Chapter Text
“Hanguang-jun,” the woman bows deeply despite the visible inconveniences caused by back pain. “Thank you for helping us.”
He nods once, but the implication is clear: she means not the current night-hunt but everything he has been doing for the Qishan people for the last decade, too. Qishan cultivators are all dead, there is no one to teach and oversee new ones if there are any. Rogue cultivators find the pay the locals can offer insulting, so the dwellers of the land once prosperous and protected are now neither.
Lan Wangji never has to pay for his stay when in Qishan but does it regardless. Even a decade later, major sects barely trade with local villages, and Gusu Lan is no exception. Trading out of mercy never existed and never will.
He is led to his room by the inn owner, the same elderly woman that survived the war and lost every man in her family because of it. Lan Wangji doesn’t know if he killed any of them. He knows she thinks about that too when she greets him and sees him out as he departs.
“Thank you,” he tells her with a bow of his head. He sees a simple dinner waiting for him on a low table, a bath already drawn and incense sticks burning. No one at home greets him like that, but the Qishan people do.
Lan Wangji is not picky not because it is forbidden but because he needs little to rest and recuperate – a bowl of congee and a roof to meditate under. He stays in every inn in the former sect’s territory to help as much as he can, and is treated with mute disapproval for that by some in other territories. Another decade later it might change. It most likely won’t.
Many of the night-hunts in the Qishan area still have to do with restless spirits of the soldiers of every sect involved, and no matter how many times Lan Wangji comes here and talks their souls into rest, there are always more.
(The grudges of wars this bloody and hateful never fade. Lan Wangji plays Rest time after time, listening to the souls’ wishes and wails.
You killed my sect!
I want to go home!
It hurts, it hurts, hurtshurtshur–
Kill! Kill! Kill!
Rest, he plays – tells them, asks them, coaxing for hours and night-hunts on end. Not many listen. Not many enter the reincarnation cycle after, being too resentful to let go. His fingers are numb and his clothes are sticking to his body because it has started to rain. He keeps playing, continues to guide and ask.)
The last case had to do with several fierce corpses that had been plaguing the villages on the outskirts. The villagers themselves say that they suspect the neighbouring Meishan Yu’s cultivators, meaning deliberate grave digging of the long-gone Wen or ordinary people that died at or because of the war. The villagers say it's revenge for their Madam who was killed ten years ago. Lan Wangji says nothing and keeps looking for dug-out graves. He finds none but asks Brother to talk to the Chief Cultivator about that. Brother does; the Chief Cultivator doesn’t listen.
Corpses keep coming, and Lan Wangji keeps travelling to Qishan from time to time.
Lan Wangji has visited many inns and slept in plenty. He frequents some because they are convenient on his route to a certain town, village, or household. He has been to the poorly kept and expensive ones that are half a day away from the nearest village, and the inn owner is a greedy person who has a girl or a boy doing everything alone. The servant does their best, serving tired people who have no other choice either. Lan Wangji leaves separate silver nuggets in his room for them, and keeps travelling.
There are inns that pass through generations, remaining unchanged, and those that alter. Stories fill in every crevice of the wood at such places. Lan Wangji doesn’t overhear a lot of them but is told many anyway. Happy and safe people are eager to share stories; desolate and abandoned beg for it.
He leaves early in the morning – it’s still dark, still raining. The elderly lady gives him sesame buns to keep him full until he finds warm food and another roof to meditate under. Every time Lan Wangji leaves her inn, he thinks she will not be the one who greets him next time.
He bows, and leaves.
Yunmeng inns are bright in colours and smells, robust with life and the size of the rooms. The choices are the same as everywhere – clean or not, expensive and sparing, with generations upon generations to look after them, or the ones that are kept afloat by few people's labour only. All of them are busy, loud, serving tea, liquor, and fiery dishes. They do not have a spare room, Lan Wangji hears. Neither do we. It is the Mid-Autumn Festival, and Lotus Pier will be setting the tables to feed everyone willing to come and visit; everyone is willing. Lan Wangji bows, clothes damp and hair heavy on his shoulders, and walks further.
There are many children outside despite the drizzle, all playing, screaming, eating while they run and shout. The doors to this inn have dragon paintings on them – one red, one dark blue. There are mooncakes stacked under a wooden frame that protects them from the rain, and the children grab them freely, sharing and running away.
Lan Wangji opens the door, and smells spice.
Almost immediately he is greeted by a youth so bright and beautiful Lan Wangji almost recoils at the force of his smile.
The youth bows to him, noticing the forehead ribbon. He smiles as his back bends. “Welcome to our inn. It’s an honour to meet you, Lan-daozhang. How can this humble one serve you?”
Children run in and out of the inn and past them, giggling and covered in sweet lotus paste, and one of them barrels into Lan Wangji’s thigh. He looks down and sees a girl so frightened he has half a mind to turn around in case there is a ghost behind his back.
“Meimei, be careful!” the youth chides, crouching beside the girl. She keeps looking at Lan Wangji, her lower lip trembling. Lan Wangji looks back. “Now, apologise to Lan-daozhang and stop crying, will you? I made you so many mooncakes and you still want to cry?”
Lan Wangji watches the boy shake the girl ever so slightly, adjusting her ponytail. The girl nods to Lan Wangji, and he nods back. She must be four, at best. She looks at the young man before she runs away, ponytail still slightly askew.
The boy straightens up and bows again, deeper this time. “Apologies, Lan-daozhang, they are somewhat wild today. Thought rain would make them slower, but they – ah, forgive my running mouth. Would you like tea?”
“A room,” Lan Wangji says, and the boy’s face lights up. Lan Wangji has never seen people with a smile so big. The boy's eyes crinkle with it. Where Lan Wangji travels, people seldom smile. Where he lives, they don’t do that at all.
He watches. The boy is dressed in black, his forearms bare and with traces of burns on them. He must be cooking a lot; he smells like it. His hair is a semi-managed mess of locks and bangs and a half-ponytail with a red ribbon in it, bright like the dragon on the inn’s door. His apron is spattered with oil and paint. He smiles so wide like it costs nothing.
“Of course,” another bow. “Would you like warm food in your room? A soup? Would you like a bath? Or just tea?”
“Tea is enough,” Lan Wangji says. The youth beams brighter than the mid-July sun.
“Please follow me.”
The common room is full of people hiding from the drizzle and preparing for the celebration, feasting just before. Lan Wangji doesn’t see any other inn workers, just people eating something steaming and red like the maple leaves outside. The room he is offered is big and airy, smelling of rain and incense burnt away not too long ago. It is warm and homely. Lan Wangji’s criteria of homely vary depending on the area he is in and his condition. Perhaps he is picky, after all.
“I will bring the tea in no time. Anything else? We have fresh mooncakes, sweet and savoury. I made the lotus paste, too!” the youth keeps grinning, boasting, rightfully unapologetic. He is so loud in so little colour. “Would you like some?”
“Xianxian, come down!” a man’s voice thunders downstairs, but it doesn’t sound menacing, just bothered.
The boy whirls around, his hair too. “I’m coming, Lao Cao!” he shouts back, then turns back to Lan Wangji. “Mooncakes?”
“Tea,” Lan Wangji says. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be right back,” the boy promises, and runs. Lan Wangji tracks the ends of the red ribbon as it swooshes past. He closes the door to his room.
There is a bed large enough for him to feel comfortable in it, a low table, a set of brushes and an inkstone on it, a stack of paper. The screen that separates the tub from the main part of the room has painted lotuses on it, pods with stems going low. He wonders if the youth painted them.
Xianxian.
Lan Wangji puts Bichen down and washes his hands and face and moves to sit at the table. His clothes are heavy and he will change them, but first –
A vigorous knock on the door.
“Yes.”
“Ta-da!” the boy strides in, carrying a tray with a tea set on it and a vase with lotus pods. Lan Wangji looks at him questioningly.
“Please try this, Lan-daozhang, it’s lotus seeds. Do you know how to peel them? I can teach you,” he sets the tray before Lan Wangji, hair falling down his shoulder. “It’s rare to meet a Lan cultivator so far from Gusu, so we must spoil them!”
He laughs like he’s just said something funny.
“Thank you,” Lan Wangji says. “I have never had lotus seeds before.”
“Aiyo, what a shame! I thought Gusu has deliveries from Yunmeng? I was sure of it. Oh, may I?”
Lan Wangji gestures for him to sit down, and the boy plops himself on the mat across Lan Wangji’s. His forearms are so bare, tan golden.
“So, you just take the pod and take the seeds out, nothing complicated here,” he doesn’t wait for Lan Wangji to ask him how to do it. The fact that Lan Wangji has never had lotus seeds doesn’t mean he doesn't know how to deal with them. “The skin peels easily. I hope you like them!”
Lan Wangji nods. Xianxian grins, seemingly content with his explanation and constant chatter. Lan Wangji cannot remember the last time someone has spoken to him about nothing in particular, something that wasn’t class, a request to deal with malicious spirits, creatures, curses, just evil; no one ever has, he thinks.
The same voice calls for Xianxian again, more insistently now, and the boy rises to his feet swiftly, bows to Lan Wangji. “Please let me or Lao Cao know if you need anything. We have enough extra blankets and more lotus pods. Would you like something specific to eat later?”
“No meat, no spice,” Lan Wangji says. “Around you shi.”
“Of course! Of course, I will make everything, Lan-daozhang,” Xianxian says. “I hope your stay here will be to your liking.”
It is, Lan Wangji wants to say. I find you distracting and fitting for this inn and area, he wants to speak, Xianxian.
The tea is sweeter than what Lan Wangji prefers, but pleasant on the palate nonetheless. He takes out the last sesame bun from yesterday’s morning and eats it. It tastes homely, too, a bit stale but damp from the clothes.
He doesn’t change into his other set of robes until he has had dinner and bathed. Xianxian does everything – brings hot water bucket after bucket, shows him the oils, grins all the way. Lan Wangji thinks the boy wants to touch him because he moves around him like a honey bee around a flower. Lan Wangji wants to touch him too. Xianxian brings dinner – congee, steamed tofu, and greens. There is a bottle of chilli oil on the tray.
“I see you ate the lotus seeds, perhaps I can coax you into the Yunmeng palate a bit more?” Xianxian cajoles. Each of his smiles is different. All challenging. He leaves Lan Wangji alone to dine.
Lan Wangji goes to bed – softer than in the Cloud Recesses, but any bed anywhere is softer than his own. The sheets are fresh and smell of mild incense. He wants to ask for another blanket, but he doesn’t need any.
When he goes downstairs the next morning, Xianxian is there – wiping the tables and yawning uncontrollably into his palm. When he hears Lan Wangji, his face almost splinters from a grin. Lan Wangji is not used to people smiling so early in the morning, or at him.
“Morning, Lan-daozhang!” Xianxian waves as he abandons the tables. “Is everything alright? Would you like breakfast? Tea? Are you staying or leaving?”
So many words on a single exhale.
“Everything is fine, thank you. I am leaving.”
“Oh, won’t you stay for the festival?” he is so close to Lan Wangji. He is not wearing the apron yet.
“No.”
Xianxian’s face crumples just a little as he bows. “Okay. I hope you will come back soon! Have a safe trip, Lan-daozhang. Thank you for staying here.”
Lan Wangji bows his head and leaves the inn. He will step on Bichen once he is out of town.
As he flies back home, he wonders if Xianxian has already found the gold nugget.