Pretend as though he is still Wei Ying, the ward of Yunmeng, her brother in all but name and blood, the little boy who had grown up as her second shadow.

Instead, he sinks to his knees at her feet and presses his forehead to the floor. Lan Wangji follows him to the floor, hovering protectively around him

“Your guilty subject pays respects to Gongzhu-dianxia,” he says. “I humbly beg Dianxia’s forgiveness for failing my duty to Yunmeng Jiang.”

There. He’s said it. The words that had been eating away at him all these years, the constant shadow of guilt lingering in the corner of his mind. His family had been tasked with the protection of Yunmeng and its royal family, it had been their job to gather intelligence and wield it in their defence.

He’d failed. And Yunmeng had fallen.

A strangled noise leaves Jiang Yanli’s throat.

“A-Xian, no,” she says. “No, A-Xian, there is nothing to forgive. Please, get up—”

She reaches for his hands, tugging at them to make him stand, but he remains resolutely prostrate.

“Gongzhu-dianxia, this guilty subject does not dare.”

Her hands tighten around his almost painfully for a moment before she sighs, her whole body sagging with the movement.

“You did everything you could,” she tells him. When he goes to deny it, she squeezes his hand again. “Look at me.” He reluctantly raises his head and sees her looking back at him with a tremble in the firm line of her mouth. “A-Xian, I would be dead—or perhaps worse—if not for you. You saved me.”

He presses his lips together in a hard line, his breath heavy through his nose as he struggles to keep the tears at bay.

“I could have done more,” he whispers. “I could have—”

“You did everything you could,” she repeats firmly. “A-Xian, there was nothing more you could have done. Not under those circumstances.”

A raw, wounded noise tears itself from his throat, through his tightly closed lips.

“I should have realised the reports were false,” he argues, hands twisting in the fabric of his robes. “I should have verified them personally, I—”

She takes his face between her hands, shocking him into silence.

There are new lines on her face, around her eyes and mouth, that hadn’t been there before; she’s older, he realises, and has had to fend for herself for many years. The Jiang Yanli before him now glows with health and vigour, dressed in the thick, coarse garments of the northern border tribes rather than the silks of the capital—a far cry from the sheltered princess from Yunmeng she had been in their youth. Her hands, still so small against his cheek, are rough and callused from hard labour.

“A-Xian, you did everything you could,” she repeats firmly. “It is in the past. Do not blame yourself any longer. Alright?”

He closes his eyes with a shuddering sigh.

And then he’s falling forward into Jiang Yanli’s waiting arms with an aborted cry, clutching at the back of her heavy cloak desperately. Her scent is different—the lotus blossoms replaced by something earthier and less floral—and the arms she wraps around him are stronger, the hug firmer than what he remembers. But the way her fingers run through his hair, the warmth of her body, the way she envelopes him in her embrace despite the difference in stature—there is no mistaking it. He would know it anywhere.

“Jiejie.” He’s repeating himself, over and over again, the way he has not done since they were children and it was still allowed. This is not a dream. “Jiejie, jiejie, jiejie—”

“A-Xian.” Jiang Yanli laughs, her voice thick with tears. “Oh, A-Xian, I’m so glad you’re alive. I’ve missed you so.”

He’s missed her too. There are no words to describe how much he’s missed her. So he just holds her tighter, buries his face in her shoulder as they sink to their knees in the middle of the study floor. He’s dimly aware of movement around them—the servants, perhaps, or Lan Wangji, stepping away to give them some privacy—but he doesn’t acknowledge them, overwhelmed by the fact that Jiang Yanli is here, in his arms, safe and sound after so many years.

“Fourteen years…” She pulls away, running her hands over his hair and face as she does, drinking in the sight of him. “A-Xian, you’ve lost weight.”

He shakes his head and laughs. “I’m alright. Don’t worry about me.” He leans into the hand resting on his cheek. “You look good, Jiejie. You haven’t changed at all.”

It’s her turn to shake her head, falling so easily into their familiar banter as she admonishes him for lying.

“Nonsense. Look at me.” She sits back on her heels and raises her arms to show off the travel-worn garb beneath her heavy cloak. “I’m just a humble farmer’s wife now.”

At the word ‘wife’, Wei Wuxian is suddenly reminded they are not alone. His attention is drawn to the doorway where Jin Zixuan stands with his arm around a boy of no more than ten. Gone are the fine, embroidered silks and gilded jewels signature to the Crown Prince of Lanling. Instead, both are dressed in the same thick, northern-style robes as Jiang Yanli, both with the same broad shoulders, sun-kissed skin and matching vermilion marks between their brows. Jin Zixuan offers him a nod when their eyes meet.

“Wei Wuxian, it’s been a while.” After a moment, he hastily corrects himself and bows. “My apologies, I did not mean any disrespect. Jin Zixuan greets Hanguang-wangye, Hanguang-wangfei.”

“Taizi—Jin-gongzi.” Wei Wuxian corrects himself quickly, returning his greeting with a short bow. “There is no need for such formality. It is good to see you all well.”

He is surprised to find he means it sincerely; there was no such goodwill the last time they had crossed paths, young and foolhardy as they were. But those days are long past. Gone is the spoilt young prince who had spurned the woman he regarded as a sister, buried beneath the cold ashes of a war that took everything from them in one fell swoop. This Jin Zixuan is a husband, a father, who had done the unthinkable—renouncing his claim to the throne of Lanling to search for Jiang Yanli without knowing whether or not she was even alive—and had been rewarded for his devotion.

Jiang Cheng, ah, Jiang Cheng, Wei Wuxian thinks. I think even you would hold a bit of respect for him now.

Jin Zixuan’s eyes shift to Lan Wangji, standing silently behind Wei Wuxian, and offers a deeper bow, which Lan Wangji returns with an incline of his head. Jiang Yanli follows suit from where she is still on her knees with Wei Wuxian, bowing low at the waist.

“Jiang Yanli greets Hanguang-wangye, Hanguang-wangfei,” she echoes. “Thank you for taking care of A-Xian. Yunmeng owes you a great debt.”

Before either of them can react to dispute her claim, she turns to beckon the boy—her son, Wei Wuxian’s heart leaps with realisation—closer with one hand, dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of the other. She draws the boy closer, turns him to face both Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji with a warm smile and a comforting hand on his back. The boy looks up at them with something akin to awe in his eyes.

“A-Ling, come and pay respects to Wangye and Wangfei,” she tells him. “They are our family’s benefactors. Without their help, we would not be here today, so we must repay this debt however we can.”

“Yes, A-Niang.” Jin Ling steps away from his mother, squaring his little shoulders in a way that reminds Wei Wuxian of his father when they had first met, trying to put on an air of importance despite his small stature; he clasps his fingers in front of his chest and performs a textbook-perfect bow from the waist. “Jin Ling pays respects to Hanguang-wangye, Hanguang-wangfei.”

Wei Wuxian looks back at Lan Wangji, helpless in the face of their collective insistence, and sees the corner of Lan Wangji’s lips twitch. He sighs in defeat.

“Jin-xiao-gongzi,” he says, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Your mother’s family took me in when my parents passed, kept the roof over my head and the clothes on my back. Without them, I would not be here today. Whatever debt there is between us, let us wipe the slate clean now and start anew.”

He sees Lan Wangji incline his head in agreement, eyes soft as he holds out a hand to help him to his feet. His arm is warm and steady around his waist, his hand firm in his, holding him upright as he works to calm the storm of emotions warring within his chest. Finally, he gives the hand in his a brief squeeze and turns back to their guests with a bright smile.

“Now, let’s dispense with all this formality,” he says. “You must be tired from your journey—you must stay with us, here in Hanguang Manor. In fact, I insist upon it.”

Jiang Yanli exchanges a quick look with her husband.

“We do not wish to—” Wei Wuxian clears his throat pointedly, and Jiang Yanli falters mid-sentence, pauses and acquiesces with an amused sigh. “Then it would be impolite of us to decline such a generous offer.”

--

Translations

Gongzhu-dianxia (公主殿下) - Your Highness, the Princess

wangfei (王妃) - consort to the Duke, his legitimate wife/spouse

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Notes

Approximately a billion years later!!!!

WWX called JYL jiejie as a child, before they got older and it was inappropriate to do so, after which he sometimes called her shijie in private, but mostly addressed her as Gongzhu-dianxia in public.

Any errors or inconsistencies will...be addressed at some point. It’s been a while and I need to revisit some things to remind myself what’s happened >_>

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[besanii]

For SM-maybe after ripping our hearts out, we get a cute shirt fluffy one? I’m thinking after their wedding, there’s a scene like the end of Pride and Prejudice 2005? “What terms of endearment am I allowed, then?” LWJ to WWX. Just a thought. Delighted with everything you write.

Shattered Mirrors 72

[ set after #62 ]

Night has fallen by the time Lan Wangji is able to remove himself from the celebrations and return to his rooms, leaving the remaining guests in his cousin’s capable hands. Lan Guoyan even manages to dissuade some of the rowdier attendees from trying to storm the bedchamber—protectiveness flares in his chest at the thought of them in such a private space, not to mention seeing Wei Wuxian in his wedding finery—something for which Lan Wangji is immensely grateful. He resolves to thank him properly later, once everything has settled, but for now he hastens his stride through the winding pathways to his bedchamber.

He is relieved to find the candles within still lit when he arrives, half-fearing that the uncharacteristic lateness of his arrival would mean Wei Wuxian had already retired to bed.

It is your wedding night, he reminds himself, heat rising to his ears. Of course he would wait.

From inside, he hears the sound of laughter and recognises Wei Wuxian; the other voice he presumes to be Mo Xuanyu, who scarcely leaves Wei Wuxian’s side except to run errands. The third voice, however, is somewhat unexpected. He waves down the servants at the door before they can announce his arrival, and crosses the threshold when they open the doors, surprising the occupants inside.

“Wangye!”

Lan Jingyi scrambles to his feet, pulling Mo Xuanyu along with him, both of them seated on the floor at Wei Wuxian’s feet. Wei Wuxian himself is sitting at the edge of the bed in his wedding finery, red veil still obscuring his features from view, his hands folded neatly on his lap as the two boys bow low.

“Jingyi, Mo Xuanyu.” They flinch and keep their heads bowed. “The wedding chamber is off-limits at this hour.”

“Wangye,” they chorus, wearing matching expressions of guilt. “Forgive our intrusion. We will leave at once.”

“Wangye, don’t tease,” Wei Wuxian chides, lifting a corner of the veil to peek out at them with a smile. “They were keeping me company while you were out entertaining your guests.”

“Our guests,” Lan Wangji corrects him. He shoots the boys another look. “You are all dismissed. Take the rest of the night off.”

“Yes, Wangye.” Lan Jingyi grabs Mo Xuanyu by the arm and all but drags him to the door. He smiles at them, all cheek and humour, as they pull them closed. “Best wishes to Wangye and Wangfei for a happy, prosperous union.”

Embarrassment burns at Lan Wangji’s neck and ears and he is almost tempted to march out after them to dole out punishment for their impertinence. It seems he has been too indulgent with Lan Jingyi lately for him to speak so out of place. He will need to correct that first thing tomorrow—

“Your concubine greets Hanguang-wangye.”

He turns at the sound of rustling to find Wei Wuxian has slipped from the bed, sinking to his knees with his head bowed, the perfect picture of a docile, obedient wife greeting her new husband. The thought stirs something deep in his chest, something heated and possessive; he takes a step forward, careful and measured, as if treading too quickly would scare Wei Wuxian away. He reaches for him, sliding his hands under his elbows to help him to his feet, draws him close until the veil brushes against his chin and he can feel the Wei Wuxian tremble in his arms.

“Wei Ying,” he murmurs. A soft, shaky sigh stirs the edges of the veil. “You do not need to bow to me.”

Hands turn over to grasp his forearms in return, the wide sleeves of the wedding robes falling back to reveal pale, slender wrists. The golden bangles, from the Empress herself as a wedding gift, almost dwarf them in their size.

“Wangye is too kind,” Wei Wuxian murmurs. “Your concubine is only observing the proper customs expected of a spouse of the Imperial Family.”

Lan Wangji sighs. “Wei Ying, do not tease.”

The trembling turns into shaking as Wei Wuxian breaks out into soft laughter. It breaks the tension that has settled over the room since Lan Wangji entered; the breath rushes from his lungs and he, too, chuckles. He runs his hands up along Wei Wuxian’s upper arms, admiring the silky smoothness of the fabric, the way it drapes just so—even through the many layers of fabric, he can feel the curve of his shoulders, the jut of his collarbone, the rush of his pulse; Wei Wuxian’s breath hitches when his fingers brush against the sensitive skin of his neck and he draws back a fraction, uncertain.

“Is something wrong?” A shake of the head. “Then…will you allow me to lift your veil?”

“Yes.”

His breath had caught in his throat when he’d first laid eyes on Wei Wuxian this morning at Jing Manor; even with the long silk veil completely covering his head and face from view, there is no masking the slope of his shoulders, the grace of his movements, the way the layers and layers of red silk fall and drape over his frame. His skin is paler now than it had been in his youth, his body less toned and muscular, less sharp angles and more gentle curves, but the shape of his mouth, the way his grey eyes dance with starlight and mischief as the veil slips from his shoulders with a sigh—all of that is uniquely Wei Ying.

In the intervening years since they had last seen each other, he had often pictured in his dreams how Wei Wuxian would look if they had been able to marry. He would wear his hair in the intricate style of an Imperial spouse, with braids and gold pins holding it all together; his robes would be a darker red, almost crimson, the hems embroidered with the flowing clouds of the Gusu Lan Imperial Family in golden thread.

He would be so beautiful, Lan Wangji would think upon waking, when the yearning would tear at his chest until he choked with it.

He is breathtaking.

“Wangye? Hanguang-wangye? Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian lowers his eyes, obedient and demure, but his voice anything but as he murmurs: “Fujun?”

A pleased rumble sounds from his throat before Lan Wangji can stop it; Wei Wuxian laughs in delight as Lan Wangji flushes, mortified. Cool hands reach up to cup his face, tracing the line of his jaw and coming to rest against the burning skin on the back of his neck.

“Fujun,” Wei Wuxian repeats, rolling the new title on his tongue with relish. “Allow your concubine to serve you tonight.”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Wangji’s voice is pained. “You do not need to address yourself thus.”

“Oh?” The hands at his neck trail down to his chest. “Then how shall we address each other, Fujun? If I address my husband by name in public, they will think our manners lacking.”

Lan Wangji takes both hands in his and gives them a gentle squeeze.

“Wangye, in public,” he allows. He runs his thumbs along the back of his hands as he thinks. “My name, at home.”

“And Fujun?” Wei Wuxian asks, teasing. Lan Wangji growls.

“Only in private,” he says roughly; one hand shifts so it covers both of Wei Wuxian’s while the other wraps around his waist to draw him close. Wei Wuxian laughs again, breathless and giddy.

“Then you must do the same for me,” he counters, his eyes dark and face flushed. His tongue comes out to wet his lips, and Lan Wangji suddenly cannot look away. “Although I cannot promise to always address you correctly in private.”

“You may address me however you wish, in private,” Lan Wangji tells him, lowering his head to brush their noses together. A thrill runs through him when Wei Wuxian does not pull away.

“Oh?” The word dances over his lips. “So you would not mind if I call you Lan-er-gege, as before?” Lan Wangji shakes his head with a smile. “How about…Er-lang?”

Lan Wangji closes his eyes, his grip tightening around Wei Wuxian’s waist as he tries to calm his pounding heart. When he opens them again, Wei Wuxian’s eyes are half-lidded and dark. His throat suddenly feels as dry as sand. He clears his throat.

“That is allowed,” he says, voice hoarse. He brushes their lips together, feather-light. “You may call me however you wish…A-Ying.”

He closes the scant distance between them and brings their lips together.

--

Notes:

fujun (夫君) - husband, more formal and old-fashioned (male version of furen 夫人)

er-lang (二郎) - previously used in Part #55, an affectionate address similar to er-gege, most often used between married couples

* WWX also refers to himself here as qieshen (妾身), which is an old-fashioned, humble form of address used by wives when speaking to their husbands; it translates to “this concubine”, but he is definitely the “wife” (main/legal spouse)

In general, married couples back then (especially those where the husband has a title) do not refer to each other by name in public (or even sometimes at home). They would refer to the other by their title or honorific when with other people (e.g. WWX would refer to LWJ as wangye when talking to others) or use a humble form of their relationship “title”, for lack of a better word (e.g. a husband would refer to their wife as neijian (内贱) - “humble wife”, nei literally meaning ‘interior, internal’ and thus referring to the wife as the one inside their home; jian meaning humble or lowly).

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Master Post here

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More SM for me please 🥰

Shattered Mirrors #68

[follows on from #23]

Every summer, the younger generation of the nobility—the princes, as well as the sons of minor branches of the Imperial Family, higher-ranking officials—are sent to the Cloud Recesses to study with the monks and renowned scholars who reside in the mountains. There, they are exposed to all kinds of subject areas, not only the Six Arts—etiquette, music, archery, charioteering, literacy and mathematics—but also diplomacy and statecraft, swordsmanship and meditation. For that reason, their allies also choose to send their sons to the Cloud Recesses to bolster their education.

Lan Wangji has been attending these annual study retreats for as long as he can remember—both he and his brother had spent the majority of their childhood within the walls of the Cloud Recesses since they were able to hold a brush—and takes great joy in the solitude of the mountains, far removed from the capital and its noise and bluster. Here, he can focus on his lessons rather than on his duties as a prince; here, he can spend his days reading, studying, honing his skills in sword and guqin, instead of engaging others in frivolous conversation. It is his respite, his sanctuary.

His brother meets him on the parapets above the courtyard where this year’s students are assembling, ready to depart for the Cloud Recesses. His arrival reminds Lan Wangji that this is the first year his brother will not be joining them—at nineteen, Lan Xichen has officially taken over as Regent in their father’s seclusion, and will be erstwhile occupied with affairs of state—and the thought brings with it a touch of melancholy.

“Huangxiong.” He greets him with a bow, clasping his fingers before him. Lan Xichen smiles.

“Wangji,” he greets him easily, smiling. “Are all your preparations complete?”

“Yes, Huangxiong,” Lan Wangji replies. “We will be leaving within the hour.”

“That is good to hear.” Lan Xichen looks out over the courtyard to where the other young masters are starting to gather in various stages of alertness. “The Cloud Recesses will be much cooler than the capital. You have always had a preference for colder weather. And the change in scenery will do you well.”

“Yes, Huangxiong.”

A shout of laughter floats up from the group below, loud and familiar, and it sends a thrill of recognition through Lan Wangji to hear it. Even Lan Xichen is drawn towards the sound, peering over the stone parapets at the flash of purple robes below.

“Ah,” he says knowingly. “That would be Yunmeng’s Wei Wuxian, Wei-gongzi. The son of Wei Changze, and Jiang-wang’s ward. He’s here in place of Yunmeng Jiang-shi’s Crown Prince, Jiang Wanyin, who was here last year.”

Yunmeng. That would explain the purple robes and the boisterous laughter—Lan Wangji has never been to Yunmeng personally, but he has heard that they are more…free-spirited as a people. Certainly not as reserved or quiet as Gusu, but with the same affinity for water; where Gusu borders the sea, Yunmeng is home to lakes and rivers, and both nations are well-versed in battle tactics on water.

For Wei Wuxian to be here as a representative on Yunmeng, in place of their own Crown Prince, must mean he is of high birth, or perhaps part of a powerful family. It would certainly explain his cavalier attitude towards trespassing palace grounds in the middle of the night.

“Wangji, is something the matter?” Lan Wangji can hear the amusement in his brother’s voice.

“My apologies, Huangxiong,” he replies with a bow. “I came across an intruder while on patrol a few nights ago, trying to sneak past the guards. I did not think I would find them here.”

“Oh?” Lan Xichen raises an eyebrow, both concerned and intrigued. “Would I be correct in assuming the intruder in question is Wei-gongzi?”

“Yes, Huangxiong.” He exhales through his nose, frowning. “I should report this to Huangshu, so the matter can be dealt with appropriately, given Wei-gongzi’s status—”

Lan Xichen laughs, reaching out to clasp him on the shoulder.

“Perhaps you could let it slide, just this once?” he suggests with a twinkle in his eye. “It is, after all, his first time here in Gusu. I’m not saying not to discipline him,” he adds, when it’s clear Lan Wangji wants to protest. “Just that it would be good to show leniency on a small infraction. After all, if one does not know any better, one cannot be held responsible.”

“Trespassing is not just a crime in Gusu,” Lan Wangji says, annoyed. Below, Wei Wuxian is brushing his horse—a beautiful black mare that nuzzles at his pockets for treats as he croons and laughs, every bit as cheeky as her master—seemingly oblivious to his observers. “He cannot possibly claim ignorance, Huangxiong.”

Lan Xichen smiles and shakes his head fondly.

“Well, if you insist he be punished for his transgressions, I would suggest perhaps introducing yourself before you do.” He steps back, hand falling back to his side. “I’m afraid I cannot see you off. The Qinghe delegation arrived this morning and I must make preparations to receive them. Take care, Wangji. Safe travels.”

Lan Wangji bows at the waist. “Thank you, Huangxiong.”

He stays bowed until Lan Xichen’s footsteps recede, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watches the distance between them grow. It is inevitable, of course. His brother is Crown Prince and Regent, and will one day be Emperor; it is only natural that their paths diverge as they grow older. In a year or two, Lan Wangji will also be expected to take on more and more responsibilities of his own—already now his uncle is has him reviewing past petitions as part of his studies, and debates with him on the best course of action to take in each particular case. It is challenging work, but rewarding, and Lan Wangji finds it almost as tiring as a full day of drills on the training field.

In the courtyard below, Wei Wuxian is talking to another young man dressed in Qinghe green—Nie Huaisang, the younger brother and heir to Nie Mingjue, the young lord of Qinghe—while helping him with his horse. There is no way to tell what they are saying from this distance, but it must be terribly amusing because Wei Wuxian throws his head back with laughter, and their eyes catch. He watches as recognition dawns on his face, replaced then with excitement, followed quickly by mischievous delight.

“Miu-gongzi!” Heat floods Lan Wangji’s neck at the nickname, shouted across the courtyard for everyone to hear. More than a few heads turn in his direction. “Miu-gongzi, are you here for the study retreat too? Come join us!”

He quashes the little flutter in his chest and turns away, ears burning at such a shameless display, already dreading the next few months.

--

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I realised that a lot of what I had planned to write for this verse coming up is set in the WWX era, but then also realised that the WY arc isn’t really developed either. Like, their relationship build up etc. So here is a little something.

Jumping back to the WWX arc in the next bit (probably).

(Also, yes, I have heard your requests for the AU verse. It is...in development.)

[besanii]

For the anon thing, I started following Shattered Mirrors before I even had a Tumblr. I just kept the masterpost open and refreshed on a daily basis. I still keep it open in one of my tabs and check it periodically to make sure I didn't miss anything accidentally. I love pretty much all of your writing, but Shattered Mirrors has a special place in my heart.

Hi nonny! Thank you for your kind words :)))  Have some more SM!!

Shattered Mirrors 70

[directly precedes #26]

In the end, it is Nie Mingjue who lands the killing blow, taking off Wen Ruohan’s head with a swing of his mighty sabre. Lan Wangji watches it happen from only metres away, fending off the Qishan soldiers charging their way up the grand staircase towards the Nightless City stronghold and their king. He doesn’t register it at first, not until he looks down to see the head of Qishan’s monarch at his feet, dark eyes staring lifelessly up at him, mouth still twisted in a snarl.

It is strange, he thinks numbly as weapons clatter to the ground around him, that the once-fearsome ruler of Qishan who had been the cause of decades of grief for Gusu and its allies is now reduced to little more than a bloodied corpse separated from its head.

“You alright, Er-dianxia?” Nie Mingjue asks gruffly, shaking off the worst of the blood from his blade with a flick of his wrist before wiping it on the corpse of a Qishan soldier. “Not much to look at, is he? Still, I’d say it’s an improvement.”

“Wangji congratulates Qinghe-wang on his victory,” Lan Wangji says, bowing to Nie Mingjue as he approaches. “Wangji has heard many stories of Qinghe-wang’s prowess in battle. It is an honour to be able to witness it in person.”

Nie Mingjue waves him off with a snort. “Gusu-er-dianxia is too generous with his words. It is I who must thank Gusu for the chance to take this dog’s head from his body.”

With Wen Ruohan and both his sons dead, the Sunshot War is officially declared over, and all fighting ceases on the front lines as soon as the news spreads. The majority of the surviving troops gradually begin the journey home, but some remain behind, tasked with overseeing the dismantling of war camps, processing prisoners of war, as well as rebuilding the villages and towns affected by the fighting.

Lan Wangji is immediately recalled to Gusu on Lan Xichen’s orders. Despite his desire to help, he knows he cannot defy Imperial orders again, so he has Lan Guoyan stay behind in his place, packs his bags and sets off for the capital. Everywhere they pass on their way back to Caiyi bears the marks of war—villages burnt, orphans and widows on the streets, injured soldiers in makeshift hospitals, once-fruitful and lush fields scorched and blackened beyond recognition. It will take many years of careful management to set things right again; in the meantime, the best they can do is to clean up wherever they can and provide the support and supplies their people desperately need.

He rides for the palace as soon as they enter the city.

Ordinarily, customs dictate that returning officials and soldiers must bathe and make themselves presentable before appearing before the Emperor as a sign of respect, but Lan Wangji knows it will make no difference now whether he carries the dust and grime of the road on him or not. He dismounts hastily at the gates to the Imperial Palace, where Eunuch Yang is already waiting.

“This servant greets Er-dianxia,” he says with a low bow. Lan Wangji nods.

“Yang-zongguan.” He hands off the reins of his horse to one of the soldiers who had followed him here. “I am here to see my brother.”

“Yes, Er-dianxia,” Eunuch Yang says, holding out an arm in the direction of the main hall. “Taizi-dianxia has tasked this servant with bringing Er-dianxia to the Great Hall immediately upon his arrival.”

The Great Hall.

Lan Wangji takes a deep, calming breath.

“Then I must trouble Yang-zongguan,” he says with a curt nod.

It is almost midday by now, which means the court’s morning session should have ended a while ago—but when they arrive at the Great Hall and Lan Wangji’s presence is announced, the entire court turns their heads to look at him. Lan Xichen stands below the throne, one arm tucked behind his back and a calm, neutral expression on his face as Lan Wangji strides down the aisle dividing the civil officials from the military. Not a sound escapes their lips, but he feels their eyes on him, their censure and disapproval burning into the dirt-stained cape trailing behind him.

He sinks to his knees before the dais, and touches his forehead and hands to the floor.

“Greetings Taizi-dianxia,” he says, voice loud and clear in the hall despite the words being directed to the floor. “I ask forgiveness for not having time to make myself presentable to Taizi-dianxia before coming here today.”

Lan Xichen inclines his head in acknowledgment, but his expression does not soften.

“Huangdi is welcome back to court,” he says. “You are to be commended for your part in the war, and in the execution of the tyrant Wen Ruohan. For this, Huangshang has bestowed upon you the title Hanguang-wang. You are granted Hanguang Manor as your permanent residence, effective immediately.”

Lan Wangji exhales. The message is clear—as a prince who has come of age, Lan Wangji is no longer permitted to live within the Imperial Palace; instead, he is granted a title and a residence in the city, and is only permitted to visit the palace on official business, or when summoned. His brother, as the Crown Prince, had moved out of the Inner Palace and into the Eastern Palace when he too had come of age. Lan Wangji keeps his head lowered to the ground.

“Er-chen thanks Huangshang for his generosity,” he says. After a pause, he continues. “There is one further issue for which I must ask Huangshang and Taizi-dianxia for their forgiveness.”

A tense, pregnant pause follows. This, Lan Wangji knows, is the real reason why the court has been kept back long after the morning session has ended, the reason why he has not been permitted to rise to his feet.

“What offence has been committed that Hanguang-wang must ask for forgiveness?” Lan Xichen asks, keeping his voice carefully devoid of any tell-tale inflection.

“Replying to Taizi-dianxia,” Lan Wangji says. “While stationed at the camp in Jiangling, a messenger arrived from Yunmeng seeking aid. Even knowing there were many things suspect about both message and messenger, I abandoned my post to travel to Yunmeng without first seeking permission.”

Murmurs break out amongst the officials at his declaration. As a soldier, abandoning your post during war is an act of desertion, punishable by death. For Lan Wangji to have committed such an offence, as the commander of the Jiangling front and a member of the Imperial Family, even if he escapes execution, punishment is inevitable. All eyes shift towards Lan Xichen, still as a statue above them, looking down impassively on his younger brother prostrate before him.

“That is indeed a grave offence,” he says. “An offence punishable by death. Do you acknowledge this?”

“Yes, Taizi-dianxia.” He ignores the collective intake of breath around him. “I accept whatever punishment Huangshang and Taizi-dianxia see fit.”

“Taizi-dianxia!” A voice rings out in the hall and there’s a flurry of activity as the ranks of the military officials part to allow one of their own to kneel behind Lan Wangji in the aisle. “Hanguang-wang has indeed committed a grave offence, but this lowly official dares beg Taizi-dianxia to take into account the many great deeds Hanguang-wang has accomplished in the war against Qishan, and spare him from execution!”

And then, as though his words had broken a dam, the officials in the hall—both civil and military alike—fall to their knees and prostrate themselves before Lan Xichen.

“We beg Taizi-dianxia show mercy!”

Lan Wangji raises his head enough to meet Lan Xichen’s eyes briefly, before lowering his gaze again. “Taizi-dianxia, wrongdoings must be punished. If the Son of Heaven breaks the law, he is just as guilty as the common folk. What example would I set the people of Gusu if I shirk the consequences of my actions?”

Through all of this, Lan Xichen remains quietly listening and observing each of them in turn. He holds up a hand for silence; a hush falls over the court as they await his ruling.

“You have all made valid points,” he says, nodding his head slowly as he considers their arguments. His face gives nothing away. “Such a grave offence cannot be overlooked, of course, and due punishment must be dealt. However—” He raises his voice when it looks like the officials may protest, “—what Lin-jiangjun says is not without merit. Without Hanguang-wang’s efforts, victory against Qishan would not have been possible. With this in mind, Hanguang-wang shall be sentenced to thirty-three strikes with the disciplinary whip.”

Lan Wangji sinks to the floor, an odd calm falling over him. A public whipping is one of the lighter punishments for the crime of desertion, but a harsh one nonetheless. No one watching would think he had gotten off lightly because of his status as an Imperial Prince, especially not when it must be endured publicly. He thinks of the message still tucked away inside his robes, of the length of red ribbon resting over his heart, of the massacre left behind in Lotus Pier, and knows in his heart that he would do it all again.

“Wangji gives thanks to Huangshang and Taizi-dianxia for their benevolence.”

--

Notes:

Huangdi (皇弟) - Imperial Younger Brother, opposite of Huangxiong (皇兄)

Er-chen (儿臣) - Son and Subject, used by princes to refer to themselves when talking to the Emperor - in this case, LWJ is thanking his father in absentia (because LXC is representing the Emperor as Regent, thus his decisions are considered on behalf of the Emperor).

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[besanii]

Hi! Am rereading your shattered mirrors verse and I love it so much. Are we going to get the scene in which WWX explains everything that’s happened to him (with the poison) etc to LWJ after they meet wen yuan?? I’m dying for the angst but also fluff and comfort 🥺🥺🥺

@lurkingscientist asked:

I can’t wait to hear about all the sad things wwx experienced!!! :D my “stabby stabby stab stab stab” is feeling slightly neglected

Shattered Mirrors #61

“I haven’t told you everything.”

In the thirteen years Wei Wuxian had been gone, Lan Wangji searched desperately for every scrap of information he could get his hands on, from every channel he could access, in hopes of finding him. Or finding out what had happened to him. What he could find was piecemeal at best and unreliable at worst, often conflicting depending on the source. The result was him, driven mad by desperation and grief, chasing ghosts in the shadows until he could no longer tell what was real.

Even now, with Wei Wuxian back at his side these last two years, happy and content and safe, he still does not have a clear picture of what had happened during the war. If he’s being honest, he’s afraid to ask, and even more afraid to know. He tells himself it’s enough just to have Wei Wuxian by his side again. He doesn’t need to know, if Wei Wuxian does not want to share.

So Wei Wuxian’s confession punches the air from his lungs and he feels in its wake, his hands trembling where they’re entwined. Wei Wuxian watches him with the same care one would give to a startled animal ready to flee.

“That is,” he amends hesitantly, “if you wish to know.”

Lan Wangji inhales, and exhales again, with a shudder. Squares his shoulders. Looks him in the eye.

“Yes,” he says. “I do.”

It is Wei Wuxian’s turn to take a deep breath, the tentative little smile on his lips giving way to steely resolve. On his other side, Wen Yuan kneels by the bed, wordlessly offering his unwavering support. Despite all this, it takes Wei Wuxian some time to find the right words to convey the enormity of what he is about to disclose.

“I don’t know where to begin,” he admits with a shaky laugh, looking down at their joined hands. “I suppose you already know how Yunmeng fell.”

Lan Wangji nods. He has heard scattered details, enough to know that there had been a traitor in their midst, someone who had fed false information through their intelligence network while Wei Wuxian had been in Gusu. They had managed to secure Yunping, but sustained heavy losses that severely weakened their defences. The traitor had been found, but by then the Qishan Wen army was already at their doorstep, ten thousand strong, and they had no way out.

“We evacuated as many civilians as we could. Jiang Cheng, Jiang-wang and Yu-wanghou stayed behind to defend the city,” he says. His eyes and voice are distant, lost in his memories. “I took Shijie and we escaped via the lakes, with the rest of the civilians. Our priority was to get to Yunping, and then to Lanling. Shijie was engaged to Jin Zixuan, so they would definitely come to our aid—or at the very least, they would keep her safe while I gathered reinforcements.

“They were there,” he continues, still in that far-off voice. “Wen Chao and his men. They had split their forces to ambush us while we were defenceless. Our boats were burned, our people drowned—we in Yunmeng are strong swimmers, but even the strongest swimmers cannot survive when arrows rain down from the sky.”

He shivers with his next breath, but his voice is steady.

“I entrusted Shijie to my lieutenant, instructed them to use one of the overturned boats to cover their escape, while I distracted Wen Chao.” He smiles, but it’s stark and without humour. “We’ve had…altercations in the past, so I knew I would be an adequate distraction. I held him off for as long as I could, kept his attention on me. But I was only one person, and he had an army.”

The reports that had come out of Yunmeng around that time—the ones Lan Xichen had allowed him to read while recovering from his punishment, at least—had painted a picture so bleak, so devastating that he had wept. The lakes of Yunmeng, once teeming with colour and life, stained red with blood over the course of one night; and Lotus Pier, its seat of power, that had once risen from the depths of the lakes like a mirage, burned to ash. He had been back to the ruins of Lotus Pier in the intervening years as it was slowly rebuilt after the war—Gusu had offered aid wherever possible, in both money and manpower, as well as political support for the Yu family of Meishan, the maiden family of Queen Yu Ziyuan, who had been installed as stewards in the absence of the ruling family—but the shadows of war still haunts its streets and darkens its waters even now.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes fall closed and his fingers tighten around Lan Wangji’s.

“There’s a stronghold in Yiling,” he says. “Some call it the Burial Mounds, or the Mass Grave. Beneath the fortress, there’s an extensive network of cells that run beneath the mountains. That’s where they keep their highest security prisoners, the ones who get…special treatment.”

There is no need to ask what ‘special’ means, so Lan Wangji stays silent. His blood, however, runs cold—as cold as Wei Wuxian’s voice as he continues his narrative, detached.

“Wen Chao had a special—” that word again, spoken with such venom that it curdles in Lan Wangji’s stomach and burns his throat, “cell prepared. More a cage, really. Every second shichen, it would be submerged in water up to the neck, and stay there for another shichen until it was raised again. In the interim, the prisoner would be left soaking wet in the cold, damp cell.”

The memory of Wei Wuxian at the water’s edge, the frantic terror on his face as he struggles to breathe despite not having come into contact with it, the frailty, the susceptibility to cold and illness—it is all starting to fall into place, one horrifying piece at a time. But Wei Wuxian is not finished.

“There were beatings, of course.” A sudden, fierce anger wraps around Lan Wangji’s heart at the matter-of-fact way in which he says it. “Wen Chao always did have a sadistic streak. He liked to hang people up by the arms and have them whipped, or burned, or flogged. Sometimes he’d leave them there for more than a day, weighed down at the ankles, blindfolded, while they tortured others around them.”

A hand extricates itself from Lan Wangji’s death grip and peels back the edge of a sleeve to reveal the scars along his arms. Dozens of them, some longer and thicker, others as thin and fine as thread, criss-cross along the pale flesh. As he traces quivering fingers along the skin, Lan Wangji feels each cut, each slice, on his heart. Then Wei Wuxian turns his hand over, revealing a large, pale scar on the inside of his wrist, and a matching on on the other, too precise to be self-inflicted. He inhales sharply in realisation.

“Your hands—” he chokes, eyes wide as he stares at the scars. “He didn’t—”

Wei Wuxian lets the sleeves fall back down to cover the scars.

“If you fight back,” he explains woodenly, “they cut the tendons in your wrists and ankles. They’ll send a doctor to look over your injuries, of course. There is no benefit, no value, in a dead prisoner of war. That’s how I met Wen Qing and her brother, Wen Ning.”

“My aunt and uncle,” Wen Yuan, who has been silent until now, explains. Lan Wangji had almost forgotten his presence. He smiles sadly. “They were taken by my great-uncle as hostages to ensure our branch of the family supported the war effort, and served as doctors on the front lines.”

Wei Wuxian’s lips curl into a smile—not the harsh, bitter ones from before, but softer, tinged with grief.

“They took care of me,” he says. “Wen Qing was the best doctor in all of Qishan. There was no illness she could not cure, no injury she could not fix. And Wen Ning…Wen Ning was the kindest person I have ever met. Too kind, too gentle for war. They did their best to help me—slipped me medicines and food whenever they could, diverted Wen Chao’s attentions away from me when it got too much.”

His voice wavers and breaks.

“They died trying to get me out,” he says hoarsely. “First Wen Ning, then Wen Qing. And I couldn’t—I couldn’t do anything to save them—”

Lan Wangji gathers him into his arms, crushes him against his chest as he cries out in anguish, his body wracked with sobs. His own eyes are hot, and he sees Wen Yuan’s are also bright with unshed tears when their gazes meet over Wei Wuxian’s head. They stay like this until he quietens, curled in Lan Wangji’s embrace, eyes hollow and wrung out. Lan Wangji is about to suggest that they continue this another day when Wei Wuxian rouses himself with a shaky breath, and continues.

“They killed Wen Ning in front of me,” he says. “And then they forced Wen Qing to take the same deadly poison they had been using to experiment with on us—”

“Qianji poison,” Lan Wangji says before he can stop himself. Both Wen Yuan and Wei Wuxian turn to him in shock. He lowers his eyes. “You fell ill after your performance at Caiyun Pavilion,” he tells Wei Wuxian. “I had a physician brought in to see you.”

He is careful to leave out Mo Xuanyu and Madam Zhang’s involvement, but Wei Wuxian is not fooled. But rather than get angry, as they had feared, he only shakes his head and laughs.

“I should have guessed,” he says. “They always liked to make a fuss.”

“They care about you,” Lan Wangji chides him gently. “And I am glad they told me, so I was better prepared to take care of you like I promised.”

This time when Wei Wuxian turns into the cradle of his arms, it is out of exhaustion, as if a great weight has been lifted from his chest, and his eyes drift closed as Lan Wangji strokes his hair with gentle motions. There is still more to the story, Lan Wangji knows—and there are questions burning in his mind. But he feels the sag of Wei Wuxian’s body against his, the heaviness of his breath, and cannot bring himself to press him further. They have time. After a moment of silence, when Lan Wangji thinks him asleep, he stirs.

“I’m tired,” he murmurs. “So tired.”

“You’ve done well, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji reminds him. “Get some rest.”

Wen Yuan excuses himself as Wei Wuxian hums and nestles deeper into his arms. Lan Wangji nods at him gratefully and watches him leave, keeping his movements quiet so as to not disturb Wei Wuxian’s rest.

“I think I’ll close my eyes for a while,” Wei Wuxian agrees, his words already starting to slur. “I just need…a little break.”

Lan Wangji presses a light kiss on his forehead.

“Take all the time you need,” he says. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

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shattered mirrors 60

[ WangXian ; 1379 words]

Wei Wuxian nibbles on the end of his brush, deep in thought as he pores over the papers spread out on the low desk before him, occasionally referring to the book in his other hand as he makes notes. His health has been steadily improving over recent months—thanks in part to the antidote Wen Yuan brought with him from Dongying, but also to the warmer weather as spring gives way to summer—and he finds he has more energy to expend on more strenuous activities that would have otherwise been impossible. So, with Lan Wangji and Mo Xuanyu’s enthusiastic encouragement, he starts dabbling in various hobbies to pass the time while Lan Wangji is away at court.

So engrossed in his work is he that he doesn’t notice a visitor entering the library until the sound of a throat being cleared startles him.

“A-Yu,” he admonishes, eyes closed as he presses a hand to his chest. “Please announce yourself next time you come in—”

“I’ll be sure to let Mo Xuanyu know,” a distinctly not Mo Xuanyu voice says drily. Wei Wuxian’s eyes fly open with a gasp.

“Nie-xiong!”

Nie Huaisang taps the corner of the closed fan against his lips, eyes twinkling as he watches delight replace the surprise on Wei Wuxian’s face.

“How are you, Wei-xiong?” he asks, giving Wei Wuxian an appraising once-over. “Married life suits you, I see. I suppose I should address you as Hanguang-wangfei now.”

Wei Wuxian laughs, setting aside his brush and book.

“Only in public,” he says. “You haven’t changed a bit since I saw you last.”

Nie Huaisang hums and nods his head, tapping his fan thoughtfully against his mouth.

“Fourteen years, I believe,” he agrees. “At Fan Tower.”

“I remember.” He smiles wistfully. “The night before the Discussion Conference. I never even got to see you afterwards, with all that happened.”

His hand goes almost instinctively to the scar on his shoulder, older and more faded than the others, the one that still gives him pain to this day. They had managed to save the arm in the end, but he remembers the recovery had been frustratingly boring and slow—the majority of the entourages from the visiting nations had gone home in the wake of the attack, leaving only the leaders to participate in the ensuing discussions leading up to the war. Nie Huaisang had returned to Qinghe on his brother’s orders and they had lost contact over the next year as the war progressed.

He shakes himself from his reminiscing and motions to the cushion in front of the desk.

“Please, please take a seat,” he says. “I’ll have someone bring us some tea.”

“No need,” Nie Huaisang assures him, lowering himself into the seat. “Your boy—Mo Xuanyu, was it?—he has already gone to fetch some from the kitchens.” His eyes dart over to the empty doorway. “He’s a smart boy. Where did you find him?”

Wei Wuxian scratches the bridge of his nose and frowns.

“Somewhere near Runan, I believe,” he says. “In a place called Mo Family Village. He’s the nephew of the late family matriarch.”

“Really now,” Nie Huaisang says. Something in the tone of his voice triggers Wei Wuxian’s curiosity; he lowers his hand and straightens his posture, alert, but Nie Huaisang waves his hand dismissively. “It’s nothing. I thought I recognised the name, that’s all.”

“Of the village?” Nie Huaisang shrugs. Wei Wuxian rubs his chin. “It’s not a very large place and it doesn’t usually appear on any maps. But there was a rumour going around that the head of the family was a Lanling spy during the war and only settled in the area in recent years.”

Ah. Wei Wuxian’s posture relaxes.

“Not exactly a spy, no,” he says, tapping a finger against the desk idly. “But linked to Lanling, yes.”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes light up.

“So you knew?” he asks with barely concealed excitement. “And here I thought I’d have to warn you about keeping a potential spy by your side.”

Wei Wuxian scoffs, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Nie-xiong, really. I may be retired, but I still have the good sense to do background checks on everyone I keep around me,” he says with a good-natured roll of the eyes. “I took him in as a child after an…incident took his entire family. He hasn’t left my side since.”

“I see…” Nie Huaisang nods his head slowly. “Then he, too, is a pitiful child.”

“Perhaps that’s what brought us together,” Wei Wuxian says, half-jokingly. They exchange wry grins across the desk before he sighs and shakes his head. “Look at us both, sitting here reminiscing like two old men. Why don’t we move onto the real reason why you’ve come all the way from Qinghe then, Nie-xiong?”

“Aiyo, Wei-xiong, how can you think I came here for reasons other than to see?” Nie Huaisang tuts, voice reproving even as he slides a hand into the front of his robes and takes out a plain envelope that he places on the desk between them. “When the news reached Qinghe that you’d returned—and that you’d married Er-wangye!—I could scarcely believe it, so I absolutely had to come see for myself.”

He slides the envelope towards Wei Wuxian with a pointed look; Wei Wuxian takes it warily, his eyes never leaving Nie Huaisang’s as he removes the folded letter inside. Across the desk, Nie Huaisang sits back on his heels, unfolding his fan and fluttering it with quick, excited motions. His anticipation is enough to give Wei Wuxian caution, and he braces himself for whatever surprise its contents would have in store for him.

The handwriting catches his eye first.

The flowing script is immediately recognisable, the flourish at the end of the characters so indicative of the writer’s gentle touch, the brush strokes distinct. He had spent much of his youth reading letters by this hand, being soothed and comforted by its words; it has always carried with it the promise of home.

He exhales shakily through his nose, his eyes hot and nose stinging, and lowers the hand holding the letter to look at Nie Huaisang.

“How did you—?” he asks hoarsely. “Why—”

Nie Huaisang sighs, snapping his fan shut and tapping it against his open palm as he looks at the letter with a soft smile.

“We found them a few years ago,” he says. “One of our people came across them living with a nomadic tribe we have trade dealings with to the north. I knew you wouldn’t make contact with them yourself, so I had them send a letter instead.”

He gets to his feet with a loud sigh and fans himself with large, exaggerated motions.

“I haven’t done anything,” he says. “I’m only passing on a message from a mutual friend.” He winks. “Although, may I suggest sending a reply this time? This whole staying away for their protection thing is getting old, and I’m sure you’d like to meet your nephew.”

Nephew. Wei Wuxian’s heart is so full he fears he may burst. He traces the words on the letter with trembling fingers. Nie Huaisang hums.

“I think I’ll just take my leave,” he says. “I know you are a busy man nowadays, but do let me treat you to dinner before I go back to Qinghe. You may even bring your Wangye if you wish.”

That gets a choked laugh out of Wei Wuxian; he dabs at the corners of his eyes with his sleeve and rises to his feet, shaking out his sleeves so he can bow low at the waist with his fingers clasped before him.

“Thank you, Nie-xiong,” he says sincerely. “I owe you a great debt.”

Nie Huaisang stares at him a moment, his fan frozen in mid-flutter, before he turns and starts walking away with a sniff.

“You can thank me with dinner,” he says over his shoulder with a wave. “After you write that damned letter.”

Wei Wuxian watches him leave, the letter still clutched in his hand and the smile still on his lips. He doesn’t stop smiling for a very long time.

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Thank you for all of your hard work! For SM, I'd like to see the wedding please =D

Shattered Mirrors #62

“Furen! The palanquin is here!”

Wei Wuxian looks up at the maid’s cry of excitement, the thin brush in his hand clattering to the table. His lips part softly in surprise and he’s half out of his seat before he even realises he’s moving, only to be stopped by firm hands on his shoulders pressing him back down.

“Sit down, you’re not done yet,” Ouyang Shuzhen admonishes him, barely able to conceal the smile pulling at her lips. “Honestly, it’s like you’re so desperate to get married you’ll rush into the palanquin with only one eyebrow drawn. If Hanguang-wang sees you like this he’ll think we’ve turned you feral.”

“Shuzhen…” he laughs weakly, settling down in front of the dressing table bronze again as she fusses over him. “Does Yan-ge know you to be so forceful?”

She snorts, one eyebrow quirking upwards.

“I am the daughter of a general, descended from one of the most prominent military families in Yunmeng,” she says, picking up the brush he’d dropped and holding it to his brow. “Of course my husband is aware. It’s why he married me.”

She puts the finishing touches on his makeup deftly and with practised ease, then stands back to look him over with a critical eye. The maids are hovering at the doors and windows, peeking through the cracks at the commotion outside and giggling amongst themselves; one word from their mistress sends them scattering back to their posts. Wei Wuxian turns in his seat, palms sweaty and heart lodged in his throat. Ouyang Shuzhen shakes her head and clicks her tongue.

“Look at the lot of you,” she says fondly. “The wedding party hasn’t even reached the door yet and your hearts have already flown out of the room.”

Wei Wuxian ducks his head and laughs sheepishly just as a knock sounds from the door. The maids muffle shrieks of delight despite the sharp, silent rebuke this earns them from their mistress on her way past. Wei Wuxian gets to his feet as she opens the door to allow Lan Guoyan to enter. He steps over the threshold and pauses, eyes wide and soft, taking in the sight of Wei Wuxian in his wedding robes.

“Xiao Wei,” he says, suddenly serious. “It’s not too late to change your mind, you know. I can have the guards hold him off while you make your escape.”

His wife swats him on the shoulder with a good-natured scowl.

“Don’t speak such nonsense,” she scolds him. “The auspicious hour is almost upon us. If you delay the bridal retinue any further, I won’t stop Hanguang-wang from tearing you limb from limb.”

“Zhen-er, ah, Zhen-er, are you not my wife?” Lan Guoyan asks her dramatically. “Why would you stand with Ji-xiong against me?”

“I wouldn’t if you could be serious for even a moment,” she replies with a sniff. She turns back to Wei Wuxian and holds out a hand; one of the maids comes over with a tray, upon which sits a folded piece of red silk. “Are you ready, Wei Wuxian?”

He looks between the two of them with a smile, and nods. She picks up the silk, letting it ripple and unfold between her fingers; the maids gasp when it is fully unfolded and the embroidery is on display—a phoenix, with its wings outstretched, and a dragon winding around it protectively, both in fine gold thread and tiny, intricate stitches. His throat tightens as he bows his head to allow them to drape it over his hair.

“Thank you,” he says, glad for the veil hiding his face from view. “Thank you both for everything.”

Lan Guoyan snorts, sounding more like a sniffle, and then clears his throat. He and Ouyang Shuzhen each take one of his arms and help him to his feet. With the weight of the coronet on his head and the veil obscuring his vision, the three of them make their way slowly to the door, where the maids offer their congratulations in a chorus as it opens.

He can’t see what’s happening up ahead, but he doesn’t need to—the moment he steps into the main hall, he knows Lan Wangji is already there, waiting for him. A familiar hand slides into his, long fingers curling around his in a firm, reassuring grip despite the slight tremor he feels when their skin comes into contact. He sees the embroidered edge of a dark red sleeve and the jade pendant hanging from the black belt lined with gold, and smiles.

“Wei Ying.” Lan Wangji’s voice is barely more than a whisper, but he hears it as clearly as though he were speaking directly into his ear. “You look beautiful.”

“You haven’t even seen his face yet, Ji-xiong,” his cousin teases.

“I don’t need to,” Lan Wangji replies without hesitation. “Wei Ying always looks beautiful.”

“Aiya, please, I don’t think I can stand listening to you say such nauseating things.” A hand claps Wei Wuxian on the shoulder. “Xiao Wei, if he ever bullies you, you come directly to me and I’ll break his legs for you.”

Wei Wuxian laughs, eyes hot and wet. He mustn’t cry, lest the makeup Ouyang Shuzhen painstakingly applied for him is ruined.

“The sentiment is appreciated, Yan-ge,” he says. “But wholly unnecessary. Besides, if it were a fight between you and Lan Zhan, I know where I would place my bets.”

He squeezes the hand holding his playfully and feels Lan Wangji squeeze back. Ouyang Shuzhen interrupts their banter before her husband can get too riled up, with a reminder that the auspicious hour is upon them and they really must hurry if they are to reach Hanguang Manor in time.

“Quickly, then, come on! We still have to perform the tea ceremony!” Lan Guoyan says, ushering them both to the centre of the room where two cushions have been placed in front of the chairs usually reserved for the masters of the house. Wei Wuxian balks.

“Wait, Yan-ge, I don’t—”

—don’t have any parents for the tea ceremony, he doesn’t say. He’s long since made his peace with it, but the sudden reminder still sends a pang through his chest as he lets Lan Wangji guide him to kneel on the cushions. He stares down at the floor, throat tight.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji murmurs close to his ear, his breath tickling against the veil. “Have a look.”

Ordinarily, the wedding veil is not lifted until they are in the wedding chamber at the end of the night, but given the circumstances—and the fact that they, in fact, are not strangers in an arranged marriage—Wei Wuxian subtly lifts one corner of the veil. He follows the line of Lan Wangji’s finger to the table before them and freezes.

Two memorial tablets stand side by side, the wood old but well-polished, the gold paint on the names still bright and gleaming like new. The breath leaves his lungs in a rush and he sits back on his heels, all strength gone from his limbs; he doesn’t realise he’s trembling until Lan Wangji steadies him with an arm around his back.

“We recovered them at Lotus Pier after the war,” Lan Wangji tells him quietly over the sound of his own breaths dragging from his lungs. “They were restored, along with the ancestral hall. I thought…you would want them here with you. If you would like, they will have a place in the ancestral shrine back home, so you may visit them often.”

“Lan Zhan…” he whispers hoarsely. “I don’t know how to thank you—”

“Shagua,” Lan Wangji teases him, voice gentle and full of warmth. “I thought we agreed there is no need for such words between us.”

They bow to his parents. Lan Wangji takes the cups of tea that Ouyang Shuzhen has prepared for this occasion and pours them in a line on the floor—first to his father, and then to his mother—and bows again.

“Yuefu, Yuemu,” he addresses the tablets, his fingers clasped before him in a formal greeting. “Thank you for bringing Wei Ying into this world. I promise I will do everything in my power to bring him happiness in this lifetime, and in every lifetime after. So please be at ease and entrust Wei Ying to me.”

The sound of quiet sniffling is heard from more than one person in the room as he sinks into another, deeper bow, touching his forehead to the floor. Wei Wuxian takes a deep, shuddering breath to steady himself, and clasps his fingers before him.

“Die, Niang,” he says. “Wei Ying has been unfilial. I haven’t been able to take care of you all these years.” He presses his forehead to the floor briefly, and then rises again. “Die, Niang. Please allow Wei Ying to fulfil my filial duties to you from now on.”

He touches his forehead to the floor one more time. Die, Niang, he says silently. Wei Ying has found happiness. Lan Zhan will take good care of me. You don’t need to worry about Wei Ying anymore.

There is a palanquin waiting outside Jing Manor, along with an entire parade of musicians and servants carrying trunks laden with gifts—courtesy of the Emperor and Empress, despite Wei Wuxian’s protests. The grandiose display is deliberate, Lan Wangji had explained to him beforehand. The grander the wedding, the more people will realise that this union—that Wei Wuxian himself—has the blessing and support of the Imperial Family. A muzzle on the mouths of any dissenters.

He’s safely in the palanquin when the firecrackers are lit, so the din is muffled. Still, his body tenses involuntarily at the sound, his fingers twisting the fabric of his robes; it thankfully does not last long, and he steadies himself against the side of the palanquin as it is lifted from the ground.

The procession circles the city twice, before making its way to Hanguang Manor. The wedding of a member of the Imperial Family is a rare sight, especially from the historically small direct line, so people flood into the streets to watch the palanquin go by, and to admire the spectacle of it. The palanquin is small, only enough to fit one person, and stuffy, so when they come to a stop and it is set down on the ground again, Wei Wuxian breathes a sigh of relief.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur.

He can hear the crowd of people gathered in the courtyard—officials, nobles, representatives of all the major families in Gusu—before he is led into the main hall and directed to kneel once more.

They bow once, to the Heaven and Earth.

Twice, to the elders.

And then finally, to each other.

He is dimly aware of people clapping and cheering, offering congratulations to the two of them as they rise to their feet and walk out of the hall together as a married couple, but he registers none of it. The only solid, certain thing he knows is the feeling of Lan Wangji’s hand in his.

--

Notes:

Shagua (傻瓜) - silly, fool, commonly used as an endearment

Yuefu (岳父) - father-in-law (wife’s father)

Yuemu (岳母) - mother-in-law (wife’s mother)

(Okay so I’m working on the premise that, in this scenario, WWX 嫁给 LWJ. So he’s the ‘bride’ in the ceremony. Because traditional Chinese customs.)

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shattered mirrors 63

WangXian ; 1431 words

[set before #20]

“Wei-gongzi, your attendance is required in the main hall.”

Both Wei Wuxian and Mo Xuanyu look up in surprise. The servant at the door is an unfamiliar one, tall and stony-faced, even though he wears the dark blue robes sported by all male servants of the Imperial Family. Behind him, however, stands Bai Hongsheng, Lan Wangji’s chief steward, who nods almost imperceptibly when their eyes meet, his mouth set in a tense line.

“Of course,” Wei Wuxian says, masking his wariness with an easy smile as he stands. “Please tell Wangye I will be there promptly.”

Lan Wangji had departed for the Imperial Palace less than one shichen ago—there is no way he would be back already—but neither the servant nor Bai Hongsheng correct him. They also make no move to leave the doorway. Wei Wuxian exchanges meaningful glances with Mo Xuanyu as he dons his thick winter cloak, a gift from Lan Wangji made of the warmest, finest fur.

“Come, A-Yu, we mustn’t keep Wangye waiting,” he says, nodding to the servant and then to Bai Hongsheng as he passes them. “Bai-zongguan.”

“Wei-gongzi.” Bai Hongsheng bows, and falls into step behind him as they walk towards the main hall. He lowers his voice to a murmur. “Taishi is here.”

Ah.

The wariness that had been lingering in the back of his mind grows. There is no way Lan Qiren does not know Lan Wangji is in the palace, and yet he is here, in Hanguang Manor, requiring Wei Wuxian to attend him. He has not seen the Imperial Tutor since he left Gusu in his youth, but he remembers the man as austere and unyieldingly principled, the paragon of the morality and values of the Imperial Family. He also remembers that the man had held no great love for him back then, as a ward of a neighbouring kingdom and a gentleman in his own right; he imagines he would love him even less now that he is not.

“Does Wangye know?” Wei Wuxian asks quietly.

“I have sent word to the palace already,” Bai Hongsheng replies. “Wangye should be home soon.”

“Thank you, Bai-zongguan, I owe you a great debt.” His breath forms a cloud of steam as he exhales. “I suppose there is no point in putting off this encounter any longer.”

Lan Qiren is seated at the front of the room when they enter the main hall, the place Lan Wangji usually occupies as the master of the house. He makes no move to stand or greet Wei Wuxian, does not look up from his tea or acknowledge his existence until Wei Wuxian sinks into a bow.

“Wei Wuxian greets Taishi,” he murmurs. He does not rise.

Lan Qiren sets down his teacup with a clink and a grunt.

“Raise your head,” he orders. His eyes are hard and flinty when Wei Wuxian complies, and he studies Wei Wuxian’s face closely. “So you are the one who claims to be Wei Wuxian.”

He doesn’t wait for Wei Wuxian’s reply before he continues.

“I have had people look into your past,” he says. “You made a name for yourself in the brothels of Qishan near the end of the war, becoming the most sought after courtesan—” he spits the word like a foul-tasting poison, “—in the kingdom before relocating to Runan. You stayed there only three months before relocating again to Baling, where you stayed six months. From there, you have worked in brothels all over the kingdoms until you arrived in Gusu one year ago.”

Wei Wuxian bows his head. “Taishi is correct. But as Taishi should be aware, I am originally from Yunmeng.”

Lan Qiren raises an eyebrow. “Even so, there is no record of you before Qishan. How can you prove you are indeed Wei Wuxian? Or if you are simply an imposter assuming his identity to get closer to Wangji and the Imperial Throne?”

Wei Wuxian raises his eyes to meet Lan Qiren’s.

“It is clear Taishi has already made up his mind about my identity,” he says. “What can I say to convince Taishi that I am Wei Wuxian?”

“Insolent,” Lan Qiren barks, slamming his hand down on the table. “A person of such low moral standards dares show such disrespect to a member of the Imperial Family?”

Wei Wuxian inclines his head, his own irritation simmering beneath the surface of the respectful gesture.

“Taishi would remember that I once argued that morality lies not in the action but in the circumstances behind it,” he says. “And that we should not be too quick to pass judgment on others if are not aware of the circumstances.”

Lan Qiren is the foremost scholar in all of Gusu, with an impeccable memory, and he instantly recognises Wei Wuxian’s words. He shoots to his feet, face pale and mouth falling open in shock; his hand clenches and unclenches where it is poised in mid-air, trembling as it points at Wei Wuxian’s face.

“You—you—!” he splutters. “You dare—!”

Wei Wuxian smiles grimly. “Taishi seems to recall something now.”

He watches Lan Qiren’s face change from ashen to puce as he draws himself up to his full height. Wei Wuxian is not a small person by any means, but he is not as physically strong as he used to be, and Lan Qiren has always had an imposing presence about him. The servants still in the hall—presumably from Lan Qiren’s own staff—immediately stand at attention on either side of Wei Wuxian, ready to move with one word from their master.

“I recall an impertinent child who spouted dangerous views that deviated from the good moral teachings upon which this Empire is built,” he says through gritted teeth. “I also recall him showing no acknowledgment of wrongdoing despite his punishment. I see this has not changed in this slightest.”

Wei Wuxian inclines his head, the smile never leaving his face.

“Then perhaps Taishi would allow me to be impertinent once again,” he says, which earns him a huff from Lan Qiren. “Is Taishi’s concern for Lan Zhan, or the Gusu Lan Empire?”

“They are one and the same,” Lan Qiren returns, tucking one hand against the small of his back as he looks at him. Wei Wuxian sees his own wariness reflected in the crease between his brows, in the tense set of his jaw. “Wangji is a pillar of the Imperial Family, the Emperor’s right hand, the very backbone of the Empire itself. Any harm that befalls him strikes at the heart of the Empire. I will not have him ruined in the hands of a courtesan.”

Wei Wuxian is glad for the heavy cloak and its fur lining that hides the way his hands begin to shake. The words, the sentiment, are not new—he has said them himself, many times, told Lan Wangji the very same thing over and over again—but somehow, hearing it now, does he truly appreciate the weight they hold. Lan Wangji has never just been Lan Wangji. He has always been, will always be, the Second Prince of Gusu Lan, the Emperor’s younger brother. His very existence, his choices, his actions, have a direct impact on the stability of the Empire, on the people’s belief in the Imperial Family. One wrong move could be used against them by their enemies, one moment’s weakness could destabilise centuries of peace.

“I hold no ill will against you, only the danger you present,” Lan Qiren says. “If you insist on staying with Wangji, you leave me with no choice but to take matters into my own hands.”

He raises his hand, and the servants close in on Wei Wuxian. Two of them grab his arms while another holds Mo Xuanyu at bay; their hands are rough, their grips firm and unyielding, and Wei Wuxian gasps at the sharp sting of pain as they wrench him backwards.

“Taishi!” Bai Hongsheng exclaims. “Perhaps it would be best to wait until Wangye—”

“Bai-zongguan,” Lan Qiren says sharply, cutting him off mid-protest. “You served the Imperial Family faithfully for over forty years. I trust you would know the clan rules better than anyone else in the room. Take him away.”

Wei Wuxian catches Bai Hongsheng’s eye as he is led away by the servants and shakes his head; the steward falls silent in understanding. A message has already been sent to the palace. Lan Wangji will be home soon. He bites back a hiss of pain and allows himself to be lead outside.

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This was originally meant to be more about the punishment, but this scene also begged to be written, so I’ll do the punishment scene next!

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12 for shattered mirrors? :)

12.  a hoarse whisper “kiss me”

Shattered Mirrors 59

[directly follows #19]

Their presence at the festival inevitably turns heads.

It is unsurprising, given Wei Wuxian’s famously reclusive nature and the astronomical price tag attached to his company, not to mention the abundance of rumours surrounding him since his arrival in Gusu over a year ago. To see him accompanying their very own Lan Wangji, Gusu’s most eligible, most powerful and wealthiest bachelor, who has never demonstrated any prior interest in romance or marriage, is reason enough to set tongues wagging.

They walk side-by-side along the river, the lantern swaying from its handle in Wei Wuxian’s hands emitting a soft orange glow in the darkening night. The streets are growing busier as the night sets in, the fading sunlight replaced with candles and lanterns like fireflies rising from the water’s edge. There is music in the distance where local troupes have erected makeshift stages for the night’s festivities, and many delicious aromas fill the air the further along the path they walk.

Two laughing children run past on their way to a stall selling lanterns, brushing against Wei Wuxian on their way. He stumbles sideways with a small gasp, and a hand is there at his elbow and on his shoulder to steady him. The children continue on their way without realising.

“Are you alright?” Lan Wangji asks gently, brow furrowed with concern. “They did not hurt you?”

Wei Wuxian shakes his head with a smile.

“I’m fine, Wangye, no need to worry,” he assures him. “Children are boisterous by nature. It’s to be expected.”

He goes to step out of the protective circle of Lan Wangji’s arms, but the hand at his elbow tightens imperceptibly, just enough to still his retreat. When he looks up, Lan Wangji is regarding him with a soft, open expression, his lips slightly parted as his eyes check him over for injuries. Heat rises along the back of his neck under the scrutiny, keenly aware of the curious looks they are receiving from passersby.

“Wangye,” he murmurs. “We are in public.”

His reminder is thankfully heeded and Lan Wangji lowers his hands back to his sides, the tips of his ears pink. Wei Wuxian inclines his head and steps back to put a more respectable distance between them, his fingers fiddling restlessly with the handle of the lantern.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji starts, then falters, uncertain. At a quirk of Wei Wuxian’s eyebrow, he clears his throat. ”Thank you for accompanying me tonight.”

Wei Wuxian laughs softly, teasingly.

“It is an honour to be in Wangye’s company,” he says. “Xian-er should be the one to thank Wangye for allowing me to accompany you.”

Lan Wangji exhales heavily through his nose, pained.

“You know that is not what I meant,” he says. “And dispense with the formalities. There is no need for any of that between us. Not anymore.”

“On the contrary, Wangye,” Wei Wuxian says, turning away to look down at the length of the street they had yet to walk, “the differences between us are still very much akin to Heaven and Earth. I would not dare to presume familiarity with Wangye, especially not in public, where our every action is scrutinised.”

He knows Lan Wangji can see the sense of his words when he sighs—a tiny, displeased little sound that would be almost petulant on anyone else—and turns in the direction Wei Wuxian is facing. The sun is almost completely set now and the festival in full swing; the street before them is crowded with revellers, mingling in front of stalls, leaning over the water’s edge to talk to vendors along the river, running and bumping into each other on their way. There is scarcely any room to move without being swept up in the throng.

A younger Wei Wuxian would not have hesitated to jump right into the thick of things, darting from stall to stall, trying every dish from every vendor, laughing and shouting and celebrating to his heart’s content. Now he stands quietly at Lan Wangji’s side, a wistful smile playing on his lips, and makes no move to go.

“It’s gotten quite busy,” he comments, voice light. Lan Wangji hums in assent.

“Perhaps you would like to go somewhere quieter?” he suggests. “I hear the new braised lamb at Fan Tower is excellent fare on a cold night.”

The suggestion is met with a surprised laugh.

“Wangye would eat the braised lamb at Fan Tower?” Wei Wuxian asks. “I thought Wangye usually ate vegetarian.”

Lan Wangji glances at him out of the corner of his eye, lips twitching upward.

“Usually,” he concedes with a slight inclination of his head. “But I have been known to partake in meat on occasion.” He gestures to his right with one arm. “Shall we?”

Wei Wuxian laughs and dips his knee. “Please, lead on Wangye.”

Fan Tower is one of the busiest and most renowned restaurants in all of Caiyi where common folk would usually be hard-pressed to find a table without booking months in advanced. In his youth, Wei Wuxian had liked to come here for their wine—the highest quality Emperor’s Smile in all of Gusu—and had made friends with the owners of the establishment so as to never have to worry about finding a table. Since his return, however, he had not been back.

The appearance of Lan Wangji at the entrance sends management into a frenzy of greetings and preparations, and they are ushered into a private room upstairs within minutes. They greet Wei Wuxian politely, but the hospitality holds none of the exuberance that it had for Lan Wangji. Not that Wei Wuxian had expected any less, but the difference does not sit well with his companion.

“It really isn’t anything to worry about, Wangye,” Wei Wuxian assures him. “I am a stranger, after all, and one with a reputation. Wangye, on the other hand, is the esteemed Hanguang-wang, the younger brother to the Emperor, our stations in life are vastly different—they are only responding as is proper.”

As the waiter leaves, he pours them both a cup of tea. It is the finest biluochun of the season, no doubt in recognition of Lan Wangji’s preference for green teas, and he takes a deep breath to savour the fruity, floral aroma with a smile. He catches Lan Wangji watching him as he does, and raises one eyebrow in question. Lan Wangji shakes his head minutely, embarrassed.

“I did not mean to stare,” he says. “But I noticed that you no longer drink wine, even though it is in abundance.”

Ah. Wei Wuxian sets the cup back on the table, his smile slipping.

“I’m afraid my body no longer tolerates alcohol the way it used to in my youth,” he says with a weak chuckle. “I get the most dreadful headaches when I do indulge myself in it, it really isn’t fair.”

But his attempt to lighten the mood only serves to deepen Lan Wangji’s frown, so he changes the topic instead. He reaches for the lantern that has been set on the table beside him, running his fingers over the two rabbits.

“The style looks familiar,” he says. “Did you paint this yourself, Wangye?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to—the glow of his ears gives the answer away. A warm tenderness unfurls deep within his chest at the thought of Lan Wangji bent over his desk, painting these rabbits and assembling the lantern piece by piece, as they had once done many years ago. So consumed by his own reminiscing, he starts when a large, warm hand wraps around his on the table, drawing his attention back to Lan Wangji beside him.

“Wei Ying.” Lan Wangji’s eyes, usually the colour of rich honey, turns molten gold in the candlelight, sending shivers down Wei Wuxian’s spine. “About my offer, the other day—”

For a moment, Wei Wuxian is half-afraid Lan Wangji will say he has changed his mind, that his offer of protection, of freedom, of home has been rescinded. He would not blame him if he did; after all, he had been most cruel in his initial rejection, had pushed him away over and over again despite his earnestness and sincerity. The memory of his actions, his words, has shame welling up in the back of his throat, thick and choking, and he has to turn away in order to breathe. He does not deserve forgiveness, even if Lan Wangji is willing to give it, does not deserve his kindness, nor his pity—

He starts to withdraw his hand, swallowing past the lump in his throat as he does, but Lan Wangji holds him fast.

“Wei Ying—”

“Wangye,” he says, struggling feebly against his grip. “You have been nothing but kind, generous and good, and Xian-er is most grateful for your patronage. You have no obligation to—”

“No. Wei Ying, listen to me.” Lan Wangji pulls him close, the hand not holding onto his coming up to rest, trembling, on the side of his face. “I have no intention of taking back what I said. The offer stands, will stand for as long as it takes for you to accept.”

“Lan Zhan…” the name falls from his lips on a shuddering breath. “I will bring you nothing but shame and ridicule—associating with me is a stain upon your honour—I don’t want to drag you down—”

A thumb slides across his jaw to press against his lips, silencing him.

“You will bring me nothing but joy and love,” Lan Wangji tells him, eyes bright with unshed tears. The sight of them sends tremors through Wei Wuxian’s skin and heat prickling int he corners of his eyes. “And I want nothing more than to do the same for you. Anything you want, Wei Ying. Ask it of me, and I will give it to you.”

Wei Wuxian closes his eyes and sags with relief, laughing under his breath at his own foolishness. How could he doubt Lan Wangji, when all he has ever been is steadfast and true despite Wei Wuxian’s repeated attempts to make him see otherwise? He turns his head to brush his lips against the palm of Lan Wangji’s hand, smiling as he feels the muscles twitch beneath his touch.

“Lan Zhan,” he murmurs, his heart full to bursting. He opens his eyes as Lan Wangji inhales sharply, meeting his eyes with a heated gaze of his own. “Kiss me.”

Lan Wangji does not need to be told twice, leaning forwards with a muted sound at the back of his throat—his lips tremble, breath stutters against his, damp and salty with tears. But as Wei Wuxian surrenders himself into Lan Wangji’s arms, he knows he would not have it any other way.

--

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[besanii]

Hi! if you'd like, I'd love to see number 6 (lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up) for your SM verse. Thanks!

Shattered Mirrors 58

Lan Wangji is standing by the window behind the desk, one arm tucked against the small of his back, the other resting by his side, when Wen Yuan enters the study. He turns as Wen Yuan gets to his knees and clasps his hands before him in a bow.

“Hanguang-wangye, you sent for me?”

“Wen Yuan.” Lan Wangji motions for him to rise. “I hear you are lodging at an inn in the city.”

Wen Yuan obediently rises to his feet and keeps his eyes lowered respectfully, though the smile on his face is warm and easy.

“Wangye heard correctly,” he replies. “It is only a modest inn, but it is clean and its furnishings sturdy. It is more than adequate.”

“That is good to hear.” After a pause, he adds: “There are rooms available here, if you do not mind that we are lacking in preparation. I’m sure Wei Ying would be pleased to have you stay here with us.”

Wen Yuan bows.

“Thank you, Wangye, for the generous offer,” he says. “But I do not wish to intrude. I am only here to deliver the antidote and call upon a few business associates, and then I will be on my way.”

“You do not plan to stay?” Lan Wangji asks, surprised.

Wen Yuan shakes his head and smiles.

“The nature of my business means I am constantly travelling,” he explains. “It’s the only life I’ve known—to be honest, Wangye, I’m not sure I would be suited to staying in one place for an extended period of time.”

To a man like Lan Wangji, whose identity is so deeply rooted in his nation, his people, the thought of not having a place to call home is unfathomable. Even during the years at war, when he had been constantly travelling along the front lines, Caiyi and Gusu had always lingered in the back of his mind, a constant, comforting promise. He remembers with a pang of guilt that Wen Yuan has not had a place to call home since he was very young.

“If your mind is made up on the matter, then I will not press the issue,” he says with a nod. Wen Yuan bows in thanks. “However, please know that the doors of Hanguang-wang-fu will always be open to you, should you wish to stay.”

“Wangye is too generous,” Wen Yuan murmurs. “This one is undeserving.”

There is something about the way he smiles—polite, detached, almost secretive—that stirs a faint sense of recognition in the recesses of Lan Wangji’s mind.

“Wen Yuan,” he begins, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “Have we met before?”

Wen Yuan’s smile grows wider, his eyes dancing with amusement.

“Does Wangye not remember?” he asks, the playfulness in his voice so similar to Wei Wuxian that Lan Wangji is reminded that this young man was practically raised under his husband’s wing. “This one was fortunate enough to meet Hanguang-wang when he was still Er-dianxia, near Jiangling.”

Jiangling. He had been stationed there for a while during the war, when they had been preparing to march on the Qishan Wen stronghold in Yiling. It was there they had received much-needed support from General Ouyang in Baling, enough to turn the tides of the stalemate they had been locked in for the better part of three months. They had discovered Wen Chao there, rotting away in his own filth, barely alive and out of his wits.

It was also there that he had received the first news of Wei Wuxian in over a year, a cryptic message delivered by a boy, along with a note—

“It was you,” he realises. “You were the messenger.”

Wen Yuan bows. “I was.”

The air rushes from Lan Wangji’s lungs and he steadies himself against the back of the chair. It was Wen Yuan, all those years ago, sent to him by a mysterious ally, who had also brought General Ouyang to their cause. And then General Ouyang had delivered them Wen Chao, the crucial element they needed to turn the tide of the war.

“And your master…” Lan Wangji looks up at him for confirmation, half-afraid of the answer. “Who is your master?”

Wen Yuan keeps smiling.

“I think Wangye already knows,” he says.

——

Wei Wuxian is asleep when he returns to their rooms, curled up under the covers as the warm afternoon sunlight spills in through the window by their bed. He has been sleeping poorly, plagued by nightmares and lingering pains from his illness—although the antidote has helped ease the latter quite significantly—and Lan Wangji is loathe to wake him. But the enormity of the new information fills him, threatening to burst out of his chest at the very sight of Wei Wuxian, alive and well before him, after so many years.

He sits down on the edge of the bed beside Wei Wuxian’s head and watches the rise and fall of his chest, soft and deep in slumber.

All these years he had gone without knowing what had happened to Wei Wuxian after he left Gusu, not knowing where he was after the fall of Yunmeng, if he was safe or captured or even dead. He had spent all these years desperately searching for Wei Wuxian, vowing to care for and protect him, to shield him from any further harm—when in fact, it had been Wei Wuxian who had protected him from the shadows this whole time.

He brushes back a lock of hair from his forehead gently, leans down to brush a tender kiss over his lips, and feels Wei Wuxian stir.

“Lan Zhan?” he mumbles, instinctively turning into his touch, eyes still closed.

Lan Wangji laughs softly, his eyes stinging.

“Yes, love,” he murmurs. “I’m here.”

Wei Wuxian opens his eyes and peers at him blearily, still clouded with sleep.

“What’s happening?” he asks. “What time is it?”

“Nothing, everything is fine,” Lan Wangji assures him. He presses another kiss to his forehead. “Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you for dinner.”

“Mm,” Wei Wuxian hums, letting his eyes drift closed again. “Will you stay with me?”

“Of course,” Lan Wangji says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He climbs under the covers and arranges them so Wei Wuxian is nestled in his arms, head pillowed on his chest, over his heart, warm and pliant and alive—

He pulls him a little closer, holds him a little tighter, presses his lips to the top of his head as the tears start to fall.

“Thank you,” he whispers hoarsely. “Thank you, Wei Ying.”

--

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[besanii]

shattered mirrors 57

WangXian ; 1676 words

[set after #40 ; directly precedes #19]

“Xian-ge, if you’re not feeling well, we can ask Wangye to come back another day,” Mo Xuanyu says worriedly.

Wei Wuxian shakes his head and gestures for him to pass the pot of rouge on the table. He dabs a tiny amount onto his finger and smears it lightly over the arc of his cheekbone, blending it in to add a touch of colour to his otherwise pale cheeks. The dark shadows beneath his eyes have receded enough to be hidden by creams and powders, and he adds a touch of rouge to his lips as well for good measure.

When he’s finished, Mo Xuanyu helps him into his outer robe, a wide-sleeved robe that drapes over his thin frame, rippling over the dark grey of his middle robes like water, falling to the knuckles of his slender hands. It’s one of his favourites for the way it appears almost black until it catches the light just so and the hidden blue-purple hues become visible; it had been a gift from a client, a wealthy merchant with a generous wallet and access to Qinghe’s finest silk mills.

He shakes out the sleeves one last time.

“Come,” he says. “We mustn’t keep Wangye waiting.”

Xiao Yan is standing outside the private suite when they arrive; she jumps at their approach and shifts nervously from one foot to another as she greets them. Wei Wuxian is immediately suspicious.

“Xiao Yan, what are you doing here?” he asks. “Are you not meant to be serving Honglian-jie?”

“Xian-gongzi,” she stammers. “Ho-Honglian-jie is—”

Her eyes dart guiltily to the closed doors and his insides grow cold. He looks over at Mo Xuanyu, who nods stiffly and pushes past her to throw the doors wide open.

“Xian-gongzi!” Xiao Yan cries out in protest. “You can’t—!”

Honglian’s blood-red lips curve into a smirk from where she’s seated at the table beside Lan Wangji, her body angled towards him as she rests her chin on the palm of one hand. The edge of her outer robe is slipping off one shoulder, exposing her pale skin in what would have otherwise been a seductive manner, if it weren’t for the muscle twitching in Lan Wangji’s jaw and the intensity of his gaze on the teacup in front of him. They aren’t quite touching, but the distance between them is negligible at best.

At the sound of the door slamming open, Lan Wangji looks up with an expression of relief. Wei Wuxian doesn’t spare him a glance as he locks eyes with Honglian.

“Honglian-jie,” he says pleasantly. “What a surprise. I believe your room is down the hall.”

“Xian-er,” she responds with equal pleasantness. “So good of you to join us! I was just telling Wangye about those stunning robes Yang-daye gave you—oh, you’re wearing them now. How lovely.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes narrow as they take in Wei Wuxian’s outfit and his lips press into a thin line, but he says nothing. Wei Wuxian draws closer to the table, the smile still playing on his lips.

“Oh, it really is nothing compared to the…gifts Honglian-jie receives from her clients,” he says, letting his gaze linger on the necklace of gold adorning her neck. The words drip from his tongue, sweet and syrupy. “In fact, it is quite hard not to notice, given how vocally you…sing their praises.”

He watches as the colour rises high in her cheeks as she pulls away from Lan Wangji, her expression stormy. There is a faint flush to Lan Wangji’s ears as well and the thin line of his lips curve downward at the corners in distaste—whether it is from the action itself or the vulgarity of his words, Wei Wuxian isn’t sure, but he feels a curl of satisfaction replace the ugly feeling in his chest at the sight.

“Now,” he continues. “I believe Honglian-jie has her own appointments to keep. Please, don’t let us delay you any longer. It would be terribly rude to keep them waiting.”

Honglian sniffs disdainfully.

“I am not the one keeping my clients waiting,” she says, one hand reaching up to run through a lock of her long, silky hair where it tumbles over her shoulder. “If you hadn’t taken your time getting ready, I wouldn’t be here keeping Wangye company. You really shouldn’t waste Wangye’s time and affections if you do not take them seriously, Xian-er. I am only doing you a favour—”

Whatever she says next is cut off as Lan Wangji surges to his feet, eyes blazing.

“Honglian-guniang,” he says stiffly. “As it seems your presence here was not by request, it is no longer required. You may leave us.”

Her mouth falls open in shock.

“But Wangye—”

“At once.”

Lan Wangji’s tone brooks no argument and Honglian is shameless, but not a fool. She pulls her robes closed and slides off her seat, dipping her knees and bowing her head low while muttering an apology between clenched teeth before fleeing the room. She casts one last baleful glare in Wei Wuxian’s direction as she passes, and he meets it with a chillingly polite smile of his own. The door slams behind her.

As soon as they are alone, Lan Wangji exhales.

“Wei Ying,” he begins. “She was only—”

“Wangye is free to enjoy the company of whomever he pleases,” Wei Wuxian says, his voice polite but abrupt. “Xian-er does not dare to monopolise Wangye’s time or person.” He makes no move to approach the table. “If Wangye would prefer the company of others this evening, then Xian-er will excuse himself.”

“No.”

Lan Wangji rounds the table in two quick strides to take his arm in a firm grip. Wei Wuxian’s breath hitches at the heat of his touch, the blood thrumming in his veins beneath the point of contact; Lan Wangji uses this opportunity to step in closer, until the hem of their robes brush against each other, his eyes heated.

“No, Wei Ying. That’s not what I meant,” he says fiercely, intently. “I want no other company but yours.”

They are close enough in proximity for Wei Wuxian to feel the caress of his voice against his skin, sending little thrills down his spine. He inhales sharply, blood rushing to his cheeks at the memory of last time he had been close enough to feel the heat of Lan Wangji’s body against his, the strength of his arms around him—how, in a moment of weakness, he had clung to him in desperation and begged him to stay.

The hand at his elbow slides across to rest against his lower back as Lan Wangji shifts even closer, his other hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair back from his face.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji murmurs, his eyes following the movement of his fingers as he traces the line of his jaw, his cheek, his brow with excruciating gentleness. “You have not been well.”

A statement, rather than a question. It jars Wei Wuxian from the haze that has clouded his mind like a splash of cold water and he flinches. He pushes Lan Wangji away with hands on his chest, bitterly aware of the futility of the action if Lan Wangji decides not to yield—but he yields, as he always does, however reluctantly, and allows him to step away.

“Thank you for your concern, Wangye,” he says with as much dignity as he can salvage with the tremble in his voice and the flush in his cheeks. He draws himself up to his full height. “I am much recovered.”

It is not a lie, but not quite the truth either. The incident at Wang Dafu’s party had left him bedridden for three days; he is well enough now to resume his work, but he is still taking medicine daily, enough to warrant the need to mask the bitter, biting smell with scented oils before entertaining. But no matter how he tries to disguise his illness, he knows it is not enough to fool Lan Wangji, not anymore.

And yet, Lan Wangji does not press, even though his fine brow is knitted with concern and his hand curls into a fists where it is still hovering in the space where Wei Wuxian had been only moments ago. He exhales.

“I am glad to hear it,” Lan Wangji says quietly. “If you require anything at all—I can arrange for the best physicians, medicines, herbs to be sent here for your use. You need only ask.”

Wei Wuxian dips his knee and bows his head.

“Wangye is too generous,” he murmurs. “Xian-er is undeserving.”

He hears the intake of breath and waits for Lan Wangji to speak, to protest as he has done in the past. He is surprised by the twinge of disappointment he feels when it does not come, and masks it by rounding the table to place distance between them.

“Forgive me, Wangye, I have neglected my duties as your host,” he says with a smile. “Please, come take a seat. I will have the servants bring us a fresh pot of tea.”

He busies himself with the task as Lan Wangji takes a seat, grateful for the distraction. By the time he is seated beside Lan Wangji, he has regained his composure enough to look him in the eyes again.

To his surprise, Lan Wangji is the first to speak once they are settled.

“I have prepared something for you today,” he says. Wei Wuxian smiles.

“Oh?” he laughs lightly. “I thought it was my job to entertain you, Wangye—”

Lan Wangji reaches into his sleeve and draws out a slim box, placing it on the table before Wei Wuxian. His fingers fumble with the clasp, and he looks uncharacteristically nervous as he sits back and waits for Wei Wuxian’s reaction.

“I have been meaning to give this to you for a while,” he says. “I hope you will accept it.”

--

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[besanii]

Ooh in SM verse, if wwx is gonna be marrying from lgy's manor, does that mean lwj's gonna have to part with him at least for a few days leading up to the wedding? Its a good thing lgy isn't easily cowed ny lwj, I cant imagine he'd be super happy about that🤭

Shattered Mirrors 55

[follows on from 45, just before 41]

Hanguang Manor is bustling with activity in the days leading up to the wedding. Reams and reams of red silk cover the walls and pillars, interspersed with banners of red and gold stuck on the windows with expressions of love and happiness and fortune. The entire household is buzzing with excitement—it is, after all, the first major event to be hosted in all the years since Lan Wangji had established his own residence outside of the Imperial Palace—brought to life by the flurry of preparations and the constant stream of visitors coming and going throughout the day.

The only person who does not seem pleased by it all is Lan Wangji, who stands in the middle of the parlour of Wei Wuxian’s rooms as servants pack things away into boxes.

“It’s only for a week,” Wei Wuxian tells him, resting a hand on his arm in a placating fashion. “You won’t even notice I’m gone with how much needs to be done over here.”

“I would,” Lan Wangji replies with a hint of petulance. He glares at the boxes stacked by the doorway.

Wei Wuxian smothers a laugh in his sleeve.

“I won’t be that far away,” he says. “Jing-junwang-fu is only a few streets away. I’m sure you can visit any time you like.”

Lan Wangji’s expression darkens at the mention of Lan Guoyan, but says nothing. Wei Wuxian, however, is familiar with the look; he nudges Lan Wangji with his shoulder and offers him a questioning little smile. Lan Wangji sighs, defeated.

“It would not be appropriate,” Lan Wangji says finally.

His tone is stiff and rehearsed, with the air of something that has been repeatedly recited. It immediately piques Wei Wuxian’s interest. He knows Lan Wangji prefers to observe traditions and customs wherever possible, especially now that he has flouted so many of them for his sake, so it would not be surprising for him to compromise on this one little detail despite his obvious reluctance. But the slight downturn of his lips is new, as is the tiny crinkle of his nose.

“Oh.” He’s seen this behaviour before. “Yan-ge won’t let you.”

The noise he gets in response is almost a grumble.

“He has threatened to deploy his household guard.”

“He wouldn’t dare!” Wei Wuxian laughs, half in shock and half in amusement. “He would not be able to justify it to Huangshang. It wouldn’t be worth the hassle.”

The frown on Lan Wangji’s face eases a little, but he does not look convinced.

“He would disagree,” he says.

The laughter catches in his throat as Lan Wangji continues to glare at the boxes, and he has to turn away to hide the wide smile threatening to split his face in half. It still manages to bubble over into a quiet snort, no more than a tiny huff of air from his nose, but still loud enough for Lan Wangji’s ears to redden when he hears it. Wei Wuxian curls a finger over his lips to control his expression, before darting forward and pressing his lips to Lan Wangji’s cheek; an arm curls around him instinctively to keep him close, a large hand resting on the small of his back as his laughter brushes across heated skin.

“It would take more than Jing-junwang’s household guard to keep me from your side,” he murmurs into Lan Wangji’s ear. His lips curl into a smirk as he adds: “Er-lang.”

Lan Wangji inhales sharply.

“Wei Ying,” he says, strangled. His eyes squeeze shut as he exhales. “Behave.”

But the arm around him only tightens, and his body shifts to accommodate Wei Wuxian’s as he steps into the circle of his arms. A comfortable silence falls between them—even the servants had quietly left the room in the midst of the packing to give them some privacy—as they stand in the middle of the parlour, content just to savour each other’s presence. Wei Wuxian turns to press his face into Lan Wangji’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent of sandalwood and ink, letting it wash over his senses until his heart feels full to bursting, and his eyes and nose sting with unshed tears.

The change does not go unnoticed, but when Lan Wangji moves to draw back in concern, he’s stopped by Wei Wuxian latching on harder.

“Wei Ying?” he ventures. “Is something the matter?”

Wei Wuxian sniffs and shakes his head, his face still buried in Lan Wangji’s collar.

“It’s nothing,” he says thickly. “I’m just…it’s a little overwhelming.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji agrees, his other hand reaching up to press against the back of Wei Wuxian’s head lightly. “But good, yes?”

“Good,” Wei Wuxian repeats with a sigh. “Definitely good.”

--

Notes:

er-lang (二郎) - an affectionate address similar to er-gege, most often used between married couples

--

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shattered mirrors 53

WangXian ; 1386 words

[set before #02]

The first sign of trouble rears its head when the clothing Mo Xuanyu had taken downstairs to be laundered comes back with a large tear along the sleeve. The cut is too clean, too large, too prominent, to have been accidental, but there is little they can do when they do not know who the perpetrator is, so Wei Wuxian sends Mo Xuanyu to the tailor to see if they are able to salvage the garment at all.

Later that day, one of his favourite headpieces—one with red stones set in a silver band, one of the very first gifts he had purchased for himself in this new life—is found broken on the floor beneath his dressing table, one of the stones cracked and partially dislodged. Mo Xuanyu lets out a frustrated cry when he sees it and stomps about the room with helpless anger as Wei Wuxian examines the broken pieces in his hands.

“We can’t let them get away with it, Xian-ge!” he says. “First the robes Zhao-daye gave you, then your favourite zanzi?”

He’s right, of course. In the weeks since they’d set up shop here at Caiyi Pavilion, Wei Wuxian has been on the receiving end of baleful glares and jealous whispers, which had only worsened after Lan Wangji had started frequenting the establishment. It is understandable: he’d been here only a matter of weeks and had managed to not only bring in a whole slew of new patrons, but also taken a few existing clients from his colleagues without even trying. He would be more surprised if they weren’t resentful of his presence.

“Leave them be, A-Yu,” he says, setting aside the headpiece in a box. “Trinkets and robes can be replaced. No need to get so worked up about it.”

Mo Xuanyu huffs. “Xian-ge, if you don’t do something soon, they’ll just take more and more liberties! They’ll break your things now, but what if they come for you next time?”

Wei Wuxin smiles and passes him the box.

“Patience,” he says. “We don’t know who is behind all of this yet. Let’s not strike the grass and alert the snake.”

The next few days are relatively uneventful—the resentful looks and gossip continues, but there is no further damage to his property, and he carries on with his usual routine as if nothing had happened. They manage to get the headpiece repaired by a skilled craftsman and the robes modified to hide the tear, and he shows off both during the day as they all make their preparations for that night’s business. It doesn’t take long for one of his colleagues to take the bait.

“Xian-er, you must tell me where you purchased that zanzi,” she gushes, circling around him to get a better look. “It is absolutely exquisite.”

She is easily half a head shorter than he is and has to crane her neck to see, but he stays still and keeps his hands tucked into his sleeves as she inspects the headpiece. They are in the middle of the main hall where the servants are cleaning and polishing and rearranging furniture while there are no clients to get in the way. The other courtesans mill around in various states of preparation, still in their day clothes, eyeing the two of them with interest.

“Honglian-jie is too generous in her praise,” Wei Wuxian says with feigned warmth. “This is just a trinket I bought at the market on a whim, only recently repaired after an unfortunate incident. It is nowhere close to the value of the gold buyao you wear.”

“Oh, this little thing?” she says with a simpering laugh. “Just a small gift from a devoted client, nothing special.”

Honglian’s lips curve upwards with all the satisfaction of a spoilt cat as she reaches up with one hand to finger the ends of the gold hairpiece that dangles from the twist in her hair. It is a fine piece of jewellery, as far as jewellery goes, and it flatters her pretty neck just so as she moves; he knows there are other girls in the brothel who eye it with barely concealed envy, but he supposes that is the intention. Already now he catches Caiqiao, one of the more popular girls in the establishment, rolling her eyes from where she is sitting at a nearby table with a plate of osmanthus cakes.

“Not all of us are lucky enough to have such generous clients like yours, Honglian-jie,” he insists. “I had to buy this piece of scrap out of my own pocket.”

He watches as her eyes light up at the bit of bait he’s tossed to her; she laughs, high and breathy, and shakes her head.

“Now, Xian-er, you must be teasing,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to ask you to teach me a few tricks. It seems that, when it comes to attracting and pleasing clients, no one can boast themselves better than you.”

Her smile turns sharp and pointed, her voice silky and heavy with connotations. The other girls within earshot have gone still, their bodies poised in the tell-tale way eavesdroppers always have when pretending to do otherwise; it is so predictable that Wei Wuxian has to smother a laugh in his sleeve.

“Honglian-jie, you flatter me,” he says, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “I use no more technique or tricks than any in this trade. Perhaps I have just had more luck than most in recent days.”

“You’re being too humble, Xian-er,” Honglian tells him. Her voice is simpering and pleasant, but her eyes are hard. “We all know it takes more than just luck to seduce Hanguang-wangye, who is known to be cold and untouchable as ice. Won’t you pity your sisters and share the details of your great conquest?”

The girls around them titter with amusement and curiosity at her words, all pretences forgotten as they lean in to catch his reply. When none comes, Honglian clicks her tongue and shakes her head.

“Xian-er, ah, Xian-er,” she sighs, sliding forward to loop her arm around his in a sisterly fashion. “Let me give you a word of advice, as the former huakui of Caiyi Pavilion: you mustn’t be selfish. We are all sisters here, in this business, and it is the nature of sisters to share what they have.”

Her nails dig into his arm where they rest over the sleeve—they are painted a deep red to match her lip rouge, and contrast against the pale grey of his robes—but he does not humour her with a reaction. Instead, he rests his other hand over hers and pats it gently, in the same way a parent may do to reassure a child.

“I will keep your wisdom in my mind, Honglian-jie,” he tells her. “But I fear whatever details I share will be of no use to our sisters. Hanguang-wangye is not so easily won over by simple tricks or seduction employed by any common courtesan. Indeed, I myself do not presume to know all his likes and dislikes. What I do know is this—”

He leans in close to whisper his next words in her ear.

“He abhors deception.” She stills beneath his hands, eyes wide as his breath ghosts over her. “It’s in his title: hanguang. The bearer of light. Someone as upstanding and righteous as Hanguang-wangye would not look twice at those who employ underhanded tactics to achieve selfish means.”

He gives her hand one last pat and pries it off his arm.

“If you come to my rooms later, I will give you the name of the craftsman who repaired my zanzi,” he tells her with a friendly smile, loud enough for the others to hear. “He did an excellent job, considering its sorry state when we brought it to him. Perhaps you’ll have need of his services in the future.”

He reaches up to brush the gold hairpiece, letting the ends fall over his fingers as he smiles down at her. She stares up at him, frozen in place even as he inclines his head in farewell.

“Come, A-Yu,” he says, motioning for Mo Xuanyu to follow. “Let’s leave them to their preparations.”

--

Notes:

zanzi (簪子) - decorative hairpins worn by women

daye (大爷) - Master, usually used for rich, idle men

buyao (步摇) - decorative hairpiece with dangling ornaments that sway as the wearer walks (literally means ‘swaying with each step’)

Also two random OCs who might not appear again, but needed names for Reasons: Honglian (红莲) and Caiqiao (彩繑). They were the former “top” courtesans of Caiyi Pavilion before WWX arrived, so hold a bit of a grudge against him for stealing their spotlight.

--

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[besanii]

I'm really curious about lwj meeting a-yuan. I mean, they met in the past, will lwj recognize him? Will he finally learn about wwx's involvement with the eyes of god?

There is a young man sitting by the bed with Wei Wuxian’s wrist between his fingers when Lan Wangji enters the room. His first thought is danger—they may be married now, but there are still those who oppose the union, and Wei Wuxian’s presence in his life, both socially and politically—and he immediately shifts to a more guarded stance: shoulders back, feet planted, eyes focused on the stranger in such close proximity with his consort. But then Wei Wuxian laughs quietly and shakes his head fondly and the fear eases enough to allow the tension to bleed from his person as he takes another step into the room.

Wei Wuxian spots him first, over his visitor’s shoulder, and his smile widens with delight.

“Lan Zhan, you’re home,” he says, beckoning him closer with his free hand. “Come, I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

It is easy to be swept up in the moment when Wei Wuxian is brimming with joy; Lan Wangji had always been helpless against it when they were youths, even more so now that they are married. There is nothing he would deny him—could deny him—if it means bringing Wei Wuxian joy. He’s already walking forward, reaching out to take his hand without a thought, brushing his lips over his knuckles tenderly. The casual display of affection never fails to bring colour to Wei Wuxian’s cheeks, a fact that Lan Wangji has learned only very recently and resolved to utilise as often as possible.

“Wei Ying,” he murmurs. “How are you feeling today?”

“Better,” Wei Wuxian says, slightly breathless. He clears his throat and gestures for Lan Wangji to take a seat beside him on the bed. “Lan Zhan, this is A-Yuan. He is…an old friend.”

The young man slips off the stool by the bed and sinks to his knees, clasping his hands in front of him in a formal bow.

“Wen Yuan greets Hanguang-wangye,” he says.

Lan Wangji stiffens. “Wen?”

Wei Wuxian squeezes his hand and gives a tiny shake of the head as Wen Yuan continues.

“Please be assured that I mean you no harm, Wangye,” he says. He lifts his head to allow Lan Wangji a proper look at his face; his eyes are bright and clear, no hint of deception in them that he can see. “My bogong was Yiling-hou, Wen Ruoheng.”

Wen Ruoheng, the Marquess of Yiling, Wen Ruohan’s younger cousin. From memory, Wen Ruoheng had not been a major participant in the war, choosing instead to remain neutral for as long as possible before Wen Ruohan had strong-armed him into obeying. Even then, Lan Wangji had known the man to be nothing but honourable to friend and foe alike and had held great respect for him until Jin Guangshan had ordered his execution before anyone had had the chance to defend him.

That his line had survived the genocide that followed the war and is here in this room with Wei Wuxian…it was difficult to believe. He catches Wei Wuxian’s look of concern out of the corner of his eye and pats his hand reassuringly; he motions for Wen Yuan to rise.

“How did you come to be here?” he asks. “According to the reports from Lanling Jin back then, Jin Zixun had left no survivors.”

At the mention of Jin Zixun, both Wei Wuxian and Wen Yuan’s expressions darken. The man has been dead for almost ten years now, but it seems their hatred of him has not lessened in the slightest. Lan Wangji had had very few dealings with him before his death, most of their interactions had been perfunctory at best—formal greetings at state banquets that had little value to them outside of social niceties—but he had witnessed a few of his more…unsavoury characteristics in the aftermath of the war.

“We left Yiling when I was very young,” Wen Yuan explains. “My father was the younger son of a concubine. He was never really favoured and didn’t have an affinity for the military arts, so after I was born, he took my mother and I to Chongyang. We lived as peasants, as doctors, along with members of other branches of the Wen clan.”

The smile on Wei Wuxian’s face turns wistful.

“That’s where we met,” he tells Lan Wangji. “ I stumbled across their settlement while out surveying the farmlands with my parents. A-Yuan was only three then. I must have been about ten or so, but he liked to follow me everywhere like a little duckling!”

The thought of a ten-year-old Wei Wuxian, still yet to outgrow the baby fat on his cheeks, with an even younger child clutching the hem of his robes, brings a soft smile to Lan Wangji’s face. He glances over at Wei Wuxian when he feels a weight against his shoulder as he tucks himself against Lan Wangji’s side; his heart skips a beat, as it unfailingly does every time Wei Wuxian welcomes his touch, and his ears heat.

Wen Yuan ducks his head politely to hide his own smile.

“Xian-gege would come to visit us quite often while we were growing up,” he says. “He even had me enrolled in school when I was old enough, and personally taught me how to use a sword. He taught me everything I know. I owe my whole life to him.”

“Ah, that’s an exaggeration,” Wei Wuxian says, embarrassed. “I did what I could, but the rest was all you, A-Yuan.”

“Without Xian-gege, A-Yuan would not be alive today,” Wen Yuan insists. “I pledged my life to your service once before and I’ll do it again. I’m not a child anymore, Xian-gege. You can’t stop me.”

Wei Wuxian laughs helplessly in the face of his determination, but Lan Wangji can see the pleasure and fondness in his eyes. He does not yet know the full extent of their history, but he is grateful nonetheless to see Wen Yuan’s unwavering devotion to Wei Wuxian. He beckons for him to rise and resume his seat by the bed.

“Wen Yuan,” he says, once the younger man is settled. “You said you owed Wei Ying your life. What happened?”

Something unspoken passes between Wen Yuan and Wei Wuxian as they exchange glances; although he does not pull away, Wei Wuxian sits up straighter and lifts his head from Lan Wangji’s shoulder, his grey eyes somber. But it is Wen Yuan who speaks, his words careful and measured.

“When the war broke out, my family was still in Chongyang,” he says. “Anti-Wen sentiments were growing stronger by the day, and we were only a very small settlement. Bogong insisted we move back to Yiling, where he could protect us. But not everyone could go—those who were too old, too weak to travel. In the end, only a handful of people decided to leave. My parents and I stayed behind with the rest.”

His hands curl into fists in his lap.

“We stayed for as long as we could,” he continues, staring at his lap. “And Xian-gege helped as much as he was able: getting us food, speaking up for us when others wanted to use us against Qishan, protecting us against people who tried to take their anger and hatred of the Wen out on us. But he couldn’t protect all of us, not forever.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes drift closed as if in pain, and Lan Wangji’s arm tightens around his waist comfortingly; Wen Yuan continues speaking, his eyes distant and unseeing.

“My parents begged him to take me away, to keep me safe. But then…not even a few months later, a mob attacked our settlement in the middle of the night and burned it to the ground.” A chill runs down Lan Wangji’s spine as he raises his head to meet his eyes. “There were no survivors.”

The look in his eyes is familiar—Lan Wangji has seen it in his own reflection, in Wei Wuxian’s, and in the faces of countless others, both during and after the war. Haunted by ghosts and shadows, struggling to piece together fragments of their old lives. He inclines his head, a gesture of empathy that Wen Yuan accepts with a nod of his own before he continues.

“Xian-gege kept me by his side, told everyone I was his protege, that he was training me to be a soldier. That way, no one would question who I was, or try to hurt me.” He looks to Wei Wuxian then, guilt and regret warring on his face. “I was not in Yunmeng when it fell. I—I wasn’t there to protect you, Xian-gege. I’m sorry.”

Wen Yuan slides from the seat and onto his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor. Wei Wuxian exhales around an aborted noise of protest, his lower lip trembling as his eyes grow wet.

“No, it wasn’t your fault, A-Yuan,” he says, voice choked by his tone fierce. “No one could have known what would happen. You were only doing what I had told you to do. It’s not your fault.”

It is an old argument, Lan Wangji surmises from the way they speak. An old argument that has been going on for years, best left to the people involved for a resolution. He strokes his thumb over Wei Wuxian’s hip, grounding him with his touch.

“Where have you been since the war?” he asks instead. It successfully cuts through the silent argument between the other two, and Wen Yuan turns his attention back to Lan Wangji.

“Travelling, Wangye,” he says. “Doing my part to aid survivors. Searching for…”

He breaks off with a questioning look at Wei Wuxian, who turns also to Lan Wangji and takes hold of his hands.

“Lan Zhan,” he says. “I told you I had been taken prisoner after Yunmeng fell. Do you remember?”

Lan Wangji nods, his whole body going rigid at the memory. Wei Wuxian hesitates, looking down at their hands before he takes a deep, shuddering breath and meets his eyes again.

“I haven’t told you everything,” he confesses quietly.

Notes:

Yiling-hou (夷陵侯) - Marquess of Yiling, Wen Ruoheng (温若恒)

Yet another OC - think of him as like a nice version of Wen Ruohan. In canon, Wen Qing and Wen Ning are children of WRH’s favourite younger cousin and A-Yuan is the son of one of their other cousins (Wen Ning mentions that A-Yuan looks like his 堂弟 - a younger male cousin on his father’s side - and I’ve taken this to mean he is Wen Yuan’s father).

bogong (伯公) - great-uncle (father’s father’s older brother)

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shattered mirrors 49

WangXian ; 1729 words

The low table by the window catches his eye the moment he walks into the room. It stands a little over knee height and a metre in length, with flowing clouds engraved along the edges of the paulownia wood; the slip of light blue silk draped across the top is embroidered with silver characters he recognises as musical notations for the guqin. The instrument itself is missing, but he knows instinctively the owner of the instrument without confirmation.

He allows himself a small smile as he traces the notations on the silk until he hears footsteps in the corridor and retracts his hand quickly; moments later, Lan Wangji walks into the room. A young man follows a step behind, carrying the guqin in its white wrappings on his back. Wei Wuxian dips his knee in welcome.

“Wangye,” he says, lowering his gaze. “Welcome back.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji greets him in that stubborn way of his, refusing to call him anything but with the name he had long discarded. “Have you been well?”

Hands slide beneath his elbows to help him to a standing position; he raises his eyes to meet Lan Wangji’s through his lashes and offers a sweet little smile.

“Xian-er is very well today, thank you very much for asking, Wangye,” he replies demurely. “Please, have a seat. I’ll pour the tea.”

One of the large hands at his elbow shifts to his back, its gentle pressure guiding him over to the larger table in the centre of the sitting room. He shies away as Lan Wangji moves closer to help into the seat, masking the way his breath hitches with a soft laugh when his fingers trail over the sensitive skin of his palm, instead reaching for the tray at the centre of the table. Lan Wangji holds himself still as Wei Wuxian moves away, his fingers curling into fists and lowering back to his side; he sinks into the seat quietly and keeps his eyes fixed on the cup that is placed before him.

The sharp fragrance of the tea is immediately familiar, as is the light hue of the tea itself in the fine ceramic cup.

“Wangye seemed to enjoy the Longjing we served on your last visit, so I took the liberty of serving it again,” Wei Wuxian explains when he notices the focus of Lan Wangji’s attention. “I hope I have not been too presumptuous.”

“No,” Lan Wangji says. “Not at all.”

Wei Wuxian smiles as he takes his seat beside him, the folds of his pearl-grey robes settling around him with a sigh. It is not a colour he usually wears, but the material was a gift from one of his wealthier clients and he had been insistent on seeing him wear it—afterwards, well…it would have been a shame to waste a beautiful set of robes. He turns his attention instead to the young man hovering just inside the doorway, turned away from them politely, the guqin resting on the floor in front of him, held up between his hands.

“What have you brought with you today, Wangye?” he asks.

“I thought we might have some music,” Lan Wangji says, raising a hand. “Jingyi.”

The young man jumps at being addressed out of the blue and turns to Lan Wangji with a quick bow before carrying the guqin over to the small table. The care with which he unwraps the instrument is offset by the way his eyes dart back and forth between his task and Wei Wuxian with interest; Wei Wuxian inclines his head politely in his direction when their eyes meet and he flushes, fingers fumbling over the tassels as he sets the guqin on the table. The thud it makes is loud enough to make the poor boy wince and Lan Wangji’s eyes narrow, but the task is otherwise completed without further issue and he backs away quickly.

“Wangye,” he says with a low bow. Lan Wangji inclines his head.

“Thank you, Jingyi, please leave us.” He turns back to Wei Wuxian as the boy leaves the room quietly. “Please excuse him, he is…excitable.”

Wei Wuxian laughs softly. “He is still very young, Wangye.”

“He is old enough to learn the values of restraint,” Lan Wangji replies with a frown. “And he carries the name of the Imperial family. He would do well to learn the lesson early.”

A twinge of sadness passes through Wei Wuxian at those words and for a moment he looks at Lan Wangji and sees the seventeen-year-old boy behind the man, tall and proud and so very lonely. Once upon a time he had hoped to chase away the loneliness in those eyes, had promised to never leave his side—but the promises of children have always been foolish, and they are so very different from who they once were. But regret is an emotion he prefers not to dwell upon, so he laughs again and rises from his seat to inspect the guqin.

“This is a very fine instrument,” he says admiringly. “Is it yours, Wangye?”

The instrument is carved from the finest paulownia wood in the simple, elegant Zhong Ni style, with blue clouds curling across the smooth, dark lacquer on either side of the strings. There is the tiniest of dents in the lacquer just above the bridge, no bigger than the tip of a hairpin, that catches his eye—a pang of recognition makes his heart clench, and he passes over the spot quickly in favour of plucking the first string. A clear, mellow note rings out from the guqin.

“Yes,” Lan Wangji replies, watching him carefully. “It has been passed down in my family for generations.”

But you already know this, goes unsaid.

“I have long heard the qin of the Gusu Imperial Family are unmatched in all the kingdoms,” Wei Wuxian says, feigning ignorance with the lightness of his tone. “Er-wangye especially. I confess my own skills are sub-par in comparison.”

“You play?” Lan Wangji asks, surprised. Wei Wuxian looks at him with a playful little smile.

“Only very little,” he says with a hint of embarrassment. “I would not dare to compare myself to someone as talented as yourself, Wangye.”

“I would love to hear you play,” Lan Wangji tells him. The sincerity in his voice makes his heart ache. “If you are willing, of course.”

Wei Wuxian inclines his head. “If that is your wish, Wangye, then Xian-er will display my inadequacy and play a piece for you.”

He shakes out his sleeves and takes a seat in front of the guqin. He adjusts the tuning quickly for his chosen piece, his fingers darting over the strings and the hui with practised ease, each harmonic ringing loud and clear. When it is properly tuned to his liking, Wei Wuxian takes a deep breath and places his hands in position.

The piece he chooses is slow and sorrowful, a song of parting, and he plays each note with careful deliberation: lingering with each downward slide, ending each phrase with a trembling note. It is a piece he knows well and plays often, pouring a little of himself with each new interpretation of the score, coaxing the yearning of the original poem from silk strings against fine wood. When the last note fades into silence, he releases the breath he had been holding, the ache in his chest petering with the music. Only then does he dare to look up at Lan Wangji.

“Yangguan Sandie,” Lan Wangji murmurs. There is an odd light in his eyes Wei Wuxian cannot place. “Why did you select this piece?”

“It is one of my favourites, Wangye,” Wei Wuxian says, resting his fingers lightly on the strings. “I will admit it is one of the simpler pieces, but the merit of a song should lie in the feelings it evokes in the listener rather than the complexity of the technique—wouldn’t you agree, Wangye?

“‘The fragrant wine is limited, but this regret is boundless’,” he continues, when Lan Wangji does not answer. “‘Boundless grief, grief, and grief again.”

He lowers his eyes and draws his hands back into his lap. His chest feels hollowed out, empty, and he is grateful for the table’s edge that hides the way his hands tremble. Perhaps it had been the wrong piece to play, he thinks in the wake of Lan Wangji’s silence, he should have picked something livelier instead of a song of the yearning, heartbreak and sorrow of farewell—

“‘After today’s parting, in both places our mutual yearning will grow’.” His heart stops at the sound of Lan Wangji’s voice, deep and warm and gentle as he murmurs the words. “‘But to whom can we speak them?’”

The words hang in the space between them, weighted with meaning. Wei Wuxian stands up, heat rising to his cheeks as his heart thrums in his chest; he moves over to the open window in a bid to hide his face, careful to keep his movements casual despite their swiftness. Lan Wangji remains by the guqin table, watching him silently, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

“The song is one of your favourites,” he says thoughtfully. Wei Wuxian curses himself internally for giving even that little fragment of information away. After a pause, Lan Wangji exhales. “It has also brought me great comfort over the years.”

Wei Wuxian forces himself to laugh, turning around to face Lan Wangji again.

“Now that I have demonstrated my mediocre abilities on the qinin front of a great master such as yourself,” he says, pitching his voice higher as he smiles. “I believe it is your turn, Wangye.”

Lan Wangji hums.

“I am no master at the craft,” he disagrees, taking the seat Wei Wuxian has vacated. “Merely one who is dedicated in its practice.”

“Begging your pardon, Wangye, but I have heard very differently,” Wei Wuxian tells him with a teasing smile. The flirtations come easier now that his heart has settled again, and he is able to meet Lan Wangji’s eyes with his usual humour. “I am very honoured to be able to have Hanguang-wangye play for me personally.”

Lan Wangji smiles, his eyes already turned to the guqin.

“If it pleases you to hear it,” he says quietly, “I will play for you every day.”

Notes:

hui - the note scales on the guqin (similar to frets on a guitar), marking places of positive integer dividends of the string length

Zhong Ni style - one possible shape of a guqin. It is the one I’ve found most similar to Wangji as it is drawn in the donghua

Yangguan Sandie (阳关三叠) - Three Refrains on Yang Pass, a song inspired by a poem by Wang Wei that laments the parting of friends [ WATCH ON YT: / watch?v=nHNdgfoxvvo ]

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