Chapter Text
Xiao Xingchen was breathing.
Shallow, erratic breaths, one slowly following another, but in the absolute silence of the dead city even the whisper of sound was unmistakable.
The scene seemed an inverted funeral, the white-shrouded body surrounded by two dark-robed figures and one in pure white, bearing witness as the dead eased its way back into the world of the living.
On his slowly rising and falling chest rested a pouch inscribed with quickly fading sigils, collapsing in on itself as the precious thing held inside for so long finally moved on. Leaving it as empty a shell as the body beneath it had been up until a few moments ago.
One of Xiao Xingchen's hands twitched lightly.
Even Wei Wuxian looked surprised, flute still half-forgotten at his lips. Lan Wangji gave him a sharp look before turning back to the coffin, glancing briefly at the other man who was leaning over it and clasping Xiao Xingchen's hand like he intended to never let go, tears running down his stoic face. And if his brow softened for a moment into a twist of sympathy beneath the headband, it was soon smoothed out into his usual look of bland indifference.
“You succeeded,” he stated, neutrally. Wei Wuxian looked up at the
sound of his voice, the wide-eyed surprise quickly slipping into a pleased grin, as if he'd never doubted the outcome.
“Of course!” he declared, lowering the flute with a twirl. “The soul was shattered, but not completely gone. It couldn't be summoned back together before, because it had no desire to exist. Once it found something worth coming back for…”
For just a second his voice stumbled over itself and he shot Lan Wangji an almost sheepish look, before straightening back into his usual swagger.
“Well, that was the piece missing. Everything else was already in place, these are actually some pretty impressive spells and sigils! It just needed a final nudge to weave everything back together.”
A dark flurry of movement behind him made him glance over his shoulder, before quickly turning back as Xiao Xingchen finally drew a deeper breath and sat up with a start. Song Lan quickly changed his grip from holding his hand to placing a supportive hand on his shoulder, but with the same unmistakable intent of never ever letting go.
Xiao Xingchen took several deep breaths, swerving his head slowly to identify the people around him, and then his lips moved, mouth too dry to shape words.
“…Zi…chen…”
Song Lan's hand tightened harder on his shoulder, and his face contorted in despair, clearly wanting nothing more than speaking his presence, but unable to, voice stolen.
I am here, his quivering grip seemed to say, conveying all the heartfelt words he couldn't speak. I am here, beside you, I will never leave you again.
“Xiao Xingchen-shishu, please don't be concerned,” Wei Wuxian quickly interjected. “You may remember me, Wei Wuxian, Cangse Sanren's son – we met many years ago in Yueyang. Song-daozhang is here, right beside you, but he can't speak.”
Song Lan's grip was still steady, though his hand was shaking, and Xiao Xingchen slowly turned his head in his direction.
“Zichen,” he whispered again. “You're here? I… I remember…”
A tremour passed through him, and for all that he was sitting up and breathing, he still looked dead, far too pale, far too brittle. The dark shape moved more insistently behind them, but no-one paid it any heed.
“Careful! Your soul is still only loosely tethered, Xiao Xingchen-shishu,” Wei Wuxian said, placing a hand on the man's other arm. “Please try to stay calm. You shouldn't overexert yourself.”
Song Lan raised his other hand to grasp both Xiao Xingchen's shoulders, mouth opening and closing once, helplessly, as if trying to convey all he wished to say through touch alone.
He gave the other two a look both insistent and imploring and they all stared at each other a moment in hopeless frustration. Then he let go of the shoulder furthest away, giving the closest a comforting squeeze and drew Fuxue. Mindless of dulling the edge he slashed at the ground, and Wei Wuxian looked at him in confusion for a moment before realization dawned as the dry hard ground at their feet was scorched with written characters.
“Allow me to speak for Song-daozhang,” Wei Wuxian said, “He writes; I came to find you. I am here. We are both here. Everything is all right now.”
Xiao Xingchen drew a shaking breath and weakly reached up to close his hand over the one resting on his shoulder.
“Zichen… Zichen…. I dreamed… I thought I…” he gasped for breath, the stale dusty air rough in newly resurrected lungs. “I thought you were dead. That I had…”
A grating noise cut through the silence and the three cultivators briefly turned away from Xiao Xingchen to fix its source with a hard glare. Xue Yang was struggling so fervently against the ropes that bound him that his feet were digging furrows into the hard ground, the look on his face something close to desperation, but his lips remained sealed firmly shut. Lan Wangji gave him a cool look before turning back to the others with the shortest of nods.
“I'm here,” Song Lan repeated, cutting the words onto the ground so they could be read aloud. “You did nothing wrong. He tricked you.”
Xiao Xingchen went paler still, the faint flush that had begun tinting his skin alive fading into dead grey again.
“He.”
“Xue Yang,” Wei Wuxian clarified before Song Lan could finish writing. “Everything here was his machination. You weren’t at fault.”
“Xue Yang,” Xiao Xingchen repeated, voice brittle and unreadable. A few feet away the man named twisted like a hooked worm, writhing and tugging so hard at the ropes that his stab wounds were torn back open, and blood, unable to escape his locked lips, started trickling from his nose, dribbling down his chin. He looked as if he’d only been able to open his mouth, he would have screamed.
“He has been dealt with,” Lan Wangji stated, coldly. “He poses no threat now. Don't be concerned.”
Another tremor passed through Xiao Xingchen's body, and for a moment he looked like he might just lie back down and allow the dark to reclaim him. Song Lan's steadying hands on his shoulders held him upright, held him firmly in the light, in life.
”I was… truly blind,” he said, voice choked. “I thought… But it was all a lie. All along. I was so blind.”
There was a mad sheen to Xue Yang's eyes behind them, bright and wet, and he tugged hard enough on the ropes that something cracked; the beam above or his own wrist. His mouth and nose were spilling over with so much blood he was starting to choke, and with a final exasperated glare, Lan Wangji released the spell keeping his mouth shut. Temporary silence was desirable; permanent less so. They had still been promised answers.
Retching up blood, Xue Yang threw himself as far in their direction as the bonds would allow.
“Xiao Xingchen!” he screamed, the name sounding wrenched from some broken part deep inside. Instantly freezing, Xiao Xingchen slowly turned his head in his direction.
His supportive hands clenching down hard enough to hurt, Song Lan sent the bleeding man a look of purest hatred, stepping in front of Xiao Xingchen to shield him from the presence of something utterly distasteful.
Xue Yang opened and closed his bloodied mouth a few times, as if he couldn't find any words to speak after that first outburst, but his fevered eyes never left the trembling man in the coffin.
“Xue Yang,” Xiao Xingchen repeated soundlessly, but fell silent, like he couldn't find any words to say either. He finally turned away, leaning his head heavily on Song Lan's shoulder, just focusing on breathing.
Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji shared a quick glance.
“Are you all right?” Wei Wuxian asked, looking back at the man in white, surprisingly softly. Drawing a deep breath, Xiao Xingchen finally raised his head and nodded, a thin veneer of habitual serenity slipping into place, though he was still pale.
“I’m fine, Wei-gongzi. Thank you for your concern. This is all just… a lot. To take in.”
He smiled, though it looked quite strained.
Wei Wuxian nodded back with a small encouraging smile, no matter how hollow Xiao Xingchen's smile was.
“Just hold on, okay? This will all be over soon. We'll just ask a few questions. Then you'll have your vengeance.”
Song Lan nodded sharply, lips pressed tightly together. Xiao Xingchen said nothing, just looked away, as if he still felt uncomfortable in his own flesh, didn't want to be here, be part of any of it.
His eyes glazed over, Xue Yang had finally stopped struggling as though the sight of Xiao Xingchen's face was all that had held him up, and now with it turning away he hung limply from the many ropes, like a puppet or funeral paper doll. Trickles of blood still dripped down his chin, to pool in the furrows his feet had made.
“So, Xue Yang,” said Wei Wuxian, tapping the flute a few times in his direction. “You can speak again. Fine. Let's finish this. You made a promise, didn't you? We kept ours, so it's time to make good on yours. Aren't there a number of answers you would like to give us?”
Xue Yang just stared glassily straight through him at Xiao Xingchen's back, as if he wasn't even there. He didn't speak.
“Hey,” Wei Wuxian frowned. “I helped complete your spell. You got to be here and see whether it worked. You promised names in return. Come on now. Don't make this messier.”
Xue Yang's eyes never left Xiao Xingchen for a moment, and though his bloodied lips stretched almost automatically into a twisted smile his eyes just looked tired.
“Jin Guangyao. Of course. My talented friend. And Su-zongzhu, who left here with my Yin Tiger Amulet so rudely.”
Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji exchanged a quick look. Jin Guangyao being involved was more confirmation than revelation. But…
“So Su-zongzhu is the ghost faced man?” Wei Wuxian said quietly. “That's why he fights like a Lan with influences of Jin.”
Lan Wangji nodded shortly, the line of his mouth tighter than usual. Angry. Wei Wuxian looked at him a moment longer, then turned back to Xue Yang.
“And he… Jin-zongzhu. You said he was behind… everything. All of it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have proof?” Lan Wangji's tone was even colder than usual.
His eyes focusing just enough to narrow scornfully at him, Xue Yang gave a little bark of laughter.
“Of their nefarious plans? Of course not! Lianfang-zun isn't in the habit of leaving paper trails. My job is getting rid of loose ends, not preserving them.”
“So you really have nothing for us? I had hoped for a bit more.” Wei Wuxian pouted, smacking his flute against his lower lip a few times in disappointment. “It looks like you really got the better deal out of this arrangement, didn't you? We did a lot more for you than you're giving us.”
Eyes wide and glassy again, Xue Yang's grin stretched wider, baring bloodied teeth.
“You're right! I can never repay this. Nothing could! But I didn't say I had nothing. Aren't you looking for poor Chifeng-zun's corpse?”
***
They were on their way back from laying a-Qing to rest outside the dead city when they came across the wide bloodied tracks, already turning rusty where they were thirstily absorbed by the parched ground. Hurrying their steps, they found her killer collapsed near the entrance of the coffin house.
Wei Wuxian had rolled him over, and for a moment it seemed the final effort had killed the vicious man at last, but then an eye cracked open and his dusty lips twitched into a ghost of his usual smile.
“Xue Yang, Xue Yang,” Wei Wuxian sighed, rolling his eyes. “You really never give up, do you? Did you think that we had already left, so you could go back to your old hiding place and start trouble again?”
“That's right,” Xue Yang croaked. “You're so sharp as always, Wei-qianbei.”
Wei Wuxian gave a snort.
“Like a little cockroach – you're really a hard one to kill, aren't you? After all that, you're still alive.”
Xue Yang burst into a high-pitched giggle, blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth.
“Pots and kettles, Wei-qianbei! As always, you're the one a few steps ahead of me – I haven't even died once yet!”
Lan Wangji's mouth turned down another degree, and he placed his hand on Bichen. Wei Wuxian waved a little over his shoulder, and he stiffly let his hand fall back to his side.
“You still have to do me that one small favour, Wei-qianbei,” Xue Yang said, the manic glint back in his eyes. “I'll give you information in return. A fair trade! You did come here looking for something, didn't you?”
Another giggle, but after only half a moment he had to stop, drawing wheezing gulps of air into his perforated lungs.
Wei Wuxian gave his companion a quick glance then looked back down.
“Information?”
“Yes,” Xue Yang hissed, clearly only still breathing out of sheer stubborn spite. “Names. You want to know who killed Chifeng-zun, don't you? That same man who arranged for Jin Guangshan to die. Who orchestrated the death of Jin Zixun, of Jin Zixuan – and you, too, Wei-qianbei.”
This time Bichen did leave its sheath fully, pointing straight at the dying man's throat, and Wei Wuxian just stared at the man sprawled beneath him. Xue Yang tried to twist his face into a triumphant smile, but he was bleeding out fast, and had to close his eyes and focus on breathing.
“Who killed… But that was…”
Wei Wuxian looked up at Lan Wangji with an almost panicked stare.
“Wen Ning killed Jin Zixuan, because I lost control. There was no-one else. Was there?”
“He's lying,” Lan Wangji bit out. Xue Yang spent a few precious breaths on a shallow laugh.
“I don't lie. Remember? If I say I'll kill a man's entire clan…”
He fell silent, drawing laboured breaths.
Wei Wuxian held Lan Wangji's eyes a few long moments longer, a desperate spark of hope flickering across his face. For impossible absolution, or at least closure. He turned back to Xue Yang, eyes hard.
“You say someone else was behind it? And you'll give us their names?”
Xue Yang nodded, out of air. Looking as if he could not believe what he was doing, Lan Wangji sheathed his sword and knelt at his other side, grabbing a limp wrist and started to transfer qi to keep the dying man alive a while longer. Xue Yang shot the white-clad cultivator healing him a strange, dark-eyed smile before looking back to Wei Wuxian.
“All those answers… and all you have to do is complete that one little ritual. Everything is already arranged. If anyone can do it, it's you.”
“You must know it can't work,” said Wei Wuxian, impatiently. “I told you-…”
“You told me there might be a small chance, a sliver of a chance! You have to at least try.”
Xue Yang was breathing hard, the smile replaced by something hovering perfectly between fury and desperation. Some fighting spirit returning to him as his internal wounds were healing over, the bleeding slowing.
Wei Wuxian frowned back, clearly torn.
“I'm not helping you bring him back for more of your twisted games. You've made him suffer enough.”
Xue Yang sighed and stared past him, into the heavy, overcast skies.
“Ah… But what about poor, broken Song-daozhang? Don't you think he wants to see his friend again? You'd do it for him, wouldn't you? Shouldn't you?”
Wei Wuxian gave a scoff, clearly angrier than he was letting on.
“You really are something. Are you that proud to need to see your handiwork through, to see if your spells will work?”
Xue Yang looked back at him and narrowed his eyes with a smile.
“Of course! Play your flute, Wei-qianbei, give it your best try. And then… I'll tell you everything.”
***
Nie Mingjue's corpse was just as well preserved as Xiao Xingchen's had been, with one rather glaring exception.
“His head.” Even Wei Wuxian sounded somewhat appalled. “Where is his head?”
Too breathless to laugh anymore, Xue Yang just grinned widely at him, hanging limp in the web of ropes.
“Lianfang-zun kept it for a souvenir. You'll have to ask him.”
“Did you do this?” Wei Wuxian snarled, a proper feral Yiling Laozu snarl, rounding on him with his flute raised more threateningly than any sword.
“Yes. And no. It was a collaborative effort, like all true art!”
Xue Yang tried to laugh, but it turned into a rather weak, bloodied cough. Still leaning on Song Lan's shoulder, Xiao Xingchen shuddered and turned away, and the smile slowly slid off Xue Yang's face like water off oiled leather. He hung his head with a tired sigh.
“The details hardly matter, do they? You're just wasting time now, Wei-qianbei. You completed the spell and I told you what you wanted to know. Fun as it always is to talk to you, we all have better things to do.”
“Like die?” Wei Wuxian said, as if he couldn't settle on sounding angry or incredulous. He received a darkly amused look from under Xue Yang's low brows, but even he could see the smile was only pasted on for show by now.
“Yes! If you make poor Song-daozhang wait make much longer for his revenge, he'll lose out to the crows.”
There was a point there – between the recovering Xiao Xingchen, what was left of Nie Mingjue and the strung up, bled-out Xue Yang, the latter could honestly be said to look the most dead.
Wei Wuxian looked around at his companions and received a minute nod from Lan Wangji, and a fiercer, hungrier one from Song Lan who clenched his hand around Fuxue's hilt until his knuckles shone white. Xiao Xingchen sat silent next to him, propped up on an empty casket, and only turned his head further away.
With a half shrug Wei Wuxian tucked his flute in his belt and stepped aside with a small flourish.
“Very well then. He's all yours.”
“You'll want to aim better this time,” Xue Yang croaked as Song Lan approached, drawing Fuxue again with a slow sound of screeching metal. Clearly unable to keep quiet, even when every breath was a struggle. “The heart is higher, and to the left! One could think you haven't killed many people at all, Song-daozhang. So embarrassing…”
Face still but eyes narrowed to slits, Song Lan stopped and pointed Fuxue at his neck.
“Ah, good choice! We know a cut throat works, don't we? Don't we?”
His bloodied teeth were bared, but Xue Yang's eyes were glassy again as Song Lan drew his arm back, and he looked past him, to where his gaze had kept returning since they first returned to the coffin house, over and over, to the figure in white.
“Xiao Xingchen!” he called out, voice gone strangely soft. “You won't forget me, will you?”
His eyes never wavered or closed as Fuxue whistled through the air, nor when it stopped, quivering, just barely breaking the skin of his throat, halted by three simple words.
“Zichen, wait. Please.”
