Chapter Text
Time erodes all things that are sharp and clear.
Even the most agonizing resentment, even the shame once thought indelible, eventually loses its jagged edges, worn smooth like stones in a river, until they are buried deep within the folds of legend. The infamy of the Yiling Patriarch that once made the myriad cultivation clans tremble, the name of Hanguang-jun that was once as immaculate as the moonlight—they have now become nothing more than obscure old tales traded over cups of wine. People no longer remember the blood-red sky of Nightless City, nor do they know the freezing silence of the Gentian House.
Only the occasional testimonies of travelers, claiming to have crossed paths with two bizarre men in fog-laden forests or along desolate riverbanks, serve as the sole proof that they are still alive in this world.
It was on just such a night that Jin Hui, a young disciple who had only recently passed his coming-of-age ceremony and embarked on his first clan night-hunt, encountered them.
The resentful ghost undulated like black smoke, radiating pure bloodlust. It was a colossal mass of darkness that Jin Hui's meager spiritual energy could not possibly hope to handle. In the exact moment he choked back a scream and stumbled backward, a low, chilling flute melody tore through the silence of the forest from somewhere unseen. It was a sharp, yet somehow deeply mournful tune. The atmosphere of the forest, previously crushed beneath the demonic energy, instantly shifted. While the resentful ghost shrieked and twisted in agony, a sword glare colder than the moonlight slashed through the empty air.
Clang—.
Tearing through the darkness emerged a man dressed in robes as pristine white as mourning clothes. Without a single fraction of an error, his blade pierced straight through the resentful ghost's heart. Before the ghost could even leave behind a scream, it disintegrated into a handful of ash and scattered. Slumping to the ground to catch his breath, Jin Hui thought to himself: Is that what the legendary Hanguang-jun looked like?
However, the very next scene that entered Jin Hui's eyes was vastly different from the image of the majestic hero he had conjured in his mind.
Sheathing his sword, the man in white rushed over to another man leaning precariously against the shadows of the forest. The man dressed in black, clutching a flute, was coughing up thin, ragged breaths.
"Wei Ying."
The man in white spoke. Jin Hui did not miss the emotion laced within that brief call. It sounded less like the voice of a supreme master who commanded the heavens, and more like the desperate plea of a man facing something on the verge of shattering.
"...Lan Zhan, I'm fine. I just overdid it a little, that's all."
The man in black offered a smile on his pale face. Instead of answering, the man in white snatched the other's cold hand, pressed it against his own chest, and immediately began silently pouring his spiritual energy into him.
Jin Hui saw it. He saw the edges of the white-robed man's immaculate sleeves trembling precariously. His eyes looked as though he might truly lose his mind if he couldn't confirm every single breath the other man took.
Watching him, the man in black reached up with his free hand and gently grasped the end of the white-robed man's forehead ribbon.
"I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I promised you I wouldn't leave, didn't I, hm?"
"......"
Without a word, Lan Wangji pulled Wei Wuxian's shoulder even tighter against his own body. That was his answer.
"U-Um... thank you for saving me."
When Jin Hui cautiously spoke up, both of their gazes turned toward him simultaneously. The man in black instantly reverted to a playful expression and brought an index finger to his lips.
"Kid, forget everything you saw here today. When you get back, just tell the clan elders that the night fog was a little thick."
"But..."
"Let's go, Wei Ying."
Lan Wangji cut him off quietly. Without sparing Jin Hui a single glance, he supported Wei Wuxian's weight and began to walk deeper into the forest. Wrapping his arm around Lan Wangji's waist and resting his head against his shoulder, Wei Wuxian melted into the fog at an incredibly slow pace.
Jin Hui stood in the spot where they vanished for a very long time. The scent of thick sandalwood and bitter medicinal herbs still lingered in the forest air. He didn't understand what it all meant. But somewhere in his chest, it ached. It was an unexplainable ache, as if he had just brushed past something incredibly old and profoundly sad.
It was dusk, the hour when the river burned red.
The sunset bleeding across the western sky spread thickly over the surface of the water, resembling spilled blood. An old boatman, who had rowed his skiff along this river for many long years, bit down on his pipe as he waited for his final passengers.
Through the mist beyond the riverbank, two men appeared.
One wore black robes with a black flute tucked into his sash; the one following close behind was dressed in robes as pristine white as mourning clothes, carrying a guqin strapped to his back. As they stepped onto the boat, the boatman let out a low groan. It wasn't just because of the overwhelming, oppressive aura radiating from the man in white. It was because of the bizarre atmosphere clinging to them both. The scent of men who had spent far too long traversing battlefields. The scent of men who had lost too much. But alongside that, there was something else the boatman couldn't quite put a name to. After pondering for a moment, he finally realized what it was. It was the scent of resignation tangled with relief. The scent of men who had finally let go.
The boat glided smoothly toward the middle of the river. The two men sat side by side at the stern, watching the setting sun in silence.
"Lan Zhan, the sky looks exactly like it did that time."
The man in black, Wei Wuxian, was the first to break the silence. The crimson river reflecting in his eyes wavered strangely. What 'that time' referred to, the boatman could not possibly know. But he did see the hand of the man in white reach out from within his sleeve, find Wei Wuxian's hand, and grip it tightly.
"......The wind is cold."
After a long pause, Lan Wangji spoke. That was all. But through the eyes of a man who had lived a long life, the boatman understood. He knew exactly what was held within those few short words. It was not a simple comment about the weather.
"It's okay. I'm not cold when I'm with you."
Resting his head against Lan Wangji's shoulder, Wei Wuxian offered a low chuckle. It wasn't a light laugh. It sounded like the laugh of a man who had suffered a long, agonizing illness, finally stepping outside to breathe the fresh air for the very first time.
Rowing the oars, the boatman looked at their hands. Their fingers were intertwined. Jagged, unhealed scars jutted out across the back of Lan Wangji's hand. The way he held Wei Wuxian was desperate, as if clinging to a phantom that might vanish forever if he let go, yet imbued with an incredibly careful tenderness, terrified he might break him if he held on too tight.
"Lan Zhan, where should we go next?"
"......Anywhere you are."
Lan Wangji's answer was brief. He brought Wei Wuxian's hand up to rest near his heart. The steady, rhythmic beating transferred through their joined hands. Feeling that pulse, Wei Wuxian closed his eyes.
The boat reached the opposite shore, and the two men stepped off onto the mist-laden path. Walking ahead, the man in black playfully glanced back over his shoulder, while the man in white silently matched his pace exactly one step behind, ever watchful lest he stumble. The distance between them was neither too close nor too far. It wasn't a distance from which one could run away, nor was it a distance from which one could be locked up. It was simply the natural space created by two people walking together.
The boatman couldn't take his eyes off them until they completely disappeared into the mist.
The bundles they carried on their backs looked light. But the boatman knew. It wasn't that their burdens were light; it was that they were finally sharing the weight. The crushing weight of the debts and scars the two men bore for one another was by no means light. They hadn't put those burdens down. They simply weren't carrying them alone anymore.
Because they hadn't erased their scars, but were instead walking while fully embracing them, the sight of their retreating backs looked all the more peaceful. The memories carrying the metallic stench of blood were washed away by the river, and now, only the freezing, tranquil moonlight illuminated the path at their feet.
Before long, the sound of a flute drifted through the mist.
It was a low, mournful tune. And as if to soothe it, an even lower voice followed. The words themselves were inaudible. But the way that voice reached out to him was unmistakable.
Biting his pipe, the boatman stared out at the river until the sound faded completely. The river was still red. But slowly, inevitably, it was tilting toward the dark.
They've finally... found where they belong.
He muttered the words softly to himself, though there was no one around to hear them. Then, he lifted his oars and turned the boat around. Only the sound of rowing echoed over the water. The flute melody had already drifted far away. Was it still there, or had it already vanished? Faint enough to be indistinguishable from the sound of the wind, yet undeniably present, it seeped long and deep into the absolute stillness of the night.