How will I know you in the underworld?
How will we find each other?
We lived for so long on the physical earth—
Our skies littered with actual stars
Practical tides in our bay—
What will we do with the loneliness of the mythical?
Walking beside ditches brimming with dactyls,
By a ferryman whose feet are scanned for him
On the shore of a river written and rewritten
As elegy, epic, epode.
Remember the thin air of our earthly winters?
Frost was an iron, underhand descent.
Dusk was always in session
And no one needed to write down
Or restate, or make record of, or ever would,
And never will,
The plainspoken music of recognition,
Nor the way I often stood at the window—
The hills growing dark, saying,
As a shadow became a stride
And a raincoat was woven out of streetlight
I would know you anywhere.
("Eurydice Speaks,” Eavan Boland)
----
Two weeks after Wei Ying reappears, Lan Wangji finds him hunched over a corpse on the day’s abandoned battlefield.
It’s Lan Wangji’s turn on watch, and he’s walking the perimeter, Bichen drawn, ignoring the aches and weariness that linger after the day’s battle. He had slept for a few hours before his circuit started, but not enough to feel refreshed, not after months and months of fighting and scouting and searching. He never feels rested these days.
(The only weight heavier than fear, Lan Yi had written, is grief.)
A Nie cultivator had woken him at midnight, passing him the watch, and Lan Wangji had ventured out into the sharp chill of night, checking the wards, eyes and senses keen for any sign of the enemy. It is still strange to him, to be awake and about in the deepest part of the night, though with careful administration of his qi flow, he is able to stop his body from shutting down at hai hour.
(These days, there are so many ways he must defy a lifetime of training. Self-control is more complicated than he had ever believed it could be.)
The encampment looked small and pathetic, sagging shadows of tents (fewer every day, it seems) and only here and there the flickering light of a brazier. Lan Wangji passed through it quickly, looping through a copse of trees, over a small brook, past the mud-sharp curve of the road their baggage animals had struggled over yesterday. Under a star-spackled sky, the world seems very large and the Sunshot Campaign very small. (And hopeless. On nights after a battle, even one they ostensibly won, it seems hopeless.)
When he comes to the battlefield, littered with Wen corpses, his stomach churns at the sight. He and his comrades gathered the bodies of their fallen allies before nightfall, but the Wen were left where they fell, waiting for Wei Ying’s use. Tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever the next battle flares up again, Wei Ying will coax his unsettling music out of that night-dark dizi and use these bodies to fight his battles.
(And Lan Wangji will ache with worry, and there will be nothing he can do, because they need Wei Ying’s new skills. Without them, the remnants of the Sunshot Campaign would have already been obliterated.)
That must be why Wei Ying is here, now, in the middle of the field at night, surrounded by blood-slick grass and the rot-gut scent of the aftermath of battle. Lan Wangji would not be surprised to see him striding around, surveying the crop of corpses he will have at his disposal next time he is called upon to use his dark powers. (Wei Ying doesn’t seem to sleep these days, and he shrugs off any of Lan Wangji’s attempts to raise the issue with a sharp word and a flick of his shuttered gaze.)
But Wei Ying is not striding. Wei Ying is seated on the ground (Lan Wangji would know the line of his shoulders anywhere), a dark mass that must be a corpse in his lap, his body curled around it and—is it possible that he lost a friend in this battle? Some Jiang disciple who was overlooked, whose fallen body Wei Ying had sought out and is now mourning over?
But when Wei Ying lifts his head, his mouth is covered in blood.
Lan Wangji stares as the blood—almost black in the moonlight—drips down Wei Ying’s chin. (It is too dark for him to see the mole that has driven him to distraction for years, but just knowing that it is covered with blood….). The horror rising inside him, inexorable as the tide, is interrupted only by a single thought: This explains what happened to Wen Chao and Wen Zhuliu.
(He and Jiang Wanyin had been unable to piece together a theory of what had caused the scene they found at the courier station. There had been blood, but less than made sense when the two corpses were that pale and exsanguinated. Their throats had been ripped out like an animal had attacked them, and Jiang Wanyin had suggested that wolves or wild dogs had found the bodies after they were already dead. That, however, had not explained the lack of blood anywhere other than their throats. Nor had it explained the strangely-altered talismans scattered around the building, the ones that had made Lan Wangji’s blood run cold with a suspicion he would not allow himself to entertain. Jiang Wanyin had said it didn’t matter anyway: two of their most powerful enemies were dead, who cared how it happened? But he had looked as unsettled as Lan Wangji felt.
The one thing that had been certain: the two men had died in immense fear and pain.)
And then, as Wei Ying’s gaze snags his: This explains everything.
Fear flickers through Wei Ying’s eyes, a sight that makes Lan Wangji’s heart throb with pain (Not me, Wei Ying. Please never be scared of me.), before a weary resignation takes its place (it’s almost worse).
Wei Ying wipes his mouth and chin with his sleeved arm and says, “Ah Lan Zhan, at least it’s you.”
(Lan Wangji barely hears the words, doesn’t notice the slight slur of them, all his focus on the shadow of blood that still haunts Wei Ying’s face.)
Lan Wangji stares at him in silence as Wei Ying rises (he lets the corpse drop to the ground with the care he would show a pile of rags) and makes his way toward him, stepping over another corpse as he comes, his gaze never wavering from Lan Wangji’s. The careless grace of his boyhood is nowhere to be seen in the catlike slink of his movements now. The wind picks up, and his hair ribbon flaps like the banner of an army; in the moonlight, it is only just possible to tell that it is red.
(Lan Wangji had always believed that red suited Wei Ying very well, but now….)
Wei Ying stops only a chi or two away (close enough that Lan Wangji could touch him if he reached out) and tilts his head back. “Alright, Lan Zhan. Make it quick.”
With his chin tilted like that, the moonlight falls on it more fully, and now the smeared traces of blood on his face are red. That’s what Lan Wangji notices first, before he sees the flash of moonlight off of the fangs protruding over Wei Ying’s bottom lip, sharp and deadly as a serpent's, and he realizes suddenly why Wei Ying’s words have come out strangely.
It takes another handful of heartbeats before he realizes what Wei Ying is asking for.
Denial floods through Lan Wangji like a sick wave of winter water. He knows he should raise his sword as Wei Ying expects (he can hear his uncle’s voice shouting at him to do just that), but though his hand still clutches Bichen so tightly that its filigree will be imprinted on his skin when he finally loosens it, he does not raise it. (He cannot raise it.)
“Wei Ying.” His voice cracks on the words. “How?”
Something he doesn’t understand flashes through Wei Ying’s eyes before he drops his chin and cocks his head. “You want to talk first? That doesn’t seem like you, Lan Zhan.” He shrugs. “There are all kinds of nasties in the Burial Mounds, you know.”
Until now, Lan Wangji had held onto hope that Wei Ying hadn’t truly been in the Burial Mounds for the three months he was missing. How could it be true? How could he have survived? But now. Now there is no doubt.
It is painful to swallow. “And since….” (What words to use? He has always struggled with their limitations, but in this moment they seem more ineffectual than ever.)
“Yes, since then I’ve been drinking the blood of fallen soldiers to stay alive. Or—” Wei Ying laughs, and his laughter is terrible. (His laughter has been the brightest thing in Lan Wangji’s life.) “Some semblance of ‘alive,’ I guess.” His lips tighten and then the fangs have disappeared. (Do they retract? Fold in? Does it hurt when they come out?) “Is that what you wanted to know? Can we get on with the killing now?”
Lan Wangji shudders. He cannot remember the last time he allowed his body to be so unregulated, but now, in the moonlight with this terrible truth, self-discipline seems so far away. Wei Ying’s eyes widen.
“Does…anyone else know?”
“Of course not! Do you think I’d still be walking around if they did?”
That is good. That is…good. If no one else knows…. “What else?”
Wei Ying blinks. “What else?”
“Besides the…blood. What else?” There are tales of this kind of guai, but the details vary from place to place. Some tales say the jiāngshī kills to absorb qi; he has only heard a handful that involve blood, but his eyes cannot deny the truth. He has seen Wei Ying in the sunlight many times over the weeks since his return; he must not have to sleep in a cave during the day. And he has no trouble walking, but what other horrible changes must he have undergone? (What other horrible things must he do?)
Wei Ying stares at him in disbelief. “What does that matter?”
It matters. Of course it matters. (He has to know, what Wei Ying has suffered. He has to know.)
An idea occurs to him, sharp and acid-burning, and before Wei Ying can move, Lan Wangji’s hand shoots out and captures his wrist. And—
(Yes. This explains everything.)
“Your core.”
Wei Ying snatches his hand back, but the damage is already done. “Yes, it’s gone,” he sneers (he never used to sneer). “But that’s got nothing to do with this. That’s another thing altogether.”
The words don’t make sense, but something Wei Ying says seems to have caught his own attention. “Although it is an interesting question, whether I’d have been able to keep it when I changed. I’ve never read anything about that…”
And even in this freezing nightmare of a night, with ragged clouds now flickering over the moon and twisting the shadows around them, Lan Wangji still recognizes that expression, the one that Wei Ying always gets when he stumbles across a theory worthy of his brilliant mind. In all the horror, there is this relief, warm and potent as wine in his veins: He is still Wei Ying. Whatever has been taken from him, however he has changed, he is still Wei Ying.
Wei Ying has been rambling about what texts might contain hints about whatever kind of guai he is, but he cuts off abruptly when Lan Wangji leans down and places Bichen on the ground. (He would not, in other circumstances, put his sword on the ground, especially outdoors on a battlefield. But there is no place else to put it, and Wei Ying must understand that he is not going to kill him.) Wei Ying stares at the white sword, gleaming in the moonlight, and Lan Wangji cannot read his expression.
“Wei Ying,” he says and reaches out to grasp Wei Ying’s shoulders. But Wei Ying flinches back, eyes darting back to Lan Wangji’s face, and Lan Wangji lets his hands fall to his sides. “How often must you drink?”
Wei Ying is staring at him now, like if he stares hard enough, he will be able to understand why Lan Wangji is asking this. “Why—?”
“Wei Ying. Please. Tell me.”
His shrug now is one of discomfort, and he looks away, over Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “Once a week, more or less. Less is harder.”
“And if you wait longer than that?”
Wei Ying shakes his head, as though disbelieving that they are having this conversation. “Oh, come on, Lan Zhan. You saw me today.”
Yes. Yes, Lan Wangji had seen him before battle, cadaver thin, skin so pale it was almost translucent, the hollows between his cheekbones deeper than graves. And he sees him now, the differences: he’s less angular than he was this morning, face fuller, and even in the weak light, there is a touch of color in his cheeks.
(Good, Lan Wangji thinks, and he knows he should be disgusted with himself, but he is not. If the blood of some fallen Wen soldier can make Wei Ying look this much better, then it is good. After all they have taken, it is the least the Wen can do for him.)
“And besides the blood? What else do you need?”
“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying’s voice can’t decide whether to be angry or confused. “What is this? Why are you waiting? Pick up Bichen and strike me down! Now!”
“No.” That should be clear enough, even to Wei Ying. “You have no core and you drink blood now.” He is proud of how his voice barely wavers with the words, for all his heart is keening in his chest. “How else have you changed?”
“Lan Zhan!”
“What. Else.”
Again, Wei Ying shakes his head, the tiny motion saying so much. “I…the longer I go without blood, the colder I get. If it’s been a few days, I’m cold as a corpse.” He laughs again, that terrible laugh that isn’t a laugh at all.
Lan Wangji ignores it. Yes, that makes sense—the blood brings warmth. When he had held Wei Ying’s wrist in his hand just now, he had noticed no difference in body temperature—Wei Ying had just fed. “And?”
“And…I don’t know, Lan Zhan, I can see better in the dark? And the sunlight hurts if it’s bright?”
Yes. A creature of the night, now. He tilts his head, indicating for Wei Ying to continue.
“I can’t eat food anymore. Anything I eat just sits in my stomach like stones until I bring it up again.”
His digestive system must no longer be working.
“And my heartbeat is slow. So slow. It’s faster right now after I just fed—” Wei Ying cuts off, sucking in a huge breath, because Lan Wangji’s hand is now on his chest, the tips of his fingers pressed against the dip of his neck where his pulse lives. It is slow, under Lan Wangji’s fingers, under his palm, as slow as it might be if he was on his deathbed. And this is faster than before he fed?
He realizes that Wei Ying is holding himself tense and still, and he looks up. Wei Ying is staring at him with eyes that seem larger than they ever have before.
“Lan Zhan,” he says, and his voice sounds broken. Carefully, he pulls Lan Wangji’s hand away from his chest. “What is this? We both know you have to kill me. Can’t you please get it over with?”
The weariness in his voice throbs in Lan Wangji’s chest. “I will not kill Wei Ying.”
Relief lightnings through Wei Ying’s eyes before his face hardens. “Lan Zhan. I am a monster now. I drink blood. You cannot let me live.”
“What use have the dead for their blood? You hurt no one in taking it.”
“Lan Zhan!”
“I will not kill Wei Ying.”
They stare at each other for a long time, nothing but the cold night air and the far-off hoot of an owl between them. Then Wei Ying sighs. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t do any good right now anyway. You all still need me. You need what I can do, even if you hate it.”
Lan Wangji nods, decisive. “Wei Ying is our only hope.”
This all seems so clear to him now. Wei Ying abandoned the righteous path of the sword because it was no longer open to him. He used his brilliant, original mind to come up with something that would work, and he is all that stands between the world and the domination of the Wen. He is doing what he must do. He is changed, but he is still Wei Ying, doing whatever he can to protect the innocent and uphold justice.
Wei Ying snorts, and the sound is so irreverent and him that Lan Wangji knows he is right.
(Even as a monster, Wei Ying cannot be monstrous.
Even as a monster, he is so beloved.)
“Fine. So this is the way it’s going to be? You keep my secret and I keep winning battles for us and drinking blood after, and that’s all?”
“Mn.”
Wei Ying lets out half a laugh. It’s still rough, but it sounds closer to a real laugh than any other sound he has made since returning. “Lan Wangji, you are really something else.”
And then he turns and walks away, ribbon snapping in the wind, and all Lan Wangji can think is, That’s all for now.
But after?
---
Wei Ying is not waking up.
It has been four days, and he is not waking up.
Jiang-guniang is terrified. Her eyes were red with weeping when she opened the door that first day, stepping aside to allow Lan Wangji to enter. Wei Ying was lying on the bed, skin so pale against the red of his underobes, still as a corpse.
(He looked like a body laid out for burial, and something in Lan Wangji’s heart had started wailing.)
“I don’t understand,” she said, her voice raw as an open wound. “He’s so cold, and he just keeps getting colder. His heart…Lan-er-gongzi, I don’t know he is still alive. I have called the healer, but—”
Disregarding the Lan sect rules, Lan Wangji interrupted. “A healer cannot help him.”
A furrow appeared between her brows. “Hanguang-jun, do you know….?”
He should not betray Wei Ying’s trust this way, but better his beloved shijie knew the truth than a healer telling everyone what Wei Ying has become. (Lan Wangji will not be able to help him if that happens.)
Still, there were no words for this. He formed his sentence with much care. “Wei Ying was…changed by the Burial Mounds.”
“Yes.” The way she said it made it clear that she has known this all along. That’s good. At least someone besides Lan Wangji has seen him.
“He is…” He stopped, started over. He had had weeks, months to think about this, to wrap his mind around it and come to acceptance. But he still remembered the cold, poisonous shock, and it hurt to force that onto someone so beloved by Wei Ying. “I do not believe he is human anymore.”
The way she sucked her breath sounded so painful, and her knuckles were white as she grasped the pitcher she was holding. After a few moments of ragged breathing (fighting for control, and how well Lan Wangji knows that fight now), she said, “But he is still…”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji confirmed, and saw his own relief reflected in Jiang-guniang’s eyes. “He has no core. That is why he created demonic cultivation. His…needs are different now. But he is still Wei Ying.”
Jiang-guniang’s eyes sank closed, disrupting the tears that had welled up, sending one sliding down her cheek. “You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
It wasn’t quite a smile, the shape her mouth made, but when she opened her eyes again, they were brighter. “And these…needs.” She said the word very carefully. “You know what they are?”
Lan Wangji nodded.
“Will you tell me? So that I can…?”
Lan Wangji considered for a moment. “No. If it becomes necessary, I will take care of it myself.”
But even as Jiang Yanli had agreed to trust his judgment, Lan Wangji had hoped it would not become necessary. He sat beside Wei Ying’s bed playing Cleansing for hours, but Wei Ying just grew colder and paler and thinner.
Yesterday, the third day, he sought out the nearest butcher and bought some blood from him. Lan Wangji has spent a great deal of time since that night on the battlefield considering different options for Wei Ying’s life after the war. Animal blood was clearly the first alternative to be attempted. He had asked Jiang-guniang for a few minutes alone with Wei Ying, and she had shepherded her indignant brother out of the room. (Jiang Wanyin always becomes so loud and angry when he is worried.) He sat down with his two shēng jar of blood and began.
It didn’t work. The blood went down easily enough (and Lan Wangji wiped Wei Ying’s mouth with all the tenderness he does not allow himself to show when Wei Ying’s eyes are open), and for a few minutes after, Wei Ying’s skin was a little warmer, his heartbeat a little faster. Hope blossomed in Lan Wangji’s heart, but it wilted almost immediately. By the time the Jiangs returned to the room, Wei Ying was the same as he had been when they left. Lan Wangji could not bear to meet Wei Ying’s siblings eyes as he departed.
He did not sleep that night. Through all the long darkness, he lay awake, knowing what he must do. When he rose, he made himself eat a full meal though it tasted like dust in his mouth, and he drank as much water as he could.
And now he stands in Wei Ying’s room, staring down at him. He can hear Jiang Wanyin’s raised voice outside, the quiet murmur of Jiang Yanli trying to soothe him as she steers him away. He understands: Jiang Wanyin has no reason to believe that Lan Wangji will be able to help him.
But Lan Wangji knows that he can.
He folds his sleeve back carefully so that it will stay in place and sits down on the edge of Wei Ying’s bed. He tucks another pillow under Wei Ying’s head so that his neck is at a better angle, and then, with a steadying breath, presses his wrist to Wei Ying’s mouth.
Nothing happens. There is no stirring of breath against the tender skin of Lan Wangji’s inner wrist; Wei Ying’s poor, dry lips are cold and unmoving. Lan Wangji had hoped that having running blood near his mouth would awaken some instinct in Wei Ying, the way an unconscious man can still swallow water. But of course it would not be that simple.
It feels like a violation, sliding his finger into Wei Ying’s mouth, but he makes himself do it. It is shockingly dry inside, and only a little bit warmer than his lips, and the texture of his dry teeth against Lan Wangji’s skin makes him shudder. (If he had ever allowed himself to imagine Wei Ying’s mouth, it had not been like this.) He slides his finger up to the roof of Wei Ying’s mouth and prods at the gums, but though he finds a small hole on each side behind his canines, he cannot coax out the fangs.
Frustrated, he pulls his finger back out and wipes it on the handkerchief he brought with him. The next attempt will be even less pleasant.
He does not allow himself to hesitate once he pulls out the small knife. He had cleaned it carefully with alcohol and held it over the brazier’s fire for a time, but he had not sharpened it very much. For this reason, he feels the sting of it when he slices his inner arm, a few cuns down from the crease of his wrist. The blood wells up immediately, redder even than Wei Ying’s ribbon (red as wedding silks). Lan Wangji blinks at it, then presses his arm to Wei Ying’s mouth and—
There. Wei Ying’s eyes do not open, but with no warning the fangs slide out and bury themselves deep in Lan Wangji’s skin. The bite is sharp, painful, but the tug is worse.
Except that it isn’t. It hurts, yes, but it is a different kind of pain than any he has ever known. (He does not want it to stop.) He can feel it in his temples, his fingertips, the soles of his feet. His blood is moving through him—somehow Wei Ying is moving through him. It is like and completely unlike sharing qi: more primal somehow. (Darker, a bed shared rather than a path walked together.)
Wei Ying’s lips, which had been so cold and still just a moment ago, are warming now and moving slightly as he sucks. (This is not how Lan Wangji ever imagined Wei Ying’s mouth on his skin.) When he lays his other hand carefully against Wei Ying’s cheek, he can feel the skin warming. Not much yet—but it is a start.
He allows himself to cradle Wei Ying’s face as he feeds, his thumb caressing Wei Ying’s cheekbone. His skin, which was smooth and cool as porcelain, develops more give as it warms—becomes more alive. He knows it is not his imagination that it is gaining color as well. (He does not think he will ever again see Wei Ying’s skin as golden and sun-kissed as it once was, and he feels the aching loss of that. But this is enough. It is Wei Ying, and so it is enough.)
It is working.
Woozy with relief (not with blood loss, not yet—Wei Ying hasn’t taken enough for that), Lan Wangji lets himself tip forward, resting his forehead against Wei Ying’s shoulder, his hip pressed against Wei Ying’s side. Other than the sucking, he is still so still, but Lan Wangji knows that soon he will be awake again, soon he will be—
He feels waking jolt through Wei Ying’s body in the heartbeat before Wei Ying shoves him away. The fangs retract (painfully—worse than any of the pain so far) even as Lan Wangji falls over, and the jolt of hitting the floor sends an ache through the arm Wei Ying fed from. The wound on his wrist throbs angry and hot, but Wei Ying is up and across the room, awake (alive), staring at him and—
“What are you doing?”
Wei Ying’s voice trembles, and so does his body. He looks stronger, healthier, his faced filled out a bit, but blood is smeared across his mouth and chin and the look in his eyes as he looks back and forth between Lan Wangji’s face and the wound on his wrist—
(Even in his worst nightmares, Wei Ying has never looked at him like that.)
“Lan Zhan,” his voice rasps again. “What did you do?”
Through the throbbing pain (from the wound? From Wei Ying’s reaction?), Lan Wangji bends down and picks up the roll of bandages he had prepared; it had fallen to the floor when Wei Ying shoved him away. Even as he starts to unroll it (his own hands are trembling as much as Wei Ying is), he says, voice as rough as Wei Ying’s: “Wei Ying would not wake.”
“So you made me drink from you?” He says it like it is a betrayal. (It is the most faithful thing Lan Wangji has ever done.)
Lan Wangji sets his jaw. “Wei Ying would not wake,” he repeats.
“So you just decided to give me your blood? What is wrong with you?”
The question hurts, more than Lan Wangji would ever admit. It is difficult to speak, but he makes himself say the words. “I have spent many months determining what to do to help Wei Ying after the war was over.” After the abundance of bodies no one cares about dried up. “Animal blood did not work. I made my decision.”
Wei Ying is only becoming more upset, not less. “You’re insane! How could you even think of that?”
Lan Wangji’s impatience feels like anger (like fear). “What would you have had me do? How did you expect to live after the war, Wei Ying?”
“I didn’t expect to live at all!”
Lan Wangji can feel the horror on his own face, cannot control it. Wei Ying makes an incredulous sound. “Oh, come on, Lan Zhan, we both know I was supposed to die out there. I didn’t think for one second that I’d still be standing on the other side. Which I wasn’t. And if through some twisted quirk of fate, I did make it, you were supposed to kill me.”
Lan Wangji is numb, frozen, staring. He cannot react, not even when Wei Ying rushes toward him, swooping down to pick up the length of bandage that had fallen from Lan Wangji’s nerveless hand. Not even when Wei Ying takes his throbbing wrist in his hands (his hands are warm, as warm as they have ever been) and starts to wind the bandage around it does he move. “You idiot. Even if you slowed the blood loss with your qi, you could still bleed out,” Wei Ying mutters as he works, but the gentleness of his hands belie his harsh words. “You think you’re invincible? Not even Hanguang-jun can survive without blood.”
Lan Wangji stares at the top of Wei Ying’s bent head as he ties off the bandage. When Wei Ying raises his eyes to meet his, he feels it through him like a lightning strike. “I trusted you to kill me.” Wei Ying’s voice is quieter now, but even more intense. (Trembling.) “On the nights when I was so hungry and weak that I couldn’t wait any longer, when I had to feed—when I had to make myself do that—I got through it by reminding myself that you would end it as soon as the war was over. I would be happy, dying on Hanguang-jun’s sword.”
Nothing has ever hurt more than this. “Wei Ying.”
“And in the end, you didn’t even have to. You didn’t even have to get out Bichen. All you had to do was let me go. A few more days like that, and I would have been gone for good. It would have been over.”
Wei Ying is so close and he is so beautiful, even with scarlet smeared across his mouth. In what universe could Lan Wangji willingly give this up?
“I’m already dead, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers, and he sounds so tired. “I’m already dead. Why can’t you just let me go?”
No. Lan Wangji will not accept this. “I cannot. Wei Ying can ask anything of me, if it is within my power. But that I could never give.”
Wei Ying shakes his head in disbelief, a small motion, and his voice is just as small. “Why?”
With a daring Lan Wangji would not have believed in himself, he reaches out to once again cup Wei Ying’s face. Wei Ying flinches back, just a little, but he lets Lan Wangji settle his palm against his cheek. He stares at Lan Wangji, mesmerized, until Lan Wangji’s thumb reaches down and strokes against the fang protruding over his lip.
And Wei Ying breaks.
The way he collapses into himself, the tearless sobs that shake his body—Lan Wangji would trade every reincarnation cycle, every attempt to reach enlightenment to make it stop, to ease his pain. He allows himself to do what he has yearned to do so many times before: he wraps his arms around Wei Ying, holding his too-thin body with its stolen warmth as close as he can.
“You can’t let me go on like this, Lan Zhan.” His words are almost unintelligible through his sobs. “I’m a monster now.”
Lan Zhan tightens his arms, guiding Wei Ying over to the bed. Even with the strength of his own golden core, Lan Wangji’s head is beginning to throb. “Wei Ying is not a monster. Wei Ying is good.”
“No, no, no…” Even as he says it, over and over, he’s clinging to Lan Wangji’s robes. He is here, in Lan Wangji’s arms.
“You are changed, but you are still Wei Ying.”
“I’m not, though. I’m not. I don’t know what I am, but I’m not.” It must hurt, to weep like this, and have no tears. His frail body is wracked by his sobs.
“You are. You are still good and kind and brave and selfless. You are still brilliant and clever and funny. You are still my zhiji.”
“I don’t want to be this.” Wei Ying buries his face in Lan Wangji’s chest and his words are almost inaudible.
“I know.” He runs his hand over Wei Ying’s tangled hair, cradles the back of his head in his hand. His slender neck, the bone encasing his beautiful mind…every part of him seems so fragile. Lan Wangji will spend the rest of his life keeping him safe. (Keeping his secret. Standing between him and any who would harm him. Reminding him who he is, over and over, as many times as it takes till Wei Ying believes it again.) “It is hard. It is so hard. But you are still my Wei Ying.”
---
Wei Ying is quiet after his sobs die down. Lan Wangji is certain he will pull away, but he doesn’t, not till they hear voices outside the door and then the gentle tap of Jiang-guniang’s knock. Then he sits up, pushing his hair back from his panicked face while Lan Wangji dampens a handkerchief in the water jug.
“A moment, Jiang-guniang,” he calls, and his voice sounds steadier than he would have expected.
“I can’t see them, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers frantically. “I can’t. It was all right when I was the necessary for the war, but now—”
“Wei Ying.” He takes Wei Ying’s chin between his fingers and begins to wipe at the remaining streaks of red. They’re faded now, but would be noticeable. Wei Ying stills under the ministration, wide eyes staring at Lan Wangji. “Your sister and brother love you. They have been so worried about you that I feared for Jiang-guniang’s health. At least for their own sakes, you must let them see that you are alive and well.”
“But I’m not,” Wei Ying whispers, pushing the handkerchief away (no matter; the blood is gone now). “I’m not either one of those things.”
“You will be,” Lan Wangji reassures him. He pulls his sleeve down over the bandage on his wrist.
“How?” Wei Ying demands in furious undertone.
“I will help you,” he replies, straightening his clothes where Wei Ying had clung to him.
“Lan Zhan, all the Cleansing in the world and every book in the Cloud Recesses library can’t make me right again.”
Lan Wangji stands. “No. I will help you.” And then, before he can talk himself out of it, he leans down and presses his lips to Wei Ying’s. Gently, so gently that even though he can feel the fangs against his lips, they do not cut him. When he straightens, Wei Ying blinks at him with wide eyes, and one hand lifts towards him, but Lan Wangji takes a step back. “Fangs away, my love.” And when after a dazed moment, Wei Ying obeys, Lan Wangji goes to open the door.
---
Jiang-guniang’s tearful joy and Jiang Wanyin’s grumbling complaints about how much Wei Ying made them worry make the reunion between the siblings less awkward than it might have been in the wake of Wei Ying’s breakdown. He still looks shell-shocked even as he reassures his shijie that he’s fine now, but he did just wake up from a four-day coma and the Jiangs are both so relieved that they don’t seem to notice that it’s anything more than that. Lan Wangji hesitates for a moment at the door to watch them, and as he slips out, Wei Ying shoots him a look that says very clearly, This isn’t over.
It is not. But now is not the moment for that discussion. Lan Wangji has planning to do, and he needs to speak with his brother and to a knowledgeable healer.
He is halfway to the rooms he’s sharing with Xiongzhang when he hears his name being called behind him. He turns to find Jiang-guniang hurrying after him, her lavender skirts lifted so that she doesn’t trip, and he heads back towards her.
“Hanguang-jun.” She is breathing heavily when he reaches her. “How can I thank you—I don’t know what you did, but—”
“It is no matter. I will do whatever I can for Wei Ying.”
“Yes,” she says, cocking her head in a way that reminds him of Wei Ying. “I see that. And his…needs…?”
Lan Wangji can feel his ears heating as he says, “I will attend to them.”
The smile she gives him is kind and grateful and just the tiniest bit teasing. “You know, the Jiang sect would be honored to have Hanguang-jun visit us at Lotus Pier at any time.”
He bows. “Thank you, Jiang-guniang.”
She reaches out and pats his hand—a more familiar gesture than he would normally allow, but it does not bother him coming from her. “Come see A-Xian tomorrow morning. I’ll make sure A-Cheng and I are out.”
---
Lan Wangji does not tell Xiongzhang much, and Xiongzhang does not ask much. The questions he does ask are very careful and very limited, and though Lan Wangji can tell he doesn’t like all of the answers he receives, Xiongzhang does not push. (He never has. He is the best of brothers.)
He finally asks the only question that really needs to be answered. “Are you leaving us, then, Wangji?”
Lan Wangji bows his head. “I must be with Wei Ying. I will go where he goes.” He looks up into his brother’s sad eyes. “Perhaps I can convince him to come to Cloud Recesses.” It would be good, to live in the Jingshi together. “Or at least to visit.” Perhaps half the year there and half in Lotus Pier? That way, they could participate in the rebuilding of both of their homes. “But if he will not….”
Xiongzhang’s smile is wistful. “It was always going to be like this, wasn’t it? Eventually.”
Lan Wangji drops his eyes to his lap, ears heating again. “Mn.”
“Wei-gongzi is a very lucky man, Wangji. I hope he will take as much care with you as I know you will take with him.”
Lan Wangji doesn’t need care. He just needs Wei Ying, and whatever he is willing to let Lan Wangji give him.
---
The door is no sooner closed behind Jiang-gunaing and Jiang Wanyin than Wei Ying has trapped Lan Wangji against it, hands braced on either side of Lan Wangji’s head.
“What the hell, Lan Zhan? You can’t just go around kissing people!”
Lan Wangji’s ears are hot (at least as much from their position as Wei Ying’s words), but he manages to hold his voice steady when he says, “I did not kiss people. I kissed Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying lets out a little shriek and jerks back. “Yeah, and what the hell, Lan Zhan?”
“Wei Ying.” Lan Wangji takes a step towards him. “Do you need me to say it?” It will take a great deal of courage (and probably make his ears burn off), but he will say it if Wei Ying needs to hear it.
“No! God, no! But, like, even if you want to—” He flails his hand around in a gesture that could mean absolutely anything, “—I am a monster now.”
Lan Wangji glares at him. Not this again. “Monsters harm. Wei Ying will not.”
“How do you know that? How can you possibly know that? I might get lucky and be able to find a corpse now and then to drain, but the rest of the time it won’t be that easy, and if I get hungry enough, I will hurt someone, Lan Zhan. I know I will. I won’t be able to help it.”
“You will not.”
“I will! And then someone else will kill me! I don’t want someone else to kill me! If I have to die, I want Lan Zhan to do it!”
“No one will kill Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, the vow of his heart and soul. “Wei Ying will never be hungry enough to hurt someone.”
“Lan Zhan! You said animal blood doesn’t work! How exactly do you expect me to—”
And something must show on Lan Wangji’s face as he takes Wei Ying’s hand because Wei Ying’s expression goes stony, even as there’s something panicked in his eyes. “No. Lan Zhan. No. I could not live with myself if—No!” He yells this last as he tugs his hand out of Lan Wangji’s.
“Wei Ying, please hear what I have to say. Please.”
At the second ‘please’, Wei Ying’s face crumbles and he spins away. “Fine! Say it so that I can yell at you about how wrong you are.”
“Mn.” Lan Wangji takes a step over to the bed and sits down, folding his hands in his lap. After talking to his brother and the healer yesterday, he had locked himself in his room and spent the rest of the evening and much of the night thinking. He does not fully trust his words, but he must try.
“Since I discovered how Wei Ying is changed, I have spent much time in thought about his situation.” This is an understatement. Since that night on the battlefield, Lan Wangji has thought only of the safety of those he loves, the strength he must maintain in battle, and how Wei Ying is to live. “From what I understand, you require roughly a shēng of blood once a week to be at your best. Is this correct?” When Wei Ying doesn't answer—his back is still turned—Lan Wangji prods him again. “Wei Ying?”
Wei Ying makes a frustrated sound but his only answer is a short, “Yes.”
Good. “I am extremely strong in both body and core.” Lan Wangji says this with no pride at all. (Or perhaps there is pride—pride that he will be able to take care of Wei Ying.) “The healer I consulted agrees that with a proper diet, a cultivator of my capacity could lose this amount weekly and suffer only the most minimal of effects.”
Wei Ying spins around, his finger jabbing towards Lan Wangji. “Effects! There would be effects, Lan Zhan! And I don’t care how minimal they are, I am not going to let you suffer for me!”
“I would suffer far more if Wei Ying was not well.”
Wei Ying makes a frustrated sound, almost a growl. (It is very attractive.) “Lan Zhan! You cannot possibly want me to drink blood from you!”
“Yes.” Lan Wangji must be as clear as possible to ensure that there is no misunderstanding (to ensure that Wei Ying cannot lie to himself). “That is exactly what I want.”
“Well, it’s not going to be possible because I’m not going to Cloud Recesses with you!” He says it with all the flourish of a gambler playing a winning card.
“Fine. I will go to Lotus Pier with you.”
Wei Ying throws his hands up in the air. “You are impossible!”
“Mn.” He watches as Wei Ying paces across the room, obviously racking his brain for another argument. When he reaches the far wall, he spins around, hair and ribbon flaring out, and walks determinedly to Lan Wangji. He stops a chi away, hands on his hips, glaring down at Lan Wangji. (He has never looked more beautiful.)
“If you refuse to think about yourself,” Wei Ying says, “think about me.”
“Mn.” This is agreeable; Lan Wangji is always thinking about Wei Ying (and is always happy to think about Wei Ying still more).
“Think about what it would do to me to know that I was hurting you. To know that I was hurting you over and over again. Lan Zhan, I would hate myself.”
Ah. This is the first legitimate argument Wei Ying has made. Fortunately, Lan Wangji has an answer. “It does not hurt.”
Hurt flashes across Wei Ying’s face. “Lan Zhan,” he says, a little bit breathless, and Lan Wangji’s heart stops. “You’re lying to me now?”
Lan Wangji shoots up off the bed. “No!” He curses himself and starts again. “No! It is—there is pain. But the pain is…not unpleasant.”
Wei Ying stares at him blankly, but at least the hurt is gone. And then recognition dawns in his eyes and his cheeks start to pinken. (And Lan Wangji realizes that Wei Ying’s cheeks can turn pink because of the blood he, Lan Wangji, gave to him. The blood that Wei Ying now holds inside his body. Perhaps this knowledge should not be as gratifying as it is, but Lan Wangji has made peace with the knowledge that he will never be reasonable when it comes to Wei Ying.) “Lan Zhan! You…liked it?”
“Mn.” He’s not ashamed for Wei Ying to know how much he enjoyed their joining (Wei Ying’s fangs inside him, his blood inside Wei Ying—it is not how he’s fantasized about being joined with Wei Ying, but it is just as satisfying), but he will not say it if he does not have to.
Wei Ying shoots him an incredulous look at then looks away, cheeks still pink. “You’re insane.”
Perhaps. “I have a proposition for you.”
Wei Ying starts, flushing even darker. “What?”
That was a ‘What are you talking about?’ what, not a ‘what is the proposition?’ what, but Lan Wangji decides to interpret it as the latter. “Let us try. Now.”
“No! Lan Zhan, after yesterday—”
“Wei Ying took very little yesterday. The healer confirmed that I am well.” Wei Ying is shaking his head, but Lan Wangji continues on, removing a piece of paper from his sleeve. “Here is one of your talismans of warning. If something goes wrong that requires a healer, use it to call for help.”
“And if I lose control and take too much?” he shoots back.
“You will not.” At Wei Ying’s glare, he concedes. (He knows how stubborn Wei Ying can be—this argument could easily go on for hours.) “I give you my word that I will use it if I am in danger.” An easy promise to make; he does not believe for a second that he could ever be in danger with Wei Ying.
“Lan Zhan….”
Lan Wangji reaches out to cup Wei Ying’s face (this is becoming a habit, one he has no intention of breaking). Wei Ying will not meet his eyes, but he doesn’t pull away. “Wei Ying. If it were me. If I was…changed, as you are. Would you do it for me?”
Wei Ying is silent for a long moment, and then he lets out an explosive sigh of frustration. “Damn you, Lan Zhan!”
Lan Wangji does not smile, but he feels like smiling. Wei Ying must notice this because he yelps, “Stop looking so smug! I’ve only agreed to try it once, and if it doesn’t work, I expect you to do what I’ve been asking you from the beginning and kill me.”
It hurts, an ache to the bottom of his soul, to make the vow, but Lan Wangji is certain. This will work. “You have my word.”
“Fine!” He shoves Lan Wangji’s shoulder and Lan Wangji lets himself be pushed to sitting on the bed. “But we can’t do it now anyway. I’m not going to take it from the same arm as yesterday, and I won’t harm your sword arm. So we’ll just have to wait till you’re fully healed.”
Lan Wangji is so near fully healed that it makes no difference; the wound has closed and only the slightest bruising remains. He gets worse bruises from sparring with his brother. Still, he’s tired of arguing, so he reaches up to his collar and starts to fold it down.
Wei Ying’s eyes go wide. “Lan Zhan!”
Lan Wangji swings his legs up onto the bed and lies down on his back. Then he reaches out and pulls a still-staring Wei Ying down, too, until Wei Ying is stretched out on top of him. (The weight of him is the most wonderful thing Lan Wangji has ever felt.) Wei Ying plants his hands on the bed on either side of Lan Wangji, holding his upper body up, fighting (but not very hard). He wriggles, trying to get loose from Lan Wangji’s arms. (He must be unaware that Lan Wangji enjoys that very much.)
“I really don’t know how you can ask me to do this, Lan Zhan, how can you—”
“I ate meat this morning.”
Wei Ying blinks down at him. “What?”
“The healer said that it would be the most advantageous. Jiang-guniang prepared it for me.”
“Lan Zhan! The rules!”
“The rules have always been set aside for the sake of a person’s health. I am happy to do this to help Wei Ying and keep myself strong.” He does not mention that the sheep’s liver was terrible, the texture the worst thing he’s ever had in his mouth, and that it had been a battle to choke it down. Jiang-guniang said there are lots of different ways to cook lots of different meats and she will find one he can stomach. He will grow used to it. He will. “But were it not to be needed, I would have to present myself for punishment.”
Wei Ying boggles at him. “When did you become so sly?”
Lan Wangji ignores the question and just looks up at him (and yes, perhaps he is a bit smug because he knows he has won this round).
Wei Ying lets out another explosive sigh. “Lan Zhan, you are so…” He trails off, gaze moving over Lan Wangji’s face as though he’s just now seeing him. “So….”
When Wei Ying ducks his head into the kiss, Lan Wangji is waiting for him. This, then, is their first real kiss, the one Lan Wangji has been waiting for since their first meeting on a moonlit roof. (He had not known it then, of course. But ever since then, he has been waiting.) Wei Ying’s lips are still chapped, his mouth a little cooler and drier than Lan Wangji’s. But it is a kiss worth waiting for.
It keeps going, on and on. (Lan Wangji is ravenous and will never be filled.) He isn’t certain whether a new kiss starts every time they pull back to gasp for breath, or whether this all counts as one single kiss, but he could stay like this forever, his hands clutching Wei Ying’s hips, Wei Ying’s fingers tangled in his hair, growing hard against each other, sharing breath and touch.
Except that there is more to share, and a point to be made. He finally rips his mouth away from Wei Ying’s and gasps out, “Wei Ying, please.”
Wei Ying moans (a sound Lan Wangji feels in his cock) and falls forward, his lips against Lan Wangji’s bare neck. He presses a kiss against the soft dip right above Lan Wangji’s clavicle and Lan Wangji gasps as this new (overwhelming) feeling.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers against his skin, breath cool enough to make Lan Wangji shiver, and then he licks, and Lan Wangji’s eyes roll back, his hips jerking. “You liked that, sweetheart?” Wei Ying whispers, voice tinged with both awe and humor, and now Lan Wangji isn’t sure he has any blood to share. Surely he is nothing more than a thin skin wrapped around glowing love, throbbing love, flowing love. Surely there is no room inside him for anything but that love.
Wei Ying sucks now, and even though his fangs are still retracted, Lan Wangji’s body remembers. Yes. This. Now.
“Wei Ying. Now.”
“Lan Zhan—”
“Now.”
Wei Ying’s bite is the most exquisite pain Lan Wangji has ever felt. He tenses down to his toes and Wei Ying pulls away as hurriedly (but as gently—he is still Wei Ying) as possible. “Gods, Lan Zhan, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I—”
Lan Wangji reaches up, grabs the back of Wei Ying’s head, and pulls him back down. He can feel Wei Ying hesitate and then he moans and the fangs are back (Wei Ying is back inside him) and the pull is back and—
Yes, it hurts. But it is a beautiful kind of pain, this giving of himself to the man he loves. Could I really do this every week for the rest of our lives? Lan Wangji had wondered, lying in his cold bed, dreaming of a life after the war. And now he knows the answer.
Yes.
Yes.
He lets his body go limp, warm and surrounded by Wei Ying, but he keeps his hand cradling the back of Wei Ying’s head, holding it in place, his other arm looped around Wei Ying’s waist. Wei Ying has let his body rest on Lan Wangji’s, draped over him like a blanket, the weight of him so good. Yes, he could stay like this forever. (He could die like this.) Everything feels soft except the hardness between Lan Wangji’s legs, against his hip. The erection that had grown while he and Wei Ying were kissing had died at the first shock of the bite, but now it’s stiffening again, and Wei Ying is hard as a rock against him. The feeling of Wei Ying’s cock against him (the knowledge that he wants this too) only turns Lan Wangji on more. The need for pressure grows until he can hold himself still no longer and he starts to rock his hips.
Wei Ying pulls back, fangs sliding out of Lan Wangji’s skin, and Lan Wangji lets out a pitiful little moan.
“Lan Zhan? Really?” Wei Ying stares down at him, fangs glistening, blood smeared on his lips, amazement in his eyes. He swallows, and Lan Wangji watches the bob of his Adam’s apple. “You really—?”
Lan Wangji pulls Wei Ying’s head down again just as he rocks his hips back up, and Wei Ying giggles against his neck, a tickle that sends shivers up and down Lan Wangji’s body. “Lan Zhan,” he sighs, and then his fangs slide back into Lan Wangji’s neck, and he moves his leg between Lan Wangji’s so that they’re each pressed against each other’s thigh, and they’re rocking against each other, and Lan Wangji has never, ever felt anything like this. The buildup of pleasure is more than he can endure, and far off he can hear helpless noises that must be his own. (He would not have thought that he would lose enough control to make sounds like that, but of course he does. He has never had the slightest bit of control when it comes to Wei Ying.)
Wei Ying goes stiff against him with a moan that will haunt Lan Wangji’s dreams, but before he does, he gives one last suck, and it’s like he’s pulling the orgasm right out of Lan Wangji, out of every cell in his body. The world goes red, then white, pleasure and completion surging together, and there has never been anything like this.
He comes back to himself slowly, aware at first only of the throbbing ache in his neck and Wei Ying’s warm weight on top of him. He is so tired, in a warm, syrupy way that is nothing like the exhaustion of war. It is sweet, this weariness. As sweet as Wei Ying in his arms.
After a moment, Wei Ying pulls back, and Lan Wangji wants to pull him back down, but he doesn’t have the energy. Wei Ying peers down at him, blood on his lips but fangs retracted now, worry in his eyes.
“Sweetheart, you’re very pale,” he says, and the words are as sweet as his worry.
“Wei Ying. I am fine.” He finds the strength to reach up and wipe the blood from Wei Ying’s lips with his thumb, and Wei Ying pulls that thumb into his mouth. Inside, it is warm and damp, now, as a mouth should be (as it was in Lan Wangji’s fantasies). There is color in his cheeks and warmth in his body. There is something awed in his eyes, and Wei Ying is alive. This life is different than any Lan Wangji has ever known, but it is no less real, no less precious.
Wei Ying lets Lan Wangji’s thumb slip from his mouth, and Lan Wangji lets his arm drop down onto the bed beside him. The worry is back in Wei Ying’s eyes, and he sits up fully, moving off of Lan Wangji so that he can remove his outer robe. Lan Wangji watches him in sleepy fascination, but Wei Ying removes no further layers, just bunching up the robe and pressing it to Lan Wangji’s neck. “I need to get a bandage.” Wei Ying is starting to sound panicked now. “And something for you to drink and—”
Lan Wangji lifts his hand, cutting him off. “There’s—in my qiankun bag.”
Wei Ying darts across the room, swooping it up from where Lan Wangji had dropped it when he came in. He settles back down on the bed at Lan Wangji’s side as he starts to pull out its contents. Lan Wangji came prepared: there is a stoppered jar of a tisane that the healer had brewed, a box of some kind of sweets Jiang-guniang had procured for him, rolls of bandages, a small pot of a healing poultice. The worry in the set of Wei Ying’s eyebrows lessens at each object revealed. Lan Wangji watches his face with pleasure, the round healthiness of his cheeks, the flush of his skin, the brightness of his eyes, the familiar shift of expressions.
When Wei Ying looks up and meets his gaze, he is smiling a new kind of smile, and Lan Wangji’s heart clenches to see its sweetness. “My Lan Zhan took care of me,” he says. “Now I will take care of him.”
Wei Ying’s fingers are as gentle as the poultice is cool against the flame of his wound. When the bandage is packed tightly in place to Wei Ying’s satisfaction (he fusses, and it is so endearing that Lan Wangji thinks, I could ask for nothing more in life than this), Wei Ying cleans up the messes in both their trousers, and though Wei Ying blushes, Lan Wangji is too sleepy and content to feel shame. After that, Wei Ying repositions him, sliding behind him so that Lan Wangji is leaning back against his chest. (For all he had fantasized about holding Wei Ying in his arms, he had not imagined this simple comfort: to rest against Wei Ying and trust his strength to hold him.)
“Drink this,” Wei Ying says, and holds the jar to Lan Wangji’s mouth so that he can drink. He feeds him after, fingers coated with sugar that Lan Wangji insists on sucking clean.
Wei Ying laughs, incredulous (joyous). “And to think that Hanguang-jun always said that I was shameless!”
It is true—Lan Wangji has no shame, not anymore. What good could it possibly do him? What could it gain him, when throwing it away has brought him everything he could ever ask of life?
Except…except perhaps there is a bit more to ask. Next time—next time, he will have Wei Ying’s fangs and his cock in him at the same time, he tells himself as he falls asleep in Wei Ying’s arms. He will pull Wei Ying into his body, and Wei Ying will pull his blood into his, and they will be one in all the ways it is possible to be one. Next time, and the time after that, and the time after that.
Lan Wangji will keep Wei Ying alive with his own life, watch Wei Ying moving through the world (laughing and teasing and pouting and fighting for the innocent and to uphold justice) and know that he himself is responsible. Shame has no place in such a life.
(There is no room for it. There is no room for anything but love.)