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A familiar gentle knocking at his door, a slightly gruff “Come!”, thickened a little by his dry mouth, and his nephew graciously admits himself. Lan Xichen, shoulders slightly rounded, carries in two small branches of palest pink peach blossoms with great care, cradled like an infant in the crook of his arm. He bustles considerately around Lan Qiren’s precisely ordered space until he locates a suitable empty vase with a pale blue-on-white pattern. He arranges the two branches in it, delicately symmetrical, then places it on a shelf by the window, blooms fresh and friendly in the cold dawn light. He opens his hands gently at the harmonious display and only then does he smile widely and kindly in his host’s direction.
“Good morning, shufu. The first of the season is your due.”
“Very auspicious,” Lan Qiren, low at his desk, nods approvingly. He looks as if he might say more, but instead gestures for Xichen to come and kneel beside him. He adds, “Well found”, and Xichen does turn his eyes down and his head slightly away at that, as he settles himself in neatly, continuing to smile sweetly under the complex weight of this compliment.
“No trouble, shufu,” as his eyes drift back to the petals and the window, the outside world. But he doesn’t seem enticed. His face loses its mask of light good humour. Lan Qiren waits until his eyes return to the desk to meet them with his own, catching Xichen’s as he shifts wordlessly so that taller, leaner form can straighten up behind him like a supportive tree. As those wide, capable hands are placed lightly on his upper back, moving slowly downward, Lan Qiren lets his eyes fall closed to limit any distractions. He senses their qi unite, moving through his meridians at a faster pace, catching up to the rhythm of his thoughts. It feels as always like spring meltwater flowing quickly downhill, pushing the sluggish winter streams boldly forward into the new year.
Xichen is also quiet at first, his large palms warm and soothing as he works. The golden stove is stoked. After many long moments, he asks, voice low:
“How is it with shufu?”
Lan Qiren thinks about this, replying slowly,
“Improving, thanks to such diligent attention.”
He can sense Xichen’s mouth now upturning once more behind him, pleased and a touch bashful at the overt praise he’s receiving today. It’s in the shape of his words as he replies:
“It is no more than shufu merits.”
His long fingers sweep out once, twice, making neat circles above his uncle’s waist. A warmth climbs upwards from his belly and spreads out behind Lan Qiren’s heart and to the edges of his ribs, as Xichen’s slow, firm encouragement now suffuses his middle dantian; he concentrates on breathing deeply and evenly, to aid its refinements. Xichen moves his hands ceaselessly as he works, and adds,
“What says Ye-daifu?”
Lan Qiren’s even flow halts, ripples, as he thinks on how to respond.
“Lan-xiansheng, you are learned and insightful so I’ll not waste our time on sweet words.”
“Speak.”
“Your internal injuries heal slowly because your body now struggles more to retain its vital jing. Thus most of your energies must be devoted to maintaining a status quo.”
“The xia dantian.”
“Well said. The golden core is whole but not sturdy. There is flow but it is inefficient, and upward refinement is thereby restricted. So while you see benefit from your convalescent disciplines, it is less than you require.”
“Your recommendations?”
“Lan-zongzhu’s assistance could be sought, to aid restoration. He is capable.”
Lan Qiren is sure he recalls scowling at this point.
“It is not a fair request when he is himself indisposed.”
“With respect, Lan-zongzhu’s ailments lie in the upper regions. His core is strong, his meridians flow and his qi refines.”
“But can he attain wuwei?”
Ye-daifu is silent for a moment. She moves a hand to her lips.
“Biao-ge.” Her eyes meet his. Her otherwise-fresh face reveals small worry lines around her eyes when she frowns. “Xichen will find his way forward in time. Your need is more pressing.”
Lan Qiren clears his throat, hears a slight rumble that catches low in his chest as he breathes, one which is becoming unhappily familiar to him.
“Xichen, do you remember your first hunt alone? When you were twelve?”
He feels the shift in Lan Xichen’s movements as he reacts to this unexpected memory. The warmth of his hands diffuses like the mountain’s mist as he flares his fingers outwards, flexing them. Lan Qiren notes dispassionately the low tingling in his limbs, prickles at the end of his fingers and toes which dissipate a little too quickly. Time is a slow drip until Xichen speaks again.
“Your arrogant zhizi chose not to follow our rules and learnt their value accordingly.”
Lan Qiren reaches a hand behind him and gives a brief, soft pat at Xichen’s fingers as they curl over his shoulders. He hears the tiny indrawn whisper of Xichen’s breath and its surprise chastens him. He is not a tactile man but he should not have allowed his affection to come as a shock to either of them.
“Xichen, you were a child; you erred as children do. It is the duty of all seniors to guide our children to learn from mistakes.”
“As shufu did, and has my eternal gratitude regardless.”
“You recovered well. That is all the thanks I need.”
“Indeed. Shufu’s care kindly spared me the worst of the consequences.”
“The work was yours. The strength was yours. I was.” He stops, pained a little at the darkness of this memory, but pushes on regardless.
A slight draught of cool morning air slides over the silk of his back, as Xichen returns his hands to his lap, clearly puzzled.
“I was not capable of dispelling your poison alone. You tested yourself, and won.”
Xichen thinks on this a few moments more.
“That night is hazy. I recall little. Pain. A barb in my core. And -”
“And?”
“A dark shadow. A cold stabbing deep within, as if from a blade of ice. I recall feeling very sick. A long night, or perhaps two.”
He returns one of his hands to place it ever so lightly over his uncle’s, squeezing his fingers softly in return.
“I remember shufu was beside me throughout. Sharing his strength, and his patience.”
“Where else should this incompetent uncle have been?”
Xichen presses their fingers together again but, diligent as always, his left hand continues its gentle work as Lan Qiren continues,
“I believed even then that you were the most accomplished of my students. Of course you could drive out darkness.”
The silence lengthens. When he speaks again, Xichen sounds more unsure.
“Shufu, do you remember how it felt when the summoning ritual in the Mingshi failed?”
“You described it well. A darkness, a pitch black shadow, pain, piercing like a hook in my core. Then nothing.”
“And now?”
Lan Qiren floats in the black sea of his memories for another long moment.
“Healed, mostly. But sometimes I feel the hook remaining, as if waiting for me to act and then pulling me back. I have not yet done all that is needed.”
Xichen is so quiet when he speaks again, hardly audible in the silent room. Outside the window, the high piercing chirps of the baitouweng can be heard.
“Shufu. Sometimes I fear that -” he breaks off, clearly frustrated with himself, then presses on, “Sometimes I still feel that barb within. I tell myself it’s only memory but I cannot be certain.”
Lan Qiren turns around to face him fully, both hands reaching out to pick Xichen’s from his lap when they lie slack, discarded. Xichen cannot meet his eye but his smile seems wry.
“Xichen, you healed fully. Ye-daifu -”
“That is what I tell myself - merely a trick of the mind. But sometimes I fear there is a, a shade I cannot rid myself of. When you needed me, I-”
“Zewu-jun.”
“Ye-daifu.”
He looks at her sombre face, finding no respite from his worries.
“Lan-xiansheng is in no danger at this moment, but his recovery has been badly set back by the events at the Burial Mounds. The forceful draining, then fighting to the point of exhaustion and beyond, have taxed his core heavily. He needs more rest or he risks permanent damage to it.”
“Had I only been there!”
“Then could you have survived Yunping?”
He cannot speak, as she goes on, a little softer.
“We are fortunate you both remain, and may help heal each other.”
“Xichen.” Their hands are now clutched together bridging their laps, innocent as children playing. Xichen’s handsome face has taken on a look like his father’s, alive with a strange mood, worry or excitement or anticipation of some sort. Lan Qiren finds himself suddenly unable to collect the particular words he wants to share, the precise and correct words, from the rushing water of his thoughts, and can only offer,
“I am still here.”
That face does not fall, but the expression closes a little, a window shuttered, as he leans away.
“I know it, shufu. Your guidance is my light, but my own errors brought us here, brought your -”
He breaks off, pulling his hands politely free and indicating with a slow flick of his fingers the whole of Lan Qiren’s self, and the connection or the empty space between them. Lan Qiren senses his meaning and snaps,
“I made my own errors!” His words are brusque but tinged with a resigned knowledge of how things lie. He and his nephews have weathered many mortal dangers and one of them, at least, is living well.
“Xichen, my good child.” He raises his hand briefly back to brush his shoulder again, then returns it to his own sleeve. He recalls in one awful moment his young Huan-zhizi’s face then, contorted with pain as he fought through the night, slowly expelling the dread shadow whose claws had sunk deep and, even now, snagged in the great net of his fears. It occurs to him that a-Huan’s healing has never truly ended, that what he had learnt from the multiple mortal dangers of his youth had been caution, and a deep fear of sudden and terrible loss.
No wonder the blows of his adult years had brought him so low.
“Shufu.” Xichen sits neatly, properly, bright eyes looking directly into his. No longer boy and man but men together, the roots of their devotion grown over and around each other until they could not be pulled apart.
“When you and Wangji were young, I wondered unceasingly what errors I was making, what failures I was building up for your future by being unready, unfit to the challenges of teaching you. I worried that I could not light your way as I should, that shadows cast on your youth might leave you too cold. But you both grew admirably yourselves. Perhaps it was in you and not me.”
Xichen breaks their uncalm silence.
“And if I fail again?”
“We strive to cultivate ourselves, to live as good a life as we are able. There is no manner of living without error. Not to resolve an error is an error indeed, but you must know that you have always surpassed my greatest expectations.”
Xichen gives a small, bitter cry,
“Some errors cannot be resolved!”
Lan Qiren knows that the silver-white hairs at his temples tell their own tale. But it has never been one of unalloyed loss. He looks outside his window; the boisterous sun is climbing higher and higher, following the order of the heavens. He breathes deeply, feels it through his whole body, then turns slightly so his back is towards Lan Xichen again, yet not unkindly. Xichen follows his quiet command and his hands begin their pattern again, an ordered path. When he feels their movement once more, he goes on, low and steady,
“Even the most learned of us still view the sky as if from the bottom of the well. We can only see from where we are.”
“Then, most honoured master,” and though he does not smile Xichen is lighter now, speaking in a tone of gentle humour that Lan Qiren did not know he’d been missing until its return, “I must be making progress, having forgotten both rites and music.”
Lan Qiren replies,
“Though you have not yet forgotten benevolence and righteousness, I have always known that you would surpass me.”
Xichen hums lightly, diligent as ever. At the window, the starling has long ceased, but Lan Qiren thinks he hears the buzzing of small insects and an oriole far away. Perhaps soon, they may eat pears together.