The porcelain clinks softly as Xiurong prepares tea. It’s early morning and the house is silent, barely waking up to greet the first rays of light pouring through the gauzy screens shielding the windows. The tea is fragrant and light with a sharp tangy bite mellowed by lingering sweetness. Her favorite, one of the few things she indulges in regularly.
A soft sound behind her makes her glance over her shoulder at the bed. She takes in the still shape lying on his front and the small bundle cuddling close to him, but not crowding him. The boy, barely three years of age by her estimation, doesn’t remember his name but remembers to be careful with his guardian’s fragile state even when asleep. His nose scrunches and he smacks his lips, clearly fighting the last tendrils of sleep.
Xiurong’s lips draw to a small smile as she stands up to start breakfast; simple congee, eggs, and leftover buns from the day before. It’s been a long time since she’s had to take care of anyone else but herself and she finds the experience both refreshing and surprisingly exhausting.
It’s been almost a week since A-Zhan crashed next to her house, almost a week since both he and the little boy he so desperately wanted to keep safe succumbed to fever and delirium. The boy woke up after three days, wan and dehydrated, and with no recollection of who he was and where he’d come from.
A-Zhan is yet to wake up.
The boy lets out a small whimper and when Xiurong turns to look, he’s awake, staring wide-eyed into the ceiling, keeping still and quiet by the grace of habit he doesn’t understand.
”Are you hungry, little one?” Xiurong asks quietly. She doesn’t wait for a reply but sets out small bowls and plates, waiting for the boy to come to her in his own time. (She learned from the first time she tried to pick him up: the boy had started struggling weakly and something about his distress had alerted A-Zhan who groggily forced himself to move, tearing his bandages in the process.) She sits down to have another cup of tea and nibbles at a bun.
The boy gets up and squints at her for a moment before carefully making his way to the table. There’s only a small amount of congee in his bowl, half an egg, and a small piece of bun—by the looks of him, the boy had been starved, and too much food too soon would only make him sick.
”There’s work to be done in the garden today,” Xiurong says. ”And it looks like it’s going to be a lovely day. Would you like to help me? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
The boy purses his lips around the spoon and gives her a long look. Then he blinks and takes another spoonful of congee.
Xiurong takes that as a yes.
Her cabin is small but has all she needs: a sleeping area, a kitchen area, space to study, space to meditate. She has a vegetable garden and fruit trees and a chicken coop, and apart from rice, spices, and tea, she can live with what she grows. On the rare times she has to leave to buy supplies, she uses strong talismans to alter her appearance and voice and never visits the same town twice in a row.
Paranoid? Perhaps—but it has kept her alive for all these years.
The boy watches her as she dons an apron to shield her robes and hesitantly follows her when she makes her way around the house and to the garden in the back. The days are getting warmer but the nights are still cold and there’s a lot to do in the garden. She explains what she does as she goes, inwardly charmed by the attentive look on the boy’s face.
He still doesn’t talk.
”—but I suppose I could always plant you, too,” she says with a small smile. ”My garden grows big and sturdy vegetables. You could grow big and sturdy as well.”
”Radish,” the boy says in an almost whisper.
Xiurong blinks. ”Ah…yes. Like a radish. Are you a small radish or a big radish?”
The boy looks at him, then glances back to the house. ”Mn,” he says.
Xiurong nods. ”That’s an excellent point. Why don’t you think about that while I work, yes?”
”Mn,” the boy says again and sits on the ground, tilts his head, and gathers soil onto his lap.
During the night, A-Zhan often cries out. Sometimes he’s in physical pain and forcing some medicine down his throat helps him, sometimes his pain comes from the heart and no amount of medicine eases the heartbreaking anguish in his voice. Those nights, Xiurong sits next to him, cards her fingers slowly through his hair, and hums the lullaby she in another life used to sing to her boys. It still works, although not even singing will stop the tears streaming down on her son’s face.
”He must’ve been wonderful,” she murmurs as she eases sweaty locks from his brow. ”I hope you’ll tell me about him someday.”
There are times when Xiurong regrets everything she’s missed over the years—sword practices, courtesy name ceremonies, first crushes…the significant first times that mark the transition from a child into adulthood. Granted, the times are very far and between but the knowledge of how imperative it was for her to flee doesn’t diminish the bitterness she feels. She should’ve been there—she should’ve been allowed to be there, to be present in her sons’ lives, to listen and guide and help and love them as they grew up.
Helping her younger son now that he’s fighting for his life seems like a cheap consolation prize.
”A-Yuan?”
The raspy croak is so faint it almost doesn’t rouse Xiurong from her meditation, but combined with a hiss of pain, she’s alert in a moment. ”A-Zhan?” she asks, careful not to wake the sleeping boy on her lap.
”Where’s A-Yuan?”
Ah.
Xiurong picks the boy up and makes her way to the bed. ”His name is A-Yuan?” she asks. ”He fell asleep on my lap. We were working in the garden earlier and apparently, he needed a nap after.”
A-Zhan’s eyes are bloodshot and his face gaunt as he looks at her without a word.
”If you can stay awake for a moment, I’ll get you some food,” she says, setting A-Yuan on the mattress she sleeps on at night. He squirms a bit and then settles back down with a sigh.
She feels A-Zhan’s eyes on her as she warms some broth and watered-down congee, and when she walks back to him with a tray, she meets his confused gaze without a flinch.
”Mother?” A-Zhan asks slowly.
”You crashed in my backyard,” she says gently.
”You are alive?”
She offers him a tight smile. ”Yes. We will talk when you are better,” she says. ”Now, eat.”
His eyes never leave her as she slowly feeds him nine spoonfuls of congee and three sips of broth, and even when he’s exhausted, he fights to keep his eyes open.
”Mother—”
”Sleep, A-Zhan,” she says and cups his cheek. ”I’ll be here.”
He sleeps.
It’s a painfully slow recovery. It takes almost a month for the wounds to close and by then A-Zhan’s back is one massive tightly wound knot that moving triggers painful cramps that leave him panting with pain. Xiurong massages numbing cream on the scar tissue every night but she knows there’s a chance he’ll never heal properly. There’s no way to know until A-Zhan’s well enough to stand up and start stretching.
After two months, A-Zhan has recovered enough to sit up. He tries to meditate and gives up after the fourth time he collapses, spent and nearly insensate with pain. Xiurong scolds him as she helps him back to lie down, and finds herself bizarrely happy—she never thought to be in a position where she could scold her son for doing something like this.
At the four-month point, A-Zhan has made it to standing up and taking careful, tentative steps in the cabin. He still needs to hold on to Xiurong and the half a dozen steps he manages leave him exhausted. But it is progress.
Six months after he crash-landed on Xiurong’s lap, A-Zhan walks stiffly out of the cabin and sits on the bench by the cabin wall. Xiurong fusses around him, offers him a blanket to keep warm and a cup of tea to sip before heading to the garden. Winter is approaching fast and even though winters here aren’t as harsh as in Gusu, she needs to make sure her garden is ready for it. A-Yuan follows her—nowadays babbling almost constantly—and does his own small chores that are more meant to keep him out of the way than actually help. Every now and then, she glances at A-Zhan to make sure he’s alright and feels unreasonably relieved when he’s still sitting exactly where she left him.
”Nainai!” A-Yuan exclaims, diverting her attention. ”Look!”
A small cat cautiously makes its way to A-Yuan, flinching back when he tries to reach out for it.
”Careful,” Xiurong says softly, ”I think it’s scared.”
”Oh,” A-Yuan says, and then he says in a whisper that’s nowhere near a whisper, ”Don’t worry, this is a safe place. Nainai takes good care of us!”
Xiurong ducks her head and peeks a glance at A-Zhan. They haven’t talked about the title A-Yuan calls her by—one day he’d asked ”Who are you?” in that musing way children sometimes have, and she’d replied, ”I’m your nainai.” And that had been that. A-Zhan hasn’t protested the title but he hasn’t acknowledged it either.
Now, he looks straight at Xiurong and nods. Just once, but that’s enough.
A-Yuan is a smart boy for his age. After he recovers from his illness—and especially after A-Zhan is up and moving—he turns into a bright, sunny boy with endless reserve for questions and boundless, gentle curiosity toward everything. He wants to know about the garden and the fruit trees and the sky and the mattress Xiurong sleeps on. He asks about rice and swords and clouds and cats.
He doesn’t ask why there are just three of them.
”Aren’t you going to ask?” A-Zhan asks one night when A-Yuan has fallen asleep and they’re sitting at the table, drinking tea.
Xiurong raises a brow. ”Aren’t you?” she asks back. When A-Zhan grits his jaw and averts his eyes, she sighs. ”I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused,” she says softly. ”I’m sorry that I had no other option but to leave you. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there when you needed me.” She pauses, steels herself. ”But I’m not sorry I left. It was either that or to die, and I was—still am—far more willing to live than die.”
”Does Brother know?”
Xiurong shakes her head. ”The only one who knows is Qiren. He was on patrol on the night I fled. But he only knows I fled, not that I’m still alive or where I live.”
A-Zhan’s throat works as he swallows. ”They told us you were dead,” he whispers. ”And that we shouldn’t mourn you.”
”They were wrong,” Xiurong says. She leans forward and grabs A-Zhan’s clenched fist, grips it tight until her son looks her in the eyes. ”You are allowed to mourn those you love. You are allowed to cry. You are allowed to miss them. Do you understand?”
His face contorts with grief and his whole body shudders as he starts to cry. He takes big, heaving gulps of air and lets it out in a long, broken wail that sounds like someone has torn his heart out—which, as far as Xiurong understands, is exactly what happened. She quickly activates a privacy talisman to let A-Yuan sleep in peace and holds her son as he shatters to pieces.
Their first winter together is a slow, peaceful affair filled with days that move at an unhurried pace, following a simple pattern. They wake up, eat breakfast, meditate, do light chores, have lunch, take a nap, study, have dinner, play something, and go to bed. It’s easy and uncomplicated and Xiurong enjoys it more than she could’ve ever thought possible.
Naturally, their tasks are curated to each of their strengths and abilities: A-Zhan meditates to heal himself while A-Yuan meditates to mostly sit still while chores can be sweeping the floor, brushing the cat, or doing laundry. Naps are mandatory for the boys, while Xiurong usually skips them. Studying mostly means teaching A-Yuan to read and write, but both she and A-Zhan have journals they write, although she notices he writes the most on the nights he’s unable to sleep.
When they start to run out of tea and rice, Xiurong packs up pre-made talismans and heads out, applying the appearance-changing talismans only after she’s a good ways away from the cabin. A-Yuan understands a lot but not this, not yet.
One time, A-Zhan holds out his embroidered robes. ”Sell them,” he says. ”The back is ruined but the rest should still be worth something.”
”No,” she says. ”First of all, they’re way too conspicuous, just like your forehead ribbon.” He opens his mouth and she holds up a finger to silence him. ”If you want to put them to good use, we should alter them for A-Yuan.”
He looks mulish for a moment but acquiesces. ”It’s—” he starts, then pauses, and tries again. ”Three spend more than one,” he says. ”I should contribute.”
”My sweet boy,” she says and cups his cheek, brushing the soft skin with her thumb. ”I’m more than capable of providing for us all but…” she shrugs. ”If you want to help out, you could always make talismans to sell.”
Naturally, after seeing his impeccable handwriting, Xiurong asks around if there’s any copying work to be done and, well. That tides them over the rest of the winter.
”He was beautiful.”
They stand in the backyard watching the sunrise. Xiurong has tea, A-Zhan has a glassy-eyed look on his face. It’s been two years since his and A-Yuan’s arrival, and this is the first time he’s volunteered any information about the man he loved. Or loves, Xiurong muses. The Lan only love once, and A-Zhan’s heart will belong to Wei Ying until the day he, too, dies.
”What was he like?” Xiurong asks.
”Infuriating,” A-Zhan replies instantly. ”Irritating. Sparkling like the stars and bright like the sun.” He closes his eyes and raises his face to meet the first rays of the sun. ”He made me burn and I didn’t understand the flames until—” He lets out a shuddering breath.
For a moment, they stand in silence. Then A-Zhan takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, then lets it out in one, long blow. And then he starts to talk about his Wei Ying, drawing a picture of a bright-smiled young man with a brilliant mind and penchant for mischief, a temper like lightning, and a strong sense of justice, and deep, unyielding devotion to those he considered his.
”He was my zhiji,” he whispers. ”And I was his. And I loved him.”
”Did he know?”
”No. Or—” he pauses again. ”I don’t think so. There was never a good time—”
Xiurong lets out a non-committal sound and shifts closer to press her side briefly against his. ”You will meet again,” she says.
”How do you know?” A-Zhan’s voice is small, full of yearning.
She sips her tea. ”Call it a mother’s instinct,” she says.
As years go by, news of the cultivation world reaches them in bits and pieces, mostly via the gossip and rumors Xiurong picks up whenever she goes to replenish their stores. Apparently, the current Sect Leader Nie is a useless, simpering fool, and Gusu Lan have retreated from the world even more after their Second Young Master was fatally injured. Sect Leader Jin is busy drinking and whoring himself to death and as the next heir in line is a child, Jinlintai is more or less run by a son of a prostitute (a fact that common folk find endlessly amusing). Yunmeng is slowly picking itself back up from the rubble and while the common people seem to be thriving better than in Lanling, people are wary of the Jiang residence as the young Sect Leader is fond of hunting down demonic cultivators and has a penchant for striking first and asking questions later—if even then.
Xiurong listens, takes note, and doesn’t say a word when she gets home.
After seven years, A-Yuan one day drinks up his tea, sets his cup on the table, and asks, ”Who am I?”
A-Zhan lets out a small breath, lowers his own cup, and looks him levelly in the eyes. ”Who do you think you are?”
A-Yuan frowns at his empty cup for a moment, visibly gathering his thoughts. ”I am A-Yuan. I am soon eleven years old. You are my father and my nainai,” he starts slowly. ”We live in this cabin with Cat. We are cultivators.” He looks up and tilts his head. ”But I don’t know who you are. You call each other Mother and A-Zhan, and you call me A-Yuan.”
A-Zhan nods slowly. ”All of that is true.” He glances at Xiurong but she keeps her expression carefully neutral.
This is A-Zhan’s decision—they have talked about cultivation and have taught A-Yuan meditation and sword forms, but not much about the cultivation world or the sects, deciding to wait until he grows older and asks for more information himself. Apart from her short stint as (the reluctant) Madam Lan, Xiurong has lived the life of a rogue cultivator outside the sect politics and finds she prefers it that way.
A-Yuan considers this a moment and then he asks, ”Are we hiding?”
Xiurong can’t keep the sharp grin from her face. ”You’re one smart boy, A-Yuan, you know that?”
He ducks his head with a shy smile. ”Thank you, Nainai.”
”A-Yuan,” A-Zhan says. ”What I am about to tell you is not easy to hear.”
The boy looks at him with trusting eyes and a determined set on his jaw. ”Okay.”
A-Zhan takes a breath and starts to talk.
The story itself is familiar to Xiurong but this is the first time she hears it in chronological order. Of course, A-Zhan leaves out things not suitable for A-Yuan’s ears yet but he doesn’t hide the truth: they live in a world ruled by great sects and their decisions, in a world where the concepts of right and wrong are rigid and unforgiving, in a world were different ideas are easily perceived as a threat. It’s a world that forgets nothing and holds grudges closer to the heart than understanding or justice, and where conformity is a virtue.
”So…I’m the last of my line?” A-Yuan asks after A-Zhan falls silent. ”The last living Wen?”
A-Zhan closes his eyes and nods.
For some time, A-Yuan sits without talking, head slightly tilted and a slight frown on his face. ”What about you, Nainai?” he asks. ”Who are you hiding from?”
Xiurong looks him level in the eye. ”The Gusu Lan. I am the former wife of the previous Sect Leader Lan, A-Zhan’s father.” A-Yuan’s wide eyes dart from her to A-Zhan and back to her. ”I didn’t want to marry him, but it was either that or death.”
”Why?”
”Because I killed a Lan Elder, his teacher.” She pauses and glances at A-Zhan from the corner of her eye. ”He forced himself on me, and I defended myself, even though the other Elders never believed that to be true.”
”Mother—” A-Zhan gasps.
”Hush now,” she interrupts, reaching out to gently hold his wrist. ”It’s in the past. I’m here, I’m safe, I’m happy—even more now that you are with me.”
”How did you manage to run?” A-Yuan asks. ”If you were held as a prisoner?”
She smiles. ”I had help from an old friend.”
It had been just enough to break the confinement array. Xiurong would never find out just how Cangse managed to get the information past the Cloud Recesses wards but she did and for that, Xiurong will be forever in her debt.
After their talk, A-Yuan doesn’t withdraw but he becomes slightly more taciturn. He’s clearly turning the new information over in his head and Xiurong is confident he’ll come asking more questions when he’s ready. A-Zhan, however, isn’t so sure.
”What if he resents me?” he asks Xiurong. ”For the things I didn’t do?”
”Why would he hate you for the things you didn’t do when he can love you for the things you did?” she asks back.
”But—” he pauses, shakes his head. ”I failed so many times.”
She reaches out to take his hand and gently pries open the tightly clenched fist. ”What about you?” she asks. ”Do you resent me?”
”No!” He tries to yank his hand back, eyes wide and horrified.
”Why not? I only saw you once a month. I left you. I let you believe I was dead.”
A-Zhan shakes his head. ”That’s different! Your circumstances—”
”My circumstances determined the limits of my actions,” she interrupts. ”Just like yours did.” She brushes a lock of hair from his cheek and smiles. ”We can only act with the knowledge we have in the moment. It’s so very easy to point fingers after the events have unfolded, and it’s even easier if one hasn’t been in the situation in the first place.” She cups his jaw and looks him in the eye. ”You did what you could, A-Zhan.”
”I should have done more,” he whispers.
She hums. ”From what I’ve learned a lot of people should have done more. You were one of the few who even tried.”
He lets out a disgusted sound. ”And it still made no difference.”
Xiurong clicks her tongue and taps him on the nose. ”Really? Where, exactly, are you right now? With whom?” She raises a finger when he opens his mouth, and he shuts it, looking sheepish. ”You saved yourself. You saved A-Yuan. You found me and gave my life a new purpose. I’d say that’s one hell of a difference.”
He ducks his head, chastised. ”Yes, Mother,” he says quietly.
She hopes he believes it, too.
Every now and then, Xiurong walks to the back of the garden and gazes up to pinpoint that one particular, exceptionally bright star. Obviously, she has no real knowledge if that’s her sworn sister looking down upon her but she likes to think so.
”A-Yuan is such a bright, studious boy,” she says. ”He about to turn 13 and A-Zhan said he’d take him night-hunting soon.”
Xiurong commissioned A-Yuan a sword some while ago. It’s humble but sturdy and reliable, a good sword for a good, righteous young cultivator. Both she and A-Zhan have been teaching A-Yuan, Lan forms and the more unruly, chaotic style Xiurong developed during her rogue cultivator years. It’s a mix of her own ideas, Cangse’s style, and the Jiang style she picked up when sparring with Cangse’s husband. They’ve also been teaching the boy talismans and seals, a surprising decision because as far as Xiurong is aware, the Lan sect has never been that fond of talismans.
”They were his specialty,” A-Zhan said when she asked about it. ”Wei Ying’s. He could come up with a design on the fly.” There was a wistful yearning in his voice and a slightly lost look in his eyes, familiar from all the times he talks about his love.
”I wish I had the chance to meet him,” she says to the stars. ”He sounds like an exceptional young man. You would’ve been so proud of him.”
Perhaps Wei Ying and A-Zhan will meet in their next life. She would very much hope so.
”I wonder if you saw him when he fell to the Burial Mounds for the first time,” she muses softly. According to A-Zhan, Wei Ying had vanished for three months and then emerged a changed man, cold-eyed and wielding resentful energy instead of his sword.
…the sword that had sealed itself when he vanished.
Oh.
Well, shit.
”Huh,” she says. ”Did it ever occur to anyone that perhaps it wasn’t because he didn’t want to cultivate the sword path but because he simply no longer could.” She huffs. ”Men.”
A-Yuan gets his courtesy name and spends quite a while pondering what family name he would like to use and finally settles with Wei.
”I think I would like to be a Wen,” Xiurong hears him say, ”but it’s probably not safe yet. Or if it’s ever safe.” She peeks a glance at A-Yuan and A-Zhan sitting on the porch side by side. A-Yuan holds his sword on his lap, gently brushing a finger over the space where its name will be engraved. ”And I know it would be filial and respectful to take your name, Father, but…” he falls silent and bites his lip, then shakes his head. ”I can’t.”
A-Zhan opens his eyes and looks at him. ”There’s no need, Sizhui. I understand.” He gently grips A-Yuan’s shoulder for a moment. ”You were his first, after all.”
Xiurong smiles and lets her boys share silent meditation in peace.
As years have gone by, Xiurong’s small cabin has stretched out to accommodate them all. At first, it only had the sleeping nook with her bed, then it expanded to give room for two more beds to allow them all their own spaces—even though they slept in the same space for years due to A-Zhan’s recuperation. Later, they modified the kitchen and built a bigger table and a couple of shelves. In time, the porch grew from the front to go around the whole cabin, and they even ended up with a small shed to store all their gardening equipment. The cat has grown older and slower but it has been a good companion to not only A-Yuan but them all.
In time, A-Zhan sheds his white robes and dresses in pale grey instead. His hair is on a simple topknot and, after over a decade, he takes off his forehead ribbon as well. Xiurong doesn’t comment on it, just offers him an understanding smile. This journey is for A-Zhan to walk alone and all she can do is to support him.
The forehead ribbon stays off for several years. A-Zhan only dons it back on when he starts to accompany A-Yuan on his night hunts. Xiurong isn’t sure of the reasoning behind his decision but since it’s not her decision, she keeps her mouth shut this time, too.
It soon becomes obvious that A-Yuan is just as skilled a cultivator as both Xiurong and A-Zhan expected him to be. He’s polite, considerate, efficient, and when needed, ruthless. He uses both his sword and his talismans, and he also has rudimentary knowledge of the qin language—not that he’s willing to use it on regular night hunts. He usually goes out with A-Zhan but on a couple occasions, Xiurong accompanies him as well. Those are usually either more complicated cases where extra backup is the only sensible way to go, but there are times when A-Zhan declines and encourages Xiurong to supervise instead. She finds it both endearing and touching.
After each night-hunt, A-Yuan sits down with them and gives them a thoughtful, precise report. He loves to learn and absorbs all their comments and questions like dry moss drinks up rain, and works hard to include his revisions on the next night hunt.
”Just remember that you are only one junior,” A-Zhan reminds him. ”Being careful and safe is just as important as solving the case.”
”Mn!” A-Yuan nods, determined and eager to go out again.
Sixteen years after A-Zhan and A-Yuan crashed into Xiurong’s yard and changed her life forever, she has a strange encounter while replenishing their tea stash. A-Yuan has grown fond of a dark, smoky variety and while Xiurong might huff and grumble, she’s more than willing to hunt down that blend for the sweet boy. A-Yuan is humble and modest and rarely asks for anything. Tea is the least his nainai can do.
She’s packing her purchase when someone gently bumps into her. She clicks her tongue and shifts but is suddenly face to face with a young man with delicate features and sharp eyes.
”Oh! Oh no, I’m so very sorry!” he exclaims, fluttering his hands nervously, almost-but-not-quite patting her down for possible injuries. ”I’m so clumsy! Everyone says I have two left feet and even those face backward but—I don’t know what came over me, I really don’t!”
Xiurong raises a brow and the man blushes. He clears his throat, flutters a bit more, and slinks away, avoiding her gaze. She waves away his apologies and leaves, acutely aware of a predator’s eyes on her, but it isn’t until she’s home that she discovers the note, neatly tucked in between tea packages.
It says,
Little birds tell a tale that Mo Village is an interesting place to visit at this time of year. Lots of traffic with old and new acquaintances, lots of fun for the whole family!
”Does this make sense to you?” she asks A-Zhan who takes one look at the slip of paper, presses his lips together in a tight line, and sighs.
There’s a group of juniors in white robes battling a group of fierce corpses in the Mo manor’s inner courtyard. They’re doing a very good job but their opponent is too mighty to be put down by mere juniors. Xiurong is half-tempted to step in when one of them shoots out a signal flare, and she settles back to watch the show.
”Do you know any of them?” she murmurs to A-Zhan who’s watching the fight with keen eyes.
”No,” he says. ”They’re all too young.”
”Hm.”
A short moment later, a tall figure in billowing white and blue robes descends on the rooftop opposite to them. He manifests a bright white xiao and a moment later, powerful suppressing notes practically end the fight.
”Zewu-jun!” the juniors call out in a chorus, flocking close as the cultivator glides down to take a closer look at the… what even is that? An arm?
And then it hits her just who the man is.
She turns to A-Zhan but he’s gone, only A-Yuan standing with her in the shadows. ”Where did your father go?”
A-Yuan inclines his head at the opposite end of the courtyard. ”He saw something down there and went to investigate.”
That side of the manor is seemingly abandoned, as everyone is either milling out in the courtyard or hiding in the main hall. Xiurong narrows her eyes and spies a flicker of grey robes vanishing around the corner. She takes one, last look at the man guiding the Lan juniors, beckons at A-Yuan to follow, and jumps down from the roof. She makes it around the corner and sees A-Zhan holding a young, thin man’s wrist in a desperate grip, the other man making a face behind a silver fox mask, leaning away from A-Zhan.
Her brows shoot up. It’s not like her son to touch strangers, let alone hold on to them without their consent.
”Look, you must’ve gotten the wrong guy, I mean it!” the young man hisses, waving his free hand. ”I’m just gonna—if you could give me back my hand—let go—”
”Wei Ying,” A-Zhan says, insistent, like he’s repeated himself several times already.
”A-Zhan?” she asks, hurrying to their side. ”Are you sure?”
The man lets out a nervous little laugh. ”I honestly don’t—”
”Yes, Mother,” A-Zhan says. ”This is Wei Ying.”
”Hm,” she says, cocking her head. ”I told you you’d meet again.”
”Wait—mother?” Wei Ying says. ”No, never mind. Good sir, if you could just—”
”Wangji?”
Xiurong freezes, keeping her back to the newcomer. Instead, she fixes Wei Ying a glare, taps A-Zhan’s wrist so that he knows to let go—which he does with apparent reluctance—and grabs both A-Yuan and Wei Ying, pushing them through the open doorway into an empty room.
”Madam, I’m not sure what I did—” Wei Ying starts.
”You died,” Xiurong snaps. ”You died, coreless, I assume, and left my A-Zhan behind. He would’ve been alone if he hadn’t gone back and for A-Yuan.”
”I— A-Yuan? What—?” Wei Ying looks from her to A-Yuan standing outwardly calm next to her, his eyes wide and slightly hysterical behind his ridiculous mask.
”Take that off,” Xiurong says, tapping at the mask.
Almost like in a dream, Wei Ying complies. He looks even younger without the mask, beautiful and scared, haunted eyes darting from her to A-Yuan and back.
”This is your A-Yuan,” Xiurong says, not unkindly. ”He survived, thanks to A-Zhan.”
She takes a step back when A-Yuan takes one forward and turns slightly to give them a moment. She has no clue how or why Wei Ying is back but she’s ready to bet her sword that it has something to do with both the strange note from that very strange young man and the possessed arm they saw earlier. She’s not sure what to do about them—or whether or not they should do anything at all.
Perhaps this would be better left to the great sects. Perhaps they should just return home.
Behind her, A-Zhan clears his throat.
…or perhaps she should take care of unfinished business first.
She steels herself and slowly turns around.
A-Zhan looks calm but she knows he’s tense, ready to burst into action if needed. Next to him stands A-Huan, resplendent in his Sect Leader robes, his xiao in hand and eyes wide with disbelief and desperate hope.
”Mother?” he says, nearly gasps, and takes a staggering half-step closer.
”Hello, A-Huan,” she says. ”It’s been a long time.”
They end up in a small inn, just the five of them and the possessed arm. A-Huan sends the juniors home with a message that he’ll follow the next day, and they comply with only minimal protesting. (The only one who actually does complain does it loudly and unapologetically, and eventually makes Wei Ying snort something about the most unlike-Lan he’s ever met.)
”They told us you were dead,” A-Huan says, his tea forgotten. He’s kneeling in front of her, cupping her hands in his, looking at her like a man (boy) starved as tears stream down his face.
”They lied,” Xiurong says quietly. ”Just like they lied about many other things.”
Still gripping her hands, A-Huan turns to look at A-Zhan. ”They said you were lost,” he says. ”They said I wasn’t allowed to look for you. They—” he chokes up.
Xiurong gently twists her hands from his grip to hold his hands in return and squeezes them to get his attention back on her. ”As I said: they lied. I’m fine, A-Zhan is fine. We’re safe.”
Something breaks in him, in this boy wearing the robes of a sect leader, and he slumps forward, pressing his forehead on her knees. She holds his hand and strokes his hair as he trembles with what she can only assume is three decades of grief. She starts to hum and glances up at A-Zhan, raises a brow.
He nods and herds A-Yuan and Wei Ying out of the room with a whispered, ”Food.”
Later, when A-Huan has composed himself and gathered his broken pieces back together, they sit around a table laden with food and talk. Neither A-Huan nor A-Zhan say anything about the no speaking while eating rule, which is mostly because A-Huan is still too shaken and A-Zhan only has eyes for Wei Ying animatedly explaining something about lotus pods to A-Yuan.
Xiurong smiles and piles more vegetables on all their plates.
”If you try to run, I will hunt you down and drag you back from the ear,” Xiurong says softly at the dark shape sitting on the inn’s roof.
Wei Ying startles and spills the wine he’s drinking, then laughs softly. ”Ah, no, Madam Xue. I have no intention of running. You have a possessed arm! That’s too interesting to skip.”
She settles down next to him, holds out a hand for the bottle, and drinks. ”Hopefully it’s not just the arm that’s keeping you here,” she says dryly.
”Uh—”
”Because I’d wish my son-in-law had more sense than that.”
Wei Ying chokes on his wine. ”What?” he yelps.
Xiurong is not in the mood for playing. Meeting A-Huan has left her surprisingly fragile and she wants to settle this misunderstanding for good. ”Sixteen years ago, my wards alerted me of a trespasser of the Lan lineage. Imagine my surprise when it was my younger son, beaten and bloody and dying, holding on to a small child and crying out your name. I nursed him back to health and listened to him plead and beg for you to come back, to listen, to let him help. He’s loved you since you were young—through the lessons in Gusu, through the Wen indoctrination, through the war and the devastation it left behind. He’s loved you while you have been gone, and through his memories, he’s taught both A-Yuan and I to love you, too.
”Wei Ying, you are my son’s zhiji. Do not leave him again, not without talking with him properly. You both deserve this.”
Wei Ying looks small, sitting with his knees hugged against his chest. ”But what if—”
”What if…what?” Xiurong asks after a moment of silence. ”If you’re talking about not having a core, I’m guessing A-Zhan will be mostly devastated he didn’t know and couldn’t help you better.”
”How—I—”
Xiurong snorts. ”It wasn’t that hard to guess. If nothing else, I’m honestly surprised no one else figured it out back then.”
Wei Ying lets out a sniffle. ”To be fair, I did my hardest to keep it a secret.”
She hums. ”Understandable, albeit unadvisable.” She holds out her hand and he wordlessly passes her the bottle.
They sit in silence for some time sharing the drink until the bottle is empty, and then they just sit. At some point, A-Zhan jumps to the roof and sits next to Wei Ying, spreads one of his spare robes on his shoulders, and then leaves his arm around his blushing zhiji. Xiurong watches them from the corner of her eye and wonders if she should just leave them be but the decision is taken from her hands when A-Zhan stands up and holds out his hand, helps Wei Ying up, and together, they leave the roof.
She stares after them for a moment, feeling both amused and wistful. Was she ever that young? Was she ever that much in love? She’s quite sure the answer to both is no but she’s also quite sure it doesn’t matter now.
”What do you think, sister?” she says softly, gazing at the sky. ”He seems like a silly boy but there’s depth and strength in him. I don’t doubt for a moment that being his mother-in-law will be both exciting and exasperating but I feel like I’m up to the task.”
She doesn’t know what will happen next. There’s a demonic arm and strange happenings around the cultivation world, but there’s also long-lost, new-found love and long-overdue reunions. Despite her trepidation, she feels hopeful and lighter than she’s felt in a long, long time.
Xue Xiurong takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and settles on her back on the roof.
She might as well stay here for the night. The stars will keep her company.