#managed to hold off wen zhuliu to allow madame yu and the boys to escape

[the-demon-under-my-bed]

Unpopular opinion but Jinzhu and Yinzhu are under appreciated characters in MDZS. For a show that already has like 3 named female characters, they are quickly forgotten about by the fandom. Like, Yu Ziyuan has 2 childhood besties who follow her everywhere? They only serve her? THEY ARE LITERAL ASSASSINS? Badass bitches. They have like 10 collective seconds of screen time but they are actually so important to me. Are they sisters? platonic? lesbians? all of the above somehow? no answers! But i lpve them they are just always standing there menacingly.

[this-haunting-hunger]

fic: don’t take this haunting home III

Wei Ying lives with many ghosts. It's usually not a problem. He used to be one himself, after all. However, ghosts have one glaring fault, and it is this: they are, by definition, people who refuse to stay completely dead.

And as far as Wei Ying is concerned, some dead people should stay that way.

Chapters: One, Two, Three

Content: angst, violence, ghosts

Pairing: Wangxian

Length: 5000

read on ao3

//

It’s a little funny, and a little unfair, how immediately he regrets his decision. In another place, he might even have laughed, the kind of laugh that stings the throat and barely keeps back tears or screaming. But Wei Ying isn’t doing any laughing, now. No crying, either. He’s just along for the ride.

And what a horrible ride it’s already promising to be.

He – they – are staring down at a crumpled heap of robes that spread out in pale lilac waves, a series of delicate purple petals, trodden on and discarded. Except that the petals are moving, little wracking shivers, and the dishevelled cascade of black hair masking the face of the man on the floor stirs with his violent, heaving breaths. Each sob seems to struggle to claw its way out from the man’s lungs, so broken that it’s impossible not to imagine that something is broken on the inside, too.

Besides, Wei Ying doesn’t have to imagine. Wen Zhuliu knows, and so does he. Jiang Cheng’s core had made no sound when it imploded, but the man had screamed, his last coherent plea leaping seamlessly from words to a tortured, animal noise. Wen Zhuliu remembers, and so does Wei Ying, deep in his chest and far beyond anything so mundane as an explanation, but not like this. Not as the culprit, standing over his victim with things like regret and guilt and pity flitting on the edge of consciousness, shoved there by colder realities, by things like necessity and orders and obedience.

It is a very good thing that Wei Ying had no ability to see this before he started Empathy, because if he had, the hate that’s crackling through his mind would have made it impossible to do anything but tear Wen Zhuliu apart. With his bare hands, if necessary.

As it is, Wen Zhuliu’s perspective is like a runaway horse, ripping him off his feet with his hands caught in the halter. He has no time to stabilize himself within the man’s memories. With a nausea-inducing rush, the scene changes, Jiang Cheng bleeding away in a blur of purple. While that disappearance is welcome, the face that comes abruptly into focus is not. If Wen Zhuliu thought his feelings of contempt and dislike as he looked at Wen Chao would make Wei Ying feel better about any of this, he was very mistaken. Actually, it’s a good thing that Wei Ying isn’t in control of this body right now, or they would have toppled over dead; he’s so enraged that he can’t breathe, the crippling heat catching in his throat and making him choke.

But his fury can’t touch the past. Wen Chao sits at the entrance of Sword’s Hall like he belongs there, and his drunken declaration about triumphing over Jiang Clan, along with the sight of the vicious tramp clinging to his arm, leaves Wei Ying seething in vain.

It’s clear they’re celebrating their victory at Lotus Pier, and Wen Zhuliu is part of the throng of soldiers, settled at their little tables as if they aren’t sitting on the stains of the blood they’d spilled only hours ago. Wei Ying is very nearly grateful the bodyguard doesn’t look around much, his eyes mostly set straight in front of him. It means that he only sees the strung up bodies of Sect Leader Jiang and Madam Yu in little glances, red-flecked moments so brief that he almost convinces himself they’re hallucinations. Stress induced nightmares. Almost.

The memory of disgust – almost physical repulsion – from Wen Zhuliu hasn’t faded any. Caught up in the man’s mind, Wei Ying can feel with cold clarity just how much he despises Wen Chao, even resents him. How much deeper that resentment goes, directed inwards and burgeoning into full blown self-loathing. The emotions are like sludge at the bottom of a pond, murky and stifling, and there’s nothing above it but the crystal clear waters of Wen Zhuliu’s self-control. Again, that ironclad necessity.

But necessary why? What makes him sit here and… The question splinters, dissolves into Wen Zhuliu’s mind as the man’s attention sharpens and he shifts to look impassively at Wen Chao. Wei Ying can’t hold on to his selfhood against the steady wash of foreign impressions he’s wading through. The next thought isn’t his own, though for a dizzying moment he’s not absolutely certain of that. It seems pretty similar to something that would cross his mind.

What does he want now? Should I wipe his face for him, the spoiled brat?

Wen Chao is saying something about taking a drink. About Wen Zhuliu deserving it, given his part in taking down Lotus Pier. More resentment and repugnance. More restraint. Wen Zhuliu reminds himself of the thing that he can never forget – the thing that he’s remembered so often that it has no real label in his mind, just sits there as an unexamined, formless fact – and curls his hand around the previously untouched cup. Brings it to his lips. And smells, almost immediately, the subtle, slightly-too-acerbic scent of the powder Wen Ning had poured into the alcohol.

Caught up in a sudden surge of emotions, drawn into Wen Zhuliu’s perspective, Wei Ying barely has the cognitive power to be confused, to wonder how Wen Ning had managed to drug everyone if the bodyguard had noticed his attempt. The thoughts flow too fast to completely follow, something like gritty shock morphing into speculative interest becoming vague approval. There’s a moment of hesitation, as Wen Zhuliu considers a scale of loyalty and humanity and decides which side weighs heavier. He doubts anyone could blame him for allowing this to happen, at least with any validity. That decides him. With something like a mental shrug that displaces all the suspicion and speculation, the bodyguard swallows the liquor in one quaff.

He tastes the powder as it goes down. Makes no move to alert Wen Chao. Just sits in calm acceptance, relief warming the icy self-disgust even as the drug billows out in soft clouds through his system. There’s no regret in Wen Zhuliu. He’s doing the right thing. Hopes someone will have the opportunity to rescue the boy he broke. Jiaying would approve. And Mingxia…

The hazy faces attached to those names melt as the memory does, too quickly for any kind of recognition or absorption, and Wei Ying loses them. Loses everything while they spiral into the next experience. More and more, he feels like liquid cupped in a palm, gradually trickling over the edges. Or – like blood from a wound submerged in water, seeping out and disintegrating in the overwhelmingly vast presence of something else.

That’s the danger in merging with someone else’s soul; do it too well or stay too long, and you start to forget where your scars end and the rest of the world begins.

Wei Ying he hears from a voice that isn’t his own but belongs to him all the same, and then Wen Zhuliu is seated on a bench in the shade of a pavilion. It’s off to the side of a walled courtyard, surrounded by a gorgeous bloom of flowers and trees cut through with minimal paths. There are a few people dressed in simple white and red robes strolling about the garden, and they bow to him with deep but friendly respect when they pass by. He returns the gesture, fondness softening the by-now familiar excitement of seeing Jiaying again. It is only a day visit today – His Excellency is taking a tour of the clans of Qishan, recruiting soldiers for the war efforts, and had given him leave for a brief detour – and he wants to make the most of their time together.

When she comes into view he immediately rises to his feet, not able to contain the slight grin that betrays his amusement at her awkward gait. Before she’s even a few steps into the garden, he is at her side, solicitously offering his arm. Jiaying takes it, but not without a scowl. She’s noticed his smile, and he schools his face into an expression of stoic attentiveness instead.

As they walk back to the bench and the shade, his wife leaning heavily on him, Jiaying’s tight grasp on his arm is his only indication of her delight. It is enough. They are neither of them keen on loud displays of affection, especially not in public, and simply sitting next to her, feeling her presence, is enough to have his heart leaping with joy. For several minutes they say nothing, just lean towards each other, let skin briefly brush as they drink in each other’s existence. It is enough.

(The intimacy sends Wei Ying reeling, even more unbalanced than before. This is a feeling that he has no shield against, nothing to keep him separate. It would be a pleasure to drown in such delight, and it becomes that much harder to stay apart. Wei Ying the voice is insisting, and it stirs something in his chest, something too similar to their joy to let him escape.)

Eventually she breaks the silence. “A-Shen says you’re only here for a few hours?” He inclines his head in agreement, and Jiaying sighs. “It’s not long enough.” Wen Zhuliu can only dip his head in further acknowledgement, and she does not press him about it more. “Have you been well?”

“I have,” Wen Zhuliu replies, reaching out and caressing her cheek in a quick, self-conscious motion. “And you? How has everything been?”

She respects his need to forget about the war, about his service to Wen Ruohan, to focus on her and nothing else. It is only one of the many reasons he loves her. “We’ve finally decided on building another teaching room off of Ink Hall. Zhao Feng tried to argue about who can attend – again – but we managed to get him to shut up eventually.” The way she rolls her eyes is just another reason for the affection singing in his chest. “With such fortune as the Zhao Clan has experienced, how can we do anything but give everyone a chance? Besides, I think people like Zhao Feng could have afforded to learn alongside peasants and common folk. I don’t believe he even knows how to start a fire without cultivation… unless his bad temper could manage it.”

A couple of young disciples are passing by as she says it. They freeze, and a moment later break out into giggles. Jiaying straightens with fake indignation, and it’s enough to have the juniors bowing to them. “Apologies for the interruption, Seniors Zhao,” says one, which earns him an elbow from his companion. She bows even lower and says pointedly, “Senior Zhao, Senior Wen.” It’s meant to be respectful. It almost doesn’t hurt. Without even glancing at him, as if she didn’t notice the correction, Jiaying flaps her hands at them, and the motion has the young ones hurrying on their way, still snickering.

Wen Zhuliu supposes he might discourage her from mocking the senior cultivators, but truth be told, Suntouched Sanctuary has never been a place for discouragement. The home of the Zhao Clan’s cultivators is one of openness, of exchange. Even Zhao Feng, more conservative than most, might have cracked a reluctant smile to see his students so amused. Besides, hearing his surname has taken enough of Wen Zhuliu’s pleasure from this day. He would rather focus on his wife and the place he left but never stopped loving.

They speak in that vein for a long time. He praises the garden she has gone to such lengths to nurture, and Jiaying glows under the compliments. Glows from something else, too, though Wen Zhuliu feels too nervous to broach the subject. Almost as though afraid that if he mentions it, the miracle might disappear. A silly notion, but one Jiaying seems to share. They dance around it – and around anything to do with his work for Wen Ruohan – and if there are two voids in the conversation as a result, it’s easy enough to fill. She tells him about all of the progress the village situated below the temple has made because of Wen Ruohan’s generosity, along with many improvements to Suntouched Sanctuary.

It gives him a quiet satisfaction, a soft reassurance, that everything he’s done has been worth it. There’s no starvation or fear or poverty here. He killed it with a simple oath. It was worth it.

(Was it? Wei Ying wonders, and genuinely can’t tell who the question belongs to.)

Finally, when it’s probably been too long already, Wen Zhuliu sighs. Of it’s own volition his hand – his harmless hand, the one that has never melted a core – reaches out, strokes her stomach through her pale red and white robes. It’s the cue they’ve both been waiting for, and Jiaying catches his hand with both of her own and presses him a little closer, splaying his palm against the bump that had been small the last time he’d seen her and no longer was. “She’s doing well,” his wife says with a proud smile, and he can’t help but shake his head in gentle amusement.

“She?” he asks, and her chin juts out rebelliously.

“She. You haven’t felt her kick, or you wouldn’t be so skeptical.” Just as she says it, he does feel something, a little impact against his palm, and his heart gives a strange, clumsy skip, like it’s trying a dance it’s never attempted before. Lips parted, Wen Zhuliu stares at his hand, so large against his wife’s stomach, and can’t think of anything to say.

Jiaying has always been good at speaking for the both of them. “She feels you. It’s her reaching out to you.” He thinks it would be a very ridiculous thing to start crying on this beautiful day. “Will you be back in time for…?”

The answer he needs to give sticks in his throat, so first he shakes his head. Her slump, barely perceptible, makes guilt take a stranglehold that’s even harder to speak through. “There’s too much unrest amongst the other Sects, and Sect Leader Ruohan has asked me to guard his younger son once we get to Sunless City. It is unlikely I’ll be back so soon, but I will return as quickly as I can. You won’t be alone for long.” Now his hand moves up, brushes against her cheek, and she leans into the touch before turning and kissing his palm briefly.

Lips still brushing his skin, she whispers, “I could come with you to Sunless City.”

He withdraws his hand, puts it tense and still on his thigh. “His Excellency has decreed that you stay here. It is a kindness.”

Her temper flares, and she stiffens. “A kindness to keep us separated? May His Excellency forgive me if I do not follow his reasoning!”

This is not an argument Wen Zhuliu can win, not without revealing too much. He cannot tell Jiaying about the countless families that have been forced to take up residence in the Sunless City. For their own protection, they’re told, but Wen Zhuliu knows that guest is just a pretty name for hostage. Wen Ruohan choosing to leave Jiaying in Suntouched Sanctuary is a sign of trust, of respect, one Wen Zhuliu is not keen to discard. He has seen the Sect Leader at his best – and he has seen him at his worst. Better to keep all of his loved ones distant from that.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he says, “You are protected and cared for here. I am not often in Sunless City, and at least here, you have your friends and your teaching.”

“I would rather have you! Even in pieces, your presence would give me more joy than anyone or anything here. Besides, I could teach in another place, make other friends.” He says nothing and she leans closer, catches his face with both of her hands. Jiaying’s eyes are fierce and dark and beautiful and he can hardly make himself meet them as she searches his expression for something he cannot give her. “Zhao Zhuliu, for how long will it be like this?”

“The emperor has given us so much, I owe him –”

“Everything. I know. I took your name for you, and you lost it for him. But how long will this last? Will your daughter grow up knowing your title better than your face? Will you be Core Melting Hand to her, too?” His jaw is too tight to work, his throat squeezed by too much emotion, and Jiaying’s eyes soften. “It has been close to a decade since you joined him, my love. Longer, if you count your training. And you have changed since then. Perhaps you have given enough.”

It will never be enough. That truth sits hollowly in his stomach and cannot be ignored. “A decade, and I have not aged,” Wen Zhuliu says quietly. “If not for Wen Ruohan finding me, seeing my potential and nurturing my talent, I would look even older than I do now. Even more mismatched against your beauty.”

“Do you think I care about how you look?” she demands as her hands drop.

“No. But I would not want to grow old, to die, to leave you alone forever. To leave our daughter too soon. Please, Yingying, believe me. I will be here for you, and for our daughter, too. We will put down the disobedient Sects, bring back peace, and then I will ask for an extended leave.”

Jiaying stands up. She still looks angry, yet it is the sorrow behind the anger that makes him swallow hard. “And you will be even more changed when you return. There will be yet more words you cannot speak, thoughts you cannot share, deeds you cannot admit to.” By now, everyone has vacated the garden, either out of respect or simply because of the late hour, and they are alone with the bitter accusation between them.

When he rises too, but doesn’t reply, his wife shakes her head. “The gods were kind to me the day I met you, even though you had no cultivation training. I do not think that they were so kind to you the day you met Wen Ruohan.”

That is too dangerous, too close to saying something she shouldn’t. “Jiaying…” he warns, and almost winces when she backs away from him. He wants to reach out to her, to close this yawning gap, but his hands suddenly feel too calloused, too numb, too big to touch her without breaking something vital.

(Hold her! Kiss her! Apologize! and it is truly impossible to separate the frustration and despair spanning between Wei Ying and Wen Zhuliu. It doesn’t matter. The past can’t be changed, even when it reverberates in the present. Even when the voice is still persistently, desperately alive, an anchor and an agony, all at once. Wei Ying, concentrate. Come back.)

Jiaying has always been able to stand on her own. It was the thing that first attracted him to her, so many years ago. She stands there now, and gazes at him steadily, one hand on her stomach. “I love you,” she says simply. “Forever. You are a strong man, my love, and a good one. But I did not fall in love with your power; I fell in love with your good heart, and I do not want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” he promises, desperate and reckless, as though it hasn’t happened already.

The words sit for a long time in silence, Jiaying tight-lipped and tense. Eventually she nods. “You should go now. I would not want to make you disobey Wen Ruohan.”

He really does wince this time, and maybe that garners sympathy, or maybe she’s longing to touch him as desperately as he’s longing to touch her. Either way, when Wen Zhuliu spreads his arms in mute, anxious appeal, Jiaying comes back to him. She presses her face to his chest, so small in his arms, and he holds her gently, mindful of their child, wanting nothing more than to keep them there forever. “I love you,” he says, because he can’t think of anything else worth saying.

“I love you too,” she murmurs, and he aches, gods, he aches so much, for things to be better, or different, or done, or –

She is the one to step away, her hands slipping down to catch his, and the smile on her face is at odds with the tears shining unshed in her eyes. Her voice is remarkably steady for all of that. “At this rate, our daughter will be born before you leave.”

He forces himself to chuckle. The sound comes out raspy. “Best save her from seeing my ugly face for a while longer. I’ll go now.”

Smiling, pale and abruptly tired, his wife nods. “Please be careful, my love. Come back soon. We’ll both be waiting for you.”  

Wen Zhuliu brings her fingers up, kisses them in tender goodbye. Then he’s letting go of her hands, feeling like he’s letting go of something more, and turns away. He’s only taken a few steps when a thought occurs, and he looks back to Jiaying. She’s standing, quite still, looking after him. “Last we spoke, we said you would decide the name,” he observes quietly. “What did you pick?”

Her smile becomes a little less weary. “Mingxia.”

“A pretty name,” he says with warm approval. “And if it’s a boy?”

Jiaying’s eyebrow arches, and this time they laugh together, and he’s suddenly impatient to be gone, if only to get back to her that much more quickly. “Goodbye. I love you both. I’ll see you soon.”

And when his wife waves, still smiling, Wen Zhuliu can leave with a lighter heart, genuinely believing his words. Confident that, months from now at most, he’ll be back and holding them both in his arms, and things will have only gotten better.

(Don’t worry, Wei Ying might have said if he weren’t lost within Wen Zhuliu’s happiness. I’ve made some pretty fucking wrong predictions, too.)

The memories shift. They find themselves Elsewhere.

Elsewhere also sucks.

This is different from the last recollections, vastly so. Everywhere they look is black and silver and grey, ashy and cold. There are no straight lines in this memory, only blurry edges and distorted shapes. Sounds come strangely to their ears, like a scream through thick fog. Even their thoughts are opaque things, echoing around their head like a jumble of musical instruments playing different parts of the same song. And not playing it particularly well, in their opinion.

(Concentrate the voice commands. It entices. It begs. It is now joined by sweeping chords of music, sweet and nostalgic and yearning. Wei Ying, come back. How can they come back from this place when they fit it like shadows cast by a light? They remember this condition in a way that’s engraved in them, their bones transformed into hatred, their blood replaced with resentment, their breath nothing but short bursts of rage. They’ve been here before, they’ve been here, they deserve to be here, and – Wei Ying. Please.)

There is no awareness of time, here. They couldn’t guess the year or even the season. It is After – after the death, after the loss, after the awakening and the frenzy and the grief that tore their mind to ribbons, that had set them to floating nowhere until they were suddenly somewhere.

During that time, they had burned with their emotions, but the fire was dark, feral, made up of so much negative energy that it blinded them to anything else. It illuminated the world in shade. For a long time, they were just existing, hating, but their purpose, when it came, was cold water dousing the resentment and leaving a stark and brittle objective in its place.  

They had to find her. That was the purpose. The goal that would see them through the cycle of fire and ashes and burning all over again. Their passions turned them to cinders countless times, and their purpose brought them back to life, kept them moving, searching, slipping through the warped world that was their only reality. That same purpose had turned them away from the bright flickers of light seen through the murky screen separating them from everything else. They had kept their distance from those people – those living people, who could incite such fury in them – and kept going, pulled by a compass they had hardly understood. They had also occasionally sensed things like them, dark beings that had lost their intent, that were all of the hate with none of the hunger for something else. They had avoided those, too.

And, eventually, they had found her. And she had been safe. And if she was not always or even often happy, at least she had been alive. And they knew, with a resonance that cut through the mist and muffled sounds, that she had to be kept that way. So, they had lingered, fighting off the forest fire that was constantly raging within them, and when the flames fled from their control, they had always kept just enough consciousness to go somewhere else, to lash out and burn where it would not harm her. And then they would return, and continue their watch.

Over time (how much time?) it had grown easier. Thoughts became clearer. The resentment surfaced less often. Wen Zhuliu was able to begin to think in a way he hadn’t for a long while. But even then, his thoughts circled around her. Around keeping her safe. And he had done just that, scaring off some who would harm her. Killing others. The objective was different, but the necessity was not.

Until there came a time – this time, this memory, this failure – when he could not protect her.

He watches, silent but shrieking, the talismans pinning him in place as people in robes of green and gold grab her, begin to drag her away. She’s screaming, crying, but he can’t understand the actual words, they’re being suffocated by smoke. The bitter burning is back, but there’s something else, something wilder and more frantic – something that he hasn’t experienced in forever. His essence thrashes against the magical restraints, billows of black and grey shearing off his form as he literally begins to rip himself apart in his efforts. There comes a moment when he manages to free what he needs to free – and Wen Zhuliu’s hand touches the first talisman. It melts.

She’s gone, but others are still clustered around him, shouting things he can only shallowly comprehend. Something about demons and resentful energy and suppression. They’re accessing their spiritual power – it shines far brighter than they do, a glowing pit in the core of their bodies, and when Wen Zhuliu really looks at those beacons of light, the rabid emotions surge, drowning thought. He destroys the second talisman and relishes the spikes of terror that scatter from more than one of the cultivators still present.

They try to banish him. They fail. He tries to crush their cores. He does not fail. Their bodies too, bones and blood and breath, he crushes it all, and it is a long time before Wen Zhuliu wakes from his rage, wakes surrounded by death and stillness. She is gone.

She is gone, and he cannot find her this time.

(Wei Ying!)

He searches, but the thing that had driven him to her before is missing. He’s lost, directionless, being eaten alive by the emotion he remembers but cannot name. Wen Zhuliu floats in the void and the void is darker than it has been since his purpose became clear.

(Please!)

For the first time, he reaches out to the living for reasons other than bloodshed. Most cower from him, flee, and only some few recognize him, even if Wen Zhuliu recognizes them. He cannot make them understand, no matter how much he pleads. Some try to destroy him, and he cannot allow that. But the last time he struck back, let himself unleash the violence, he lost her, so it is his turn to flee, to fade himself out of the world and chase the next memory of someone who might help. The list is not long, but he lost her, it’s his fault–

(I can’t lose you. Please.)

So Wen Zhuliu keeps searching. Makes another, much shorter list, more dangerous than the first. Titles it necessity, and comes to Lotus Pier on a day when the rain is pouring heavily and everyone is sheltering indoors. Everyone but a man in drenched, deep purple robes, who sits beneath an unremarkable tree and presses his hand to his chest like he’s trying to reach the radiant core inside. The feeling of that core had confused Wen Zhuliu in another time, another place – and by now he knows what thoughts to avoid, what memories to shrink from to suppress the rage – but he’s beyond confusion now. Clutches only desperation in his fists. Even the silver death curled around the man’s fingers and wrist isn’t enough to deter him.

He drifts closer, invisible. The man is crying and  

(Wei Ying.)

swearing and saying things that Wen Zhuliu can hear and understand, if only faintly. Things like you bastard and why and take it back and, sometimes, I’m sorry. Wen Zhuliu stands in front of his murderer – the man that he murdered, in all but name – and suddenly realizes the word for the emotion that’s been taking him apart ever since he lost her. Realizes, because it pours off of the man in waves so thick they’re enough to drown in.

Despair.

Wei Wuxian, Jiang Cheng says, all ragged grief and very little hate, and Wen Zhuliu remembers what he really should be looking for. A black flute and cruel music and a hollow core. Someone whom he fears – if he fears anyone, anything – but who knows about haunting and craving more than almost anyone else living. Someone who must be approached cautiously, because they hold the potential for both his salvation and his end, but who must be approached all the same.

Wen Zhuliu turns and leaves Jiang Cheng to his own search.

(Wei Ying. Please, do not leave me.)

(Please.)

(Wei Ying.)