Chapter Text
The courtyard is not built to drain well. Water pools in its centre when it rains, and sweeping it away before the weather clears is a fruitless endeavour. It’s a part of the noble house of Lan; the mosaic tiles ancient and much too valuable to destroy in an attempt to rebuild. The residents have learned to take the longer route during cloudier days. Adapting—never against tradition, but for the sake of it.
“What will you do?” Xiao Xingchen asks, a frown marring the skin between his perfect eyebrows.
Plants line the edges of the overhanging balcony where they stand. The torrential downpour the previous day has stripped the peonies of their petals and bent the stalks of the delicate mint plants flat, all for the crime of sitting in the sun. Lan Wangji stares at the aftermath unblinkingly.
There is nothing to do. The decision has been made and stamped with the King’s seal—the widely recognised five-pointed crown. The points represent love, respect, sacrifice, honour, and obedience. What is someone like Lan Wangji, the most powerless of his family, to do in the face of his law-abiding elders and the crown that demands all it represents?
“I will marry the Prince,” Lan Wangji says simply. “As intended.”
“Lan Zhan,” Xiao Xingchen says, voice full of indignation and worry, “this is… unjust. You were promised to Prince He Fang, not—“
“He Fang is gone,” Lan Wangji says, voice tight with emotion. “I must do what is required of me, for I am still here.”
Xiao Xingchen’s hand grasps Lan Wangji’s elbow, squeezing the flesh above it. “I wish I could do something.”
Their conversation is cut short by a pattering of feet up the stone steps. A small body hurtles straight into Lan Wangji’s legs and pudgy arms wrap tight around his legs.
“You’re going away! You didn’t tell me you’re going away!”
“A-Qiao,” Xiao Xingchen starts placatingly, but Lan Qiao is unwilling to listen.
Lan Wangji places a hand on Lan Qiao’s head and responds calmly, “I will be back soon.”
“You’ll miss dada’s birthday! He said so!” Lan Qiao looks up at Lan Wangji accusingly.
“I know, and I have already apologised to him,” Lan Wangji says.
Lan Qiao’s chin wobbles dangerously. “Will you miss my birthday also?”
A melancholic look passes over Lan Wangji’s face. Lan Qiao’s birthday is still a few months away. Lan Wangji isn’t entirely sure whether he will have the time or permission to visit.
“Ah Qiaoqiao, that’s still so far away!”
Xiao Xingchen’s attempt to save Lan Wangji from answering is a valiant one but Lan Qiao isn’t so easily dissuaded. Lan Wangji disentangles himself from Lan Qiao’s grasp and crouches to be at level with his nephew just as Lan Qiao’s eyes begin to water.
“I will not miss your birthday,” he promises unwisely.
“You promise?” Lan Qiao asks.
“I promise.” Lan Wangji seals it by touching his forehead to Lan Qiao’s.
“Okay,” Lan Qiao says, wiping his eyes with his tiny fists. “Will you bring me back a horse from the palace?”
That evening, he has dinner with Lan Xichen.
“Are you prepared for tomorrow?” his brother asks him.
Lan Wangji puts his teacup down and nods.
“Good,” says Lan Xichen. “You will depart earlier than expected. Come afternoon, the weather will worsen. I want you to reach the royal palace before then.”
Lan Xichen goes on to detail what Lan Wangji should expect, as well as what would be expected of him once he gets there. Lan Wangji listens to this with a numb sort of air, as though Lan Xichen’s words are simply passing through him.
“Wangji,” Lan Xichen says. There is a seriousness to him like there always is when it comes to matters pertaining to the royal family, but there is also a hint of something else. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” Lan Wangji answers. It’s difficult to determine whether he means it by his expression alone.
“Perhaps you should retire to bed. I have kept you long enough,” Lan Xichen says.
Lan Wangji nods in agreement and stands to leave.
“Wait,” Lan Xichen says, stopping Lan Wangji just short of the doorway. He retrieves a large wooden box and places it on the table.
Lan Wangji gives it an intrigued look.
“It came this morning,” Lan Xichen says. He unclasps the metal fastenings and opens it to reveal fabric the palest shade of blue.
Lan Wangji looks at it but doesn’t reach out to touch the luxurious silk blend.
“Your imperial cloak,” Lan Xichen confirms. “Traditionally, it is supposed to be presented to you after the engagement ceremony but…”
But that is not happening. They are jumping straight to the wedding.
“It is an unusual colour,” Lan Wangji observes.
There are imperial cloaks royals wear for other special occasions, but a wedding cloak is typically red. When Lan Wangji looks to his brother for an explanation, Lan Xichen meets his gaze with a deeply sympathetic one.
“It was ordered by the late Prince for your wedding day,” Lan Xichen says softly.
It is, of course, Lan Wangji’s favourite colour.
The day of the new Prince’s coronation is a subdued one.
He Fang’s coronation had drawn a crowd of twenty thousand outside the palace walls and the throne room itself was filled with nobility from different regions all over the country and beyond.
Today, the only people gathered to witness the event are representatives from each of the twelve high-ranking noble families, the royal court, and the monarchs themselves. The high-ceilinged room echos forebodingly, amplifying every little sound. In the midst of the attendees trying not to let even a whisper pass between them, the doors of the throne room are thrown open, admitting an imposing figure in military regalia.
Medals of honour gleam impressively against the dark backdrop of his uniform, and the sword at his hip clangs nosily against the metal clasps on his boots as he marches towards the raised dais at the far end of the throne room. There is no decorum to it, and little grace. The royal guards make no move to stop him from advancing, and everyone else watches with equal parts trepidation and interest as the man drops to one knee in greeting before the King and Queen.
“It’s Wei Wuxian,” someone is brave enough to say in the tense silence, “the commander of the Central Militia.”
“He was the head of the Eastern Army before, was he not?” another asks.
Depending on who you ask, going from the Eastern Army to Central Militia could be seen as a promotion or a demotion. Either way, Wei Wuxian’s presence in the throne room is still confounding.
The King stands and the room, now full of curious murmurings, falls silent.
“Son,” he says, and every pair of eyes finds the closest one to share an incredulous look with.
“I apologise for my lateness,” says Wei Wuxian. “I had some urgent matters to attend to.”
The Queen’s face sours. “Surely, nothing could be more important than this,” she says.
“No matter,” says the King dismissively, signalling for Wei Wuxian to stand. They face the stunned audience side-by-side, and the King smiles as though he cannot help it.
“My eldest son, He Ying, has returned,” the King announces, each word heavy with reverence. “He is the rightful heir to the throne, and your new Prince.”
A shockwave goes through the room, straightening spines slouched with age and eliciting exclamations of ‘He Ying? He is alive?’ from tongues loosened with shock.
The direct line of succession was believed concluded with the death of He Fang—the sole heir the Queen had produced after struggling to conceive for nearly a decade. The throne would have to be passed onto a blood relative of He Fang’s; a cousin or an uncle, of which neither the royal court nor the noble families were particularly thrilled about. He Fang didn’t have any such paternal relatives, so it was unlikely the next Prince would have even a drop of pure royal blood.
He Ying, on the other hand…
The King’s illegitimate son, forgotten by the masses after he was exiled some twenty years ago, now returned and reinstated, wouldn’t have been a great choice under normal circumstances. After all, his mother was a commoner. However, he just so happens to be the best choice they have.
A rumour had circulated after He Ying’s departure—overshadowed by the birth of Prince He Fang—of the Queen sending him to a military camp deep in the northern mountains. Nobody expected him to survive; the conditions were much too harsh for a nine-year-old. But evidently, he survived and somehow thrived.
His rank in the royal military is impressive and he has royal blood, however muddied it may be. It is good enough for now.
“Wangji.”
“Shufu,” Lan Wangji greets with a bow.
Lan Qiren leads Lan Wangji into the living room. As a member of the royal court, his uncle has a private residence on palace grounds. It is not as grand as the west wing of the the noble house of Lan where Lan Qiren resides on the days when he’s home, but it is still sizeable.
“How was the journey?” Lan Qiren asks.
It was fine. Lan Wangji left before daybreak and despite one of their horses falling sick, was able to make it to the royal capital on time. All for nothing, apparently, because his uncle tells him, with unconcealed disapproval, that the to-be Prince has left the royal palace and will not return until the next afternoon.
“I see,” Lan Wangji says evenly.
He has travelled all this way for nothing. He is not needed at the Prince’s coronation, as Lan Qiren will be the one representing their family during the ceremony. He came on a personal request from the King—so that he and the new Prince could get acquainted.
“Still, I am glad to see you,” Lan Qiren says, “it has been too long.”
It has indeed. Lan Qiren has been too busy to pay a visit since He Fang’s death.
However, Lan Wangji does not get to spend the entire afternoon with his uncle. It was expected that Lan Qiren would have to return to his duties sooner or later, but the attendant who eventually interrupts them asks for Lan Wangji instead.
“Her Majesty has summoned Lan er-gongzi.”
Lan Wangji is lucky to have prepared to encounter royalty. Whenever he’d visited his uncle before, he had dressed in simpler robes. There hadn’t been an expectation for him to be too formal here—what was essentially a second home. Being courted by Prince He Fang had changed that, of course.
Lan Wangji follows the attendant to the Queen’s wing of the palace and into the parlour where she entertains her personal guests. It is attached to a music room that boasts a variety of instruments put to use during her exclusive soirees. Not a single one has been hosted since He Fang’s death, but one wouldn’t be able to tell from the grand piano shined to perfection. The dust is wiped before it settles in the royal palace.
“Your Majesty,” Lan Wangji greets with a deep bow.
“Come, dear, sit,” she says, beckoning him over to a low table and two comfortable chaises overlooking the vast palace grounds. “Had I known you were coming, I would have had your wedding cloak fitted by my personal tailor.”
“I’m afraid there wouldn’t have been enough time,” Lan Wangji says. “I leave for Gusu at dawn.”
“Before the coronation?” the Queen asks curiously.
Lan Wangji nods.
“I see.” She beckons an attendant and they dutifully pour fragrant tea into two cups. She takes a sip, then places the cup down again, her hand trembling slightly. “You know, you meant a great deal to my son.”
Lan Wangji wraps his fingers around his own cup, letting the sting of the heat ground him. “I…”
But he cannot find an appropriate response.
The Queen looks wistfully out of the window. “A love match. It wasn’t like that with my husband and I, of course. Most royal marriages are arranged. I thought I would be picking out my son’s partner when the time came but he was quicker, of course.”
Indeed, He Fang had declared his intentions to marry Lan Wangji at the mere age of sixteen. It wasn’t revealed to the public until the Prince was of age, of course. He Fang wasn’t supposed to have met any of his potential matches before then, but Lan Wangji wasn’t believed to be one at the time.
Male omegas, though extremely rare, are in fact quite predictable. They are born to parents with illustrious family histories of producing male omegas—certainly not a family like the Lan’s, with their pure-bred alpha lineage dating back centuries. Lan Wangji is the rarest of the rare; a treasure discovered (accidentally, unbeknownst to all) by the deceased Prince.
“Now, you are resigned to the same fate as everyone that came before you,” the Queen continues. She looks into Lan Wangji’s eyes, her own misted over. “He Fang wouldn’t have wanted this for you. I cannot help but mourn the life you two could have had.”
On the morning that he is supposed to depart, Lan Wangji finds himself lingering. He is intimately familiar with the palace grounds; the grapevines and hydrangeas; sunlight hitting the Prince’s window at its brightest and the velvet curtains drawn tight at midday to block it out; the stables where Fusang, the horse named after the mythological tree of life, resides.
One of his personal attendants comes to fetch him and Lan Wangji goes easily, for this won’t be the last he will see of the palace. Things will be different once it becomes his home, but it is much too soon to tell just how. The uncertainty sits in Lan Wangji’s chest, and is only slightly alleviated at the sight of Wen Ning.
They stop at a familiar, worn down storefront a few streets down from the Sunday market. Lan Wangji steps out of the carriage to greet Wen Ning’s grandfather, who invites him in for a cup of herbal tea. The young attendant who accompanies Lan Wangji inside the apothecary accepts a cup as well and chokes on the first sip, hacking it up as he breaks into a coughing fit.
Wen Shan shakes his head and mutters, “Weak” under his breath.
Wen Ning looks sleep-deprived but cheerful as he shoulders a lone rucksack and bids Wen Shan goodbye. A small crate of medicinal herbs is loaded onto the carriage and they are good to be on their way back to Gusu come noon.
It’s only as they’re passing the vibrant market at the edge of Juhong Lake that Lan Wangji remembers he has forgotten to buy his nephew a present.
They are not to deviate from their designated route, nor is Lan Wangji supposed to stroll the royal capital’s streets so casually. However, the oldest of the guards accompanying Lan Wangji have served the Lan family before he and his brother were even born, and are thus unafraid to defy the duke’s strict orders every now and then.
He’s sufficiently protected and most vendors know him from summers spent in the royal capital as a child. It’s supposed to be a brief, entirely uneventful stop.
Wei Wuxian cuts through the field on his steed. Song Lan, his second in command, follows close behind. Their cloaks flap in the wind, letting the morning chill permeate the single layer underneath.
Wei Wuxian raises his fist as a signal, bringing his black stallion to a sudden stop. A cloud of dust rises in the aftermath. Wei Wuxian dismounts and walks through it with purpose. He sniffs the air and keeps his ears open.
“Commander,” Song Lan says.
Turns out Wei Wuxian doesn’t have to search for it. A pit has opened in the ground several feet away, inviting them to look within.
Dead flowers and carcasses line the bottom. The stench of rot is overwhelming. Song Lan takes a step back but Wei Wuxian does not follow.
“Commander,” Song Lan says warningly.
Wei Wuxian crouches and reaches a gloved hand down, much to Song Lan’s horror. However, as soon as he touches the wilted hibiscus petals, they crumble. Wei Wuxian stands, dusting the remnants off. His eyes scan the vast expanse of farmland, settling on something in the far distance.
“Find out who came to investigate before us,” he says.
Song Lan nods and makes towards the farm owner’s house.
Something prickles at the back of WWX’s neck: a whispered warning. God, he hopes he is wrong about where this is heading.
There is hardly much time to follow up. Wei Wuxian spends the entire night and the early morning searching but cannot pin down the ‘nice young man’ who’d offered to help old man Tao look for his dog two days prior.
The coronation is not a priority, but Wei Wuxian unfortunately happens to be a key part of it. At least it doesn’t drag on until the evening. Small mercies.
Several attendants follow him back to his quarters. Wei Wuxian slams the door in their expectant faces and sits down to pore over the list his general has put together.
Soon, he is absorbed in the case and unaware of the mayhem unfolding on the other side of the palace.
“What has happened?” Lan Qiren asks. His eyes widen in horror upon catching a glimpse of his nephew. “Wangji…”
“Wen Shan,” he says, only noticing the man once he is right in front of him, blocking his line of sight.
“Lan Qiren,” Wen Shan says, his tone somber. He motions at him to talk outside. “We better let him rest.”
It is no use, for another ruckus emerges in form of the Queen. The King follows close behind, his steps thunderous yet unhurried. The palace staff bows in respect.
The Queen pushes past them, busting the door to the infirmary wide open. “Oh,” she gasps, a wretched, broken sound. “Oh my.”
Lan Wangji’s face is half covered in bandages, from his forehead down to the tip of his nose. His lips are pale and dry.
The King draws in a sharp breath. “Who did this?” he asks the nearest royal guard.
They located the perpetrator, however…
“He is dead,” says the guard. “Your Majesty, it’s… it was Chang Ping.”
“Chang Ping?” the King asks, shocked.
“Chang Ping?!” the Queen asks, her shrill voice piercing the momentary silence. “Impossible!”
“We do not have the full details of the encounter,” continues the guard, head bowed in shame. “We are still gathering evidence from the witnesses.”
The Queen sits at the edge of Lan Wangji’s bed. Gears visibly turn in her head, her face going through a series of complicated expressions. It does not make any sense and yet it does all the same.
Chang Ping was He Fang’s dearest friend. He had travelled to the royal capital for Wei Wuxian’s coronation but never made it to the ceremony. The Queen hadn’t thought it suspicious, because she herself would have begged off the event if she could.
It wasn’t right. Just months ago, the throne had been He Fang’s destiny. The crown that Wei Wuxian treated with such carelessness rightfully belonged to He Fang—just like Lan Wangji once had.
“Is he going to be okay?” Lan Qiren asks, face twisted in pain and eyes shining with unshed tears. “Will my boy be alright?”
The King feels a pang of guilt, for his mind had been drawing up similar conclusions. What other reason could there possibly be for Chang Ping’s attack on Lan Wangji? For all he knew, the two had actually been on very good terms.
He had forgotten that in the aftermath lay a gravely injured boy—a boy he had seen grow up before his eyes.
Wen Shan places a comforting hand on Lan Qiren’s shoulder. “I treated him myself,” he reassures. “He will live.”
While the crown limits Wei Wuxian in ways he doesn’t approve of, it also offers him some liberties. Yet, knowing full well the urgency of the matter, Wei Wuxian still stops to speak with the boy crouching in the corridor.
Wen Ning, the grandson of the most respected healer in the royal kingdom and one of the lead witnesses of the incident that took place the day prior, is waiting to be questioned. Why they wouldn’t call him in earlier is beyond WWX, but it works out just fine for him.
“I tried my best,” the boy admits shakily.
He scratches the back of his hand with a chipped nail. There are half-healed scratches on the back of the other, shallow but showing signs of repetitive injury.
“What did you do?” Wei Wuxian asks.
“I tried,” the boy sobs, “I tried to stop the bleeding. There was so much blood… I…”
The door beside him opens suddenly and a royal guard steps out. “Hey, you, quit crying and get inside—“
Wei Wuxian rises to his feet.
“Y-your Highness.” The guard bows.
Wen Ning raises his head to look at Wei Wuxian curiously.
“I’m no Highness,” Wei Wuxian says coldly. “I will question him. You are dismissed.”
The guard looks like he is about to protest but doesn’t dare to.
Wei Wuxian fetches Wen Ning a glass of water and sits across from him, giving the boy a moment to calm himself down.
“You are the crown prince,” Wen Ning says quietly.
Wei Wuxian studies him. “I’m sure you are competent. I do not know senior Wen Shan well, but Wen Qing is a brilliant doctor.”
“You know my sister?” Wen Ning asks, surprised.
“She has treated many a soldier,” Wei Wuxian says, “some even I thought were beyond saving.”
Wen Ning looks at his hands once again. “I’m not as smart as her. If I was then Lan Wangji wouldn’t be…”
Wei Wuxian takes a deep breath. “I want you to listen to me, Wen Ning. If I am right, and I am quite sure I am, even Wen Qing couldn’t have done much in that moment.”
Wen Ning looks unconvinced.
“I do not wish to question you,” Wei Wuxian says.
“Then why am I here?” Wen Ning asks.
“I want to ask you for a favour instead,” Wei Wuxian says cryptically. “It might be the matter of life and death for young master Lan.”
Wen Ning sits up immediately, brows furrowed. “What is it?”
“I would like you to examine Chang Ping. We need to hurry.”
Lan Wangji stirs in his slumber. A sharp pain in his head startles him awake. He scrambles to sit upright but misjudges and lands in a heap on the floor.
The thud wakes Wen Shan up.
“Calm down, calm down,” he says, kneeling by Lan Wangji, “stop.”
Lan Wangji does not stop tearing at his bandages until Wen Shan is forced to pin Lan Wangji’s hands down. Weakened by blood loss and medication, he is subdued with ease.
“Here you go,” Wen Shan says, helping him up and sitting him down on the bed. “Do you know who I am?”
“Wen Shan,” Lan Wangji answers quietly.
“I’m here to help,” Wen Shan says.
The bandages have come loose. Wen Shan tells Lan Wangji to sit still and to not attempt to open his eyes while he fixes them.
An image of Lan Wangji intrudes his mind, unbidden. Of his handsome face slashed in two. As a healer, Wen Shan has seen injuries much worse than Lan Wangji’s in his lifetime and should thus be accustomed to them. He has certainly never shied away from such cases—people would have died if he had.
Yet, he recalls his hands shaking for the first time in decades as he stitched Lan Wangji’s right eye shut.
It took hours of meticulous work to patch him up and for those dreadful hours, Wen Shan had not looked at the rest of Lan Wangji’s face. He feared he would be haunted by the carefree child Lan Wangji had once been, before the burdens placed upon him turned him subdued.
So evident were the bruises that painted his skin a vidid purple, of the suffering he had endured; it was truly harrowing to see. So young, too young to suffer so.
He sits still as Wen Shan unwraps his bandages.
With every patch of skin revealed, Wen Shan’s eyes widen a little more.
“Dear god,” he whispers.
The Palace of Dawn is painted a brilliant yellow and towers above the royal capital of Zongjing. When the sun rises behind it, the rays seem to filter right through the structure. If one was to look down the wide street leading right up to its gates, the palace would blend into the landscape as though it was meant to exist alongside nature from the beginning of time.
It is regarded as a miracle that many travel miles to see with their own eyes, but in reality it is the result of genius architecture rather than divine coincidence.
The palace is even more impressive on the inside with open, airy spaces and the kind of opulence that imposes upon the viewer its superiority at every turn.
It only serves to hurt Wei Wuxian’s eyes more often than not.
Unfortunately, the Queen is about to enter the infirmary when Wei Wuxian rounds the corner. Her attire is much like the palace itself, even in the face of the many unfortunate events that have unfolded within its walls.
“Queen Mother,” Wei Wuxian greets with a customary bow.
She shoots him a displeased look. “Why are you here?”
“To check up on my betrothed,” Wei Wuxian says, in part to get on her nerves. Perhaps entirely to get on her nerves.
Her face turns a shade of brilliant red that clashes with her gold embroidered robes and she begins yelling at him. She curses him first for being the reason why Lan Wangji ended up so severely injured, then for stealing her son’s right to the crown. Her accusations are about to devolve into conspiracies regarding He Fang’s death when the door opens, putting an end to her rampage.
Instead of Wen Shan or Lan Qiren, who have been constant fixtures at Lan Wangji’s side, it is a tall, slender man in simple white cotton robes and a strip of cloth covering his eyes who leans against the doorframe.
“Oh dear,” the Queen exclaims, panicked, “why would you get off bed? Come, come. It is not good for you to be walking around.”
She takes the man by his arm and guides him back inside. With a start, Wei Wuxian realises it is Lan Wangji himself.
And he is nothing like Wei Wuxian had pictured.
“There is someone else?” Lan Wangji asks, not quite so easily manoeuvred to the Queen’s liking.
Wei Wuxian approaches him but only takes a few steps forward before he stops dead in his tracks. He had heard the injury on Lan Wangji’s face was quite gruesome; a jagged slash from his forehead down to the side of his nose, made with enough force to hit bone.
However, the visible skin on his face is as smooth as a piece of jade. For a moment, Wei Wuxian wonders if the report he received was exaggerated, but dismisses the thought just as quickly. He remembers, suddenly, the bizarre sight he witnessed when he went to examine Chang Ping.
So, he grabs Lan Wangji by the forearm and drags him out of the infirmary. The Queen’s grip is rather gentle in comparison and is dislodged easily during this unanticipated turn of events.
Lan Wangji stumbles out, and makes a valiant effort to free himself from Wei Wuxian’s grasp. However, his body is still weak and he cannot see. The Queen yelps and shouts for guards to stop him. She is vicious in her speech, hurling curses at Wei Wuxian, but just like Lan Wangji, she is no match for Wei Wuxian’s strength and doesn’t dare confront him directly for his inappropriate behaviour.
Wei Wuxian makes his way down the corridor with Lan Wangji tripping and struggling behind him. When the few guards stationed further down the wing make haste to follow the Queen’s orders, he makes a frustrated sound and turns to Lan Wangji.
“Stop struggling,” he orders.
He can tell Lan Wangji is completely disoriented. Even when Wei Wuxian lets go of his hand, Lan Wangji turns this way and that, unable to figure out where he should go to get away from Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian puts him out of his misery by sweeping him up into a bridal carry.
He would have thrown Lan Wangji over his shoulder but doesn’t want to risk manhandling him to that extent while still uncertain of his injuries. It’s more embarrassing this way though, and it allows Lan Wangji more room to squirm and kick.
“What—what are you doing! Put me down!”
Wei Wuxian pays him no mind and breaks into a run. To stop Lan Wangji from wriggling away, he tightens his hold so he is practically crushed against Wei Wuxian’s chest. At some point between the infirmary and the stables, Lan Wangji tires himself out and faints from exhaustion.
It makes Wei Wuxian’s job a lot easier, considering he plans to take Lan Wangji far away from the palace.
Not long after, news spreads across the palace and beyond that this arrogant new Prince has kidnapped his own bride!
“Bride? But isn’t Lan Wangji a man?” A vendor leans over his cart, brimming with curiosity.
“All the same, all the same.” The two junior army soldiers wave him off. “He is an omega, isn’t he?”
These are words that could never be uttered in the royal capital for fear of repercussion, but in a small village, these small-minded soldiers feel free to flaunt their prejudices.
It is in this small village that Song Lan finds Wei Wuxian squatting in an old, empty base of the Eastern Army.
“Commander, sometimes your bravery astonishes me,” he says evenly. It’s the most Song Lan way of saying, ‘you are a fucking idiot who will get us all killed’.
Wei Wuxian gives him a wan smile and tilts his head in the direction of the straw mattress on the floor. On it lies a rather beautiful man, painted in purple hues of the sunset that pour in through a cracked window.
He’s breathtaking.
“Is that?” Song Lan asks, taking an aborted step backwards.
“Doesn’t he look perfect?” Wei Wuxian asks.
“Uhhh…”
“Well, he shouldn’t be,” Wei Wuxian continues. “His face should be mangled and he should be blinded in one eye.”
Song Lan gives him a bewildered look, and only then remembers the briefing he had received from one of Wei Wuxian’s loyal soldiers in the palace. Lan Wangji really should not look like this.
“Is he?” Song Lan asks. “Blinded, I mean.”
“Let’s find out,” Wei Wuxian says, then heartlessly splashes some water on Lan Wangji’s face before Song Lan can stop him.
Lan Wangji startles awake, turning to his side and coughing a little before he finally blinks his eyes open. For a moment, he surveys his surroundings, then turns to the two men with anger and trepidation.
“Who are you? Where am I?”
Lan Wangji can see just fine. However, when the fading sunlight hits his right eye, a streak of brilliant blue cutting down its centre is visible. No, that’s not quite right. The colour is too brilliant—almost as if it has a luminosity of its own.
Wei Wuxian studies him with a complicated expression, then breaks out into a grin that is more intimidating than kind.
“Hello, husband dearest. I’m afraid this isn’t the time for romance. We have a lot to discuss.”