Archive of Our Own ^beta

The dead don’t talk, of course. Not anymore now that he was dead. In all honesty, Jiang Cheng doesn’t know why he came back.

 (The body. There had to have been a body.)

The sun, low in the sky, barely illuminates a path for Jiang Cheng to navigate. It’s enough for him to avoid the thin houses and snapped remains of clotheslines. To go around the fields, around half rotted harvests and laundry baskets.

(A burnt red ribbon. A toy rabbit.)

He walks for a long time, finding nothing. The cave had been picked clean of the heretic loose leafed papers he’d seen last time he’d been here. The compasses, the talismans, the flags.

(He’d been torn apart. What was he expecting to find?)

It was foolish to come, really. There was nothing to be found on this cursed, wretched heap of a graveyard. Jiang Cheng grinds a foot particularly hard into a patch of burnt ash as he leaves the cave, ready to board his sword and be on his way back to the Pier, settling for the single spoil he’d managed to nab before the Jin vultures ransacked the place.

stopWait!LOOK

A cutting cold wind lashes the back of his neck, freezing and unsettling so much it makes his stomach lurch.

lookLOOKlooook

If Jiang Cheng wasn’t so sure everything on this damned mountain was dead, he would’ve sworn there was a hand pulling at the base of his neck. A hand gripped white on his sword, he turned his head slowly towards a rustling in a half rotted, dried basin of a pond. A hair’s breadth from drawing his blade to cut through the dead vegetation is stopped by a shrill cry.

“No!”

Jiang Cheng blinked. Then blinked again. There was a child- no, a mud caked Wen brat shaking over the still smoldering ashes of long stalks and thick crumpled leaves.

“These are Xian-gege’s lotuses, you- you-“ The kid’s dirt smudged nose scrunched and his flushed cheeks puffed out. “You can’t touch ‘em!”

Wen Yuan. A vague memory wraps around his ankles and pulls at his robes with muddy hands.  Only, no older and taller figure is there to chide him and pull him off.

Jiang Cheng shakes his head. What is he doing here. What is he doing here?

“I remember you.” Jiang Cheng startles, attention back on the tiny slip of a boy still nestled in rotted bramble and ash. The boy peers up at him, hackles no longer raised. “You’re purple-gege! You look like the pretty jiejie with the braids. She wore red and gave A-Yuan soup because my tummy hurt.”

Jiang Cheng takes a deep breath, sheathing his blade and pointedly not listening too closely to the exact words the little Wen was saying. Instead, he latches onto the first part of his sentence with a grunt. “Not purple-gege.”

Wen Yuan frowns, rubbing his nose in a familiar way that gets dirt in his eyebrows. “No?”

He searches for words meant for a child and all that comes out is harsh and awkward. “I’m Jiang Cheng. I’m not your gege, I’m not-“

“Xian-gege?”

And that had been Wei Wuxian’s name once upon time. The first year he’d come, before Mother and the rest of the years after that sitting between like a barren field. Before he can start to wonder about his brother and what exactly he’d say in this situation, he takes the name as the question it is.

“Yes. He was my-” Jiang Cheng doesn’t understand the great full void of guilt that rises in his throat. He can’t quite force himself to choke out his next words, mostly because he hadn’t expected to find what should be a dead boy in a dead field asking after his dead brother today-

“Your Xian-gege too?”

Jiang Cheng sits up straight at the edge of the basin, like a tall grave in a small field. He’s ashamed to say the words hit him as hard as they do. He barely keeps the croak from his throat when he finally answers back.  “A long time ago.”

Wen Yuan nods, as though him being here makes any sense at all. “There was a big fire. In the radishes. And Xian-gege’s lotus.”

Jiang Cheng hisses through his teeth, barely above a whisper, finally realizing what the burnt remains Wen Yuan sits in make him a familiar sort of sick. Wen Yuan doesn’t seem to quite grapes the extent of the destruction he sits in and simply rubs at his eyes, dirt smearing across his cheek.

“The bad men came. A-Yuan was hiding.” The boy points to the gnarled willow that cranes over the edge of the burnt lotus patch. A sliver of a core cracks open at the middle of its gnarled trunk, small enough for a kid to force himself into. If he was scared enough.  “A-Yuan wanted to find Xian-gege but the sun was going down.”

And suddenly, it's like Jiang Cheng is fifteen again, scrounging in a burnt lotus field. The not quite man, not quite boy looking for his parents, looking for some answer from his enemies, their bodies, the gods, anyone- to why? Why him? Why this field? Why his family? Why?

The two of them are both kneeling in mud on a mountain far from Yunmeng or Qishan and still, he can feel the Wen on the horizon. He can feel Wen Zhuliu’s hot fists boiling in his stomach. He feels the way lotus pods do on summer days, empty and cored out. Discarded by jeering laughs of young boys.

He waits for his parents, his gods, his brother- and they do not come.

He burns.

Jiang Cheng knows what an orphan left behind looks like. He knows how bloody your insides could get when you let the sun have them for too long. Jiang Cheng could look at himself and see it- he had looked into his brother and seen the same.

The blatant similarity between them and this boy solidifies as a rising sickness in his stomach.

“Is Xian-gege coming back?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he plucks the boy from the field without a sound and begins his trek out from the small skeletal remains of the village.

All the while, Wen Yuan calls out to the black bamboo trees as they leave: Xian-gege, Xian-gege, Xian-gege. Like Wei Wuxian is someone who answers back when called. Like the filial little brother he is.

Jiang Cheng stops at the threshold of the village between breaths.

…Can either of them call themselves little brothers anymore?

The mountain and its graveyard have no answers, for the dead do not speak. Not anymore. Something shifts, in him, in the air, he doesn’t know. Wen Yuan seems to feel it too and he grows quiet. There’s nothing but the sound of dead, dead leaves underfoot. Jiang Cheng continues to walk down the single plank bridge silently as the sun disappears.

A-Yuan spends most of the boat ride back to the pier with his tiny fingers fishing above the water as Jiang Cheng slowly rows. He hadn’t planned for the boat but the moment he’d unsheathed his sword for flight, A-Yuan had burst into great big sobs and he’d given up. It made him sick to his stomach, a boy his age looking at swords in terror rather than the wide eyed fascination Jiang Cheng knew he’d had around his age. He knew why. Of course he knew why. But the more he thought about it, the closer he got to that thought of your fault, your fault, yours-

So Jiang Cheng rowed his boat.

They get to Lotus Pier a little ways after nightfall. With all the hustle and bustle of the day, Wen Yuan is a limp weight on his lap no heavier than a bushel of turnips. It’s muscle memory he blames for carrying a sleeping Wen Yuan to the bed of a familiar room. It's even got the bed with those stupid kissing faces carved on the back of the headboard.

After the war, much of the Pier and its halls had been burnt beyond recognition. It was a horrible sort of humor that his room was not among them, all too satisfied to haunt the Jiang even now.

Still, he can’t help himself from fetching abasin of water, of dressing Wen Yuan in deep purples and rubbing the grime from his skin. Doesn’t know what possesses him to pull the covers over what’s left of the Wen into his dead brother’s bed. For a good while he simply kneels at the foot of the bed, eyes tracing over the boy’s features so unlike those silver eyes, the easy grin, the sharp features- and yet.

And yet.

In his sleep, Wen Yuan’s fingers instinctively latched onto his hands. The same hands he had just held him with had created that burnt field he’d hidden in.

There was something too kind in Wen Yuan the same way it had lived in Wei Wuxian. And Jiang Cheng didn’t really know what to do with that.

For now though, he lets the small, soft hands hold onto him like he's someone who does that sort of thing. It doesn’t take long for Wen Yuan’s creased brow to smoothen. Jiang Cheng doesn’t let himself believe that he had anything to do with that.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Doesn’t know why he brought him back.

But Wen Yuan doesn’t shift at all, doesn’t sense the turmoil or the grief welling in his gut like a fire. Wen Yuan is quiet when he sleeps.

And somewhere in the night, Jiang Cheng falls asleep as well.

When Jiang Cheng finds himself all too aware he’s dreaming, he half expects to find himself back on the mountain in a field of the dead, a blade in one hand and a torch in the other. He wonders when he should expect the burnt willow tree, when little Wen Yuan’s head will crown out of the lotus field to stare at him with a haunting betrayal in his eyes. When he will admit to himself that-

(He hadn’t really wanted his brother dead.)

Instead, Jiang Cheng finds himself knee deep in the lake, the sun kissing the peak of his brow in a way it hasn’t for a long time. Instead of the ruin, he looks across a field of fresh, unburnt lotus to stare down into the features of his own face.

He’s smaller, rounder. Cushioned with baby fat and a scowl still uncertain and fresh. Impermanent. His pants are rolled up to his knees and his elbows were covered in lotus muck. The younger version of himself is just as small as he often feels these days.

Jiang Cheng stills there for ages, just staring at this callow vision of himself as a child. Watching the way he gently plants seeds, the way he laughs, the way he orbits around another boy in the distance, the one Jiang Cheng refuses to look at. At some point, curious eyes find him and he smiles, revealing sharp, loose canines and a missing front tooth. Jiang Cheng is overcome with a certainty that he remembers this exact day down to his core.

He is Jiang Cheng and he is eight years old. He’s stuck in the fields and mud because his Xian-gege has crashed Old Man Dan’s boat. Jiejie has put A-Cheng’s hair in a messy braid and he is helping Xian-gege clean the mess. Still, Xian-gege fools around because he always does and it makes his chest itch and burn. He remembers yelling something mean. Before the sun goes down, though, Xian-gege comes back with an apology. In his hands, he holds the biggest lotus flower he’s ever seen. In this moment, he is sure- Jiang Cheng is the luckiest boy alive because his brother is the nicest gege in the world.

Jiang Cheng blinks rapidly at the warmth in his eyes, memories washing over and past him just as quickly. He brings his gaze back to his younger self in the field and realizes he’s holding up the biggest lotus in the lake. As though the boy has known he’d been there the entire time, his eyes find Jiang Cheng and he announces proudly, “Look what we found! My brother found me this lotus. He’s the nicest person in the world.”

The boy takes Jiang Cheng’s hands gentler than he evers remembers being. He wondered when he’d forgotten how to grow things with these hands of his. He wondered if he ever knew how to love something without crushing it.

His hands spasm around the lotus at the thought when a voice echoes from his side. “Still so grumpy, Chengcheng.”

The boy that lives in his dreams takes control of his body for a second and the practiced response answers back. “Who you callin’-“

Wei Wuxian is sitting on the pier. The Wei Wuxian of his waking days, not his memories. He looks less of the wraith that he was on the mountain. Still out of place- but less tired. Less of that ever present vision of the war lingering over him, like it did all of them.

“Are you-“ Jiang Cheng chokes. “Is this real?”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t answer that. Of course, he doesn't. Instead, that half moon smile and a wry expression flickers over his face. He closes his eyes for a moment, turning his face up, letting the light in.

It takes him by surprise when his brother is on his feet in the next moment, water sticking to the edges of his robes. Like Jiang Cheng is still some kid he knew, he reaches out to run his fingers over his brow and through his hair before his declaration. Jiang Cheng hates that he finds himself leaning into the touch. He quietly revels in the warmth anyway. Before he pulls away, his voice whispers from above Jiang Cheng. “I’m sorry.”

Jiang Cheng jolts, rising to his own feet as suddenly as his brother did. “Wei Wuxian-“

“But I’m going ahead this time.” And Wei Wuxian is already making his way from the edge of the lake, onto the piers and docks. His brother smiles coyly, his hair fluttering in the wind as he tosses back a laugh and a wave over his shoulder. A sharp pain skewers Jiang Cheng, thinking this last image of Wei Wuxian will be him leaving without a look behind. He trips over his feet, tumbling hard in the mud.

But his brother does turn, a softer, cracking sort of expression pulled across his face. He looks to the fields where Jiang Cheng can hear the chorus of laughter from himself and Wei Wuxian as children. If he listens well, a third bell like giggle cuts through both of their voices like dawn across clear water.

At the moment the last cut of sun sinks into the horizon, Wei Wuxian’s voice rings in his ears with crystal clarity. “Thank you.”

Wen Yuan is gone when he wakes.

Jiang Cheng doesn't want to say his first thought is ghost  or maybe hallucination- but until his bleary eyes find the open door of the room leading back out to the pier, he mostly reels from the impromptu dream.

When he finally stumbles his way outside, Jiang Cheng cant see the top of a little head poking from the rowboat they’d sailed on a little ways away. His hair tufts up from heavy sleep, poking straight up like a turnip. Jiang Cheng tries to find the anger to drown the mind numbing worry still shaking him but Wen Yuan’s bright, reverent eyes nail him solidly to the pier.

“Look what my brother gave me! He’s the nicest person in the world!”

Wen Yuan holds a red ribbon embossed with silver and purple lotuses. It must’ve been the only thing of finery on that damp and dark mountain. The question of when Wen Yuan had gotten it- left behind when Jiang Cheng had carried him fast asleep into the rooms or-

Jiang Cheng looks out at the misty lake- lets himself believe for a sliver of a moment that maybe…

“Purple-gege?”

Jiang Cheng drags his eyes away from the lake and sinks onto the edge of the pier to sit. Knowing the kid wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep with the barest peaks of light illuminating the horizon, Jiang Cheng held his hand out expectantly looking at the ribbon between his fingers. A-Yuan stood still for a moment before bounding into his arms, rocking the rowboat below him. His feet barely touch the surface of the water before Jiang Cheng has him scooped up by his underarms.

Wen Yuan continues to be unphased, going as far to take Jiang Cheng’s hands and deposit them on the top of his head. Grunting, Jiang Cheng sighed and lightly pulled at the ends of Wen Yuan’s wispy hair with a frown.

“Don’t complain, I haven't braided hair for a while.”

The boy simply hummed and sat patiently looking out towards the lake. On the edge of the pier, he kicked his feet idly while Jiang Cheng tried to remember something like the kindness of his sister’s fingers or the cleverness of his brother’s. At some point he abandons those thoughts to tie up an albeit messy, but sturdy braid down the sides of Wen Yuan’s head. He takes the frayed silk ribbon, its vibrant red so familiar it hurts and ties the remaining ends of his hair into a ponytail.

His hands shake the whole time, but Wen Yuan says nothing. Of course he doesn’t- because how would he know what his hands did? Burnt fires that will never go out. Torn down houses that will never be rebuilt. Killed brothers he can never regrow.  

It would be easy to stop here. Hand him off to some nice couple on the docks and wash his hands of it all. And yet.

And yet.

Instead, he finds himself holding Wen Yuan closer as he reaches over his head to pull at a nearby stalk.

“Hey, hey! Xian-gege said if he buried me in the field A-Yuan would grow big and strong! Can A-Yuan go pick some lotus after too?”

Jiang Cheng chuffs, peeling the skin of a lotus seed to plop into Wen Yuan’s chubby hands. “Not if you don’t eat enough.”

The tiny slip of a boy whines in his lap, his cheeks puffed with all the pretend growness a four year old can manage. He still plops the seed into his mouth without hesitation, that same sort of wide eyed reverence on his face reserved for a brother bigger than him. And yet.

And yet.

Jiang Cheng didn’t know if his hands would ever stop burning. Still, they had found something in the wreckage still growing.

Finding cool water between his fingers, Jiang Cheng reached out to A-Yuan, their hands softly meeting to cradle the lotus like the first sliver of dawn.

Look, Wei Wuxian, Jiang Cheng thinks over the fields in the morning dawn. I found what you left.

Under his muddy hands, A-Yuan with his messy braided hair and loose toothed smile bloomed in the sun.  

Xian-gege, we did not burn.