Chapter Text
There was a certain kind of silence that came with loss. Usually, quiet was merely the absence of noise, of words spoken, or songs filling the air. For loss, it was an absence with shape, made of time and memory. It was a silence that could be felt, could be touched, and could touch back. It was the silent whisper of someone who was no longer there, a flicker in the corner of the eye, a hint of scent chased away by the ever-passing seasons. It was an intimate void that preyed on the mind and soul and echoed in the past, always there, always ready to welcome him back.
He’d met such a silence when he was six. Kneeling for hours before Gentian House, dotted with snow and so numb from cold, Lan Wangji had come to understand what loss truly sounded like. There was nothing more of his mother’s soft singing, or her laughter; there was nothing more of her favored incense or the sweet honey oils she used in her hair. Sitting before the place where she’d lived, where he had lived with her in those few precious moments, he’d been forced to recognize what was no longer there. No sound, no smell, no warmth. There was only the wind in the pine and the way the snow melted into his robes, a bright, painful moisture. To wait for what life could no longer supply, he’d been forced to face what loss truly was and sit with the silence left behind.
When loss had meant seeking his mother’s shadow, it had meant feeling heavy, and cold, his ears ringing with his own heartbeat, his eyes tracing lines of stone and snow up to the front door. His visits to Gentian House had lessened over the years, but the silence remained like a shift in the air, a season caught on its precipice, no longer shifting forward or backward, stagnant. The house had been left to slowly decay, as had his memories of her. To stand before Gentian House was to stand in the absence of what had been and what would never be. It was the only thing remaining that time could not corrode.
In the long autumn four years before, Lan Wangji had been forced to accept another ghost, one that now danced in his dreams and laughed on the breeze, ever warm and everything he longed for. The silence Wei Wuxian had left in his wake had left him just as frozen as the silence that found him outside his mother’s prison, but the memories burned him, branded him, sizzled in his blood and tore at his soul. Three years of penance and seclusion had eased the bite of guilt and fire, but the quiet persisted, a mourning shroud laid over his shoulders, too heavy to move, too painful to want to. In this silence, Lan Wangji was forced to face his failings, bear their weight and understand they’d never fully leave him. Just as memory sang its song behind his eyes, this silence was one to carry. He did not need to seek it or run from it. It simply was with him, always, ever at the fore of his mind, like the tips of fingers trailing his skin, there and gone before he registered the burn.
And in the same stubborn quality that made him sit before Gentian House waiting for someone who could not come back, Lan Wangji guarded what he felt for Wei Wuxian deep inside himself, an agonizing fire that would never go out. It was comfort, and it was pain. It was love in all its cruel irony, shameless and overwhelming, never leaving him alone.
He did not want to be alone. It was said often, of his family, that Lans loved deeply, destructively, so wholly and devastatingly that there would never be another once the love had sparked to life. Love had destroyed Lan Wangji’s parents just as it was destroying him, but even so he couldn’t help but believe that if he was only meant to love once in this life, he wouldn’t call it back. He’d loved Wei Wuxian, loved him still; to no longer feel that heartache, that proof of love and loss was incomprehensible. Perhaps that meant he was ruined for life. He wondered what it said about him that he couldn’t find it in him to care.
Love hadn’t changed fate, but it’d still been there amidst it all. He had to believe that meant something.
Lan Wangji was not a capable vessel for love; it sat awkwardly, hungrily in this body of his that did not know how to speak the words that welled up inside. Emotions were hard, showing them harder. Perhaps if he had been a better man his love would have done more; in a more open man, a man who did not speak only when it was far too late, love would have had more time, more space to weave its magic. In Lan Wangji’s hands, it was little more than a stunted seedling, determinedly trying to grow despite the frost, unseen and unheard. In his hands, it had neither power nor armor. It had not saved Wei Wuxian. It had not saved Lan Wangji from what had followed.
All it had done, besides the silence and the ghostly warmth that found him like a kiss in the night, was to give him bubbling laughter and sweet smiles to help the silence ease, if only for a little while.
Lan Yuan was the best of him and nothing of his worst. He was also the best of Wei Wuxian, though the boy did not recall the man who had cared for him before. Love was a steady friend at Lan Yuan’s side, chasing him season to season as the wind in his hair, as the rain that fell on his lashes. Lan Yuan was the proof that Wei Wuxian had not died for nothing, that Lan Wangji’s love could still reach, even if he’d fallen short of his truest mark, and that love could do more than destroy and haunt what remained. He was a legacy, beloved and important, and perhaps he couldn’t erase the silence Lan Wangji sat inside, but he could make it worth carrying.
He was a new shape to form his world into, and Lan Wangji did so with an ease that surprised him. Love had, until now, been something of a rival, a barrier to how he was and how he wanted to be, the need to change and the understanding he did not know how. Wei Wuxian had plowed through his perfectly structured life so flawlessly that all Lan Wangji had left were crumbling ruins. Fighting that truth for as long as he had was a failure he’d forever regret.
The struggle was not so terrifying now. He’d always prided himself as an immoveable beacon of righteousness and honor; to see irreparable proof of growth was surprising to him, but not unwelcome. Even the tallest mountain was chipped away by wind and flood, unable to bend. Love had taught him to move, to be as flexible and strong as a tree. Loss had taught him how to build more roots, to thrive despite the elements; to move just enough, but not break and become just another silence left in the world. He had a reason to remain, so he would. Sometimes life was just that simple.
Winter had begun to bite its way through the autumn sun. The mornings were dusted with frost and a thousand dead leaves, the faint smell of frozen rain and decay. Soon, the snows would fall in earnest, trapping all of the Gusu Lan within the compound until the first storms of the new season finally passed. Cold crept ever closer from the windows and corners, chased away only by lit braziers that burned in every room. It was as familiar to Lan Wangji as his own heartbeat, as the music in his soul, a welcome routine. The Gusu Lan prided themselves on structure and order, and perhaps Lan Wangji himself no longer fit as neatly in that form as he’d once done, life here nevertheless remembered its patterns reliably year after year, season to season. There was a relief in that, that life truly did go on whether he walked with it or not, and would continue to, no matter what else fate took away. That, perhaps, even in the aftermath of a shattering event, life could still be there to catch him once he was ready to stand again.
In this intimate space, hidden away in his jingshi and lit by the glow of fire and the setting sun, even the crinkle of paper was a familiar warmth in his heart, as was the smooth grind of an inkstick, the sound of a bamboo pen being set on the low table. Lan Wangji had long chosen to ignore his stack of letters in favor of tuning his guqin, but this had not deterred Lan Yuan from his task of character learning. Using paper salvaged from Lan Xichen’s study and Lan Qiren’s teaching hall, Lan Yuan studiously copied from his book, and when he’d done the necessary repetitions, moved on to copy whatever odd scribbles were on the papers that had led them to be tossed in the first place.
Most were drafts of letters Lan Xichen sent for Sect business, their formal tone well above Lan Yuan’s level of understanding. It was not unusual for his son to suddenly inquire what crop yields meant or what the sum of so many random numbers could mean in regards to stock inventory. It was unorthodox, perhaps, to let Lan Yuan learn this way, but the boy had no complaints, and Lan Xichen had more than enough used paper to spare.
Lan Yuan had a curious nature, a willingness to learn, and took each explanation with a patience that humbled Lan Wangji. He’d never considered a life wherein he’d be raising a child of his own. Hell, it wasn’t until he’d met Wei Wuxian he’d even considered marriage as a prospect for himself, and now that Wei Wuxian was gone, so too had the desire to follow that dream. He knew he would only disappoint a traditional bride: he was reticent and did not express himself well. Surely a noble lady seeking romance could only find he fell far short of the mark, not to mention what would no doubt be a reluctance to accept Lan Yuan as a legal son. Perhaps he could subject himself to such a fate, but Lan Wangji could not allow Lan Yuan that uncertainty, not while he still had the power and authority to protect him, so he stubbornly kept that idea to the side, much to the worry and frustration of his Elders.
The inkstone was set down and the reed pen tapped into the fresh puddle. Lan Wangji could hear the scratching under the hum of his qin as he strummed a few chords, testing the tune. His qi danced over each string, a spark of light at his fingertips, buzzing with the energy that roiled inside him like a storm. He played softly so as not to interrupt Lan Yuan, letting the music part the clouds of his mind and allow the sun to shine again. He breathed deeply, feeling his core pulse in time, and let himself hang suspended on the final note, caught in the echo, the fading vibration. His hands closed over the strings, silencing them.
“Baba?” Lan Yuan’s little voice drew his gaze to the low table, where his son had tilted his head, lips puckered in confusion. He set down his reed pen and picked up the wrinkled page, which seemed to be an inventory list of some kind, brief enough to fill only the top portion of the paper. Lan Yuan gazed at it critically as though the increased proximity would scare the word into a new level of understanding. “What does thrifty mean?”
Lan Wangji considered the question quietly, fingers sliding over the strings in a whisper of sound. “To be careful with one’s resources,” he decided on, meeting his son’s curious gaze. “Not wasteful.”
Lan Yuan blinked that in with all his nearly seven-year-old brainpower. “Oh, so… like when the cook tells us only one bowl of rice with dinner when it’s snowing?” he asked back. “Thrifty?”
“Yes,” Lan Wangji said, pleased the boy could make such a connection, especially since such a stipulation only lasted the winter, when supplies were the most carefully managed. Lan Yuan set the paper down happily, satisfied, and grabbed his pen with flourish.
Lan Wangji started up another song, filling the room with the warmth of his power and music, and let this too taper off into silence once it’d run its course. He cupped his hands over the strings, felt the faint sting of the vibrations cutting short against his palms, and let his hold on his qi relax back to his center, where it burned, purring and waiting to be utilized, much like a cat curled up in a spot of sun.
The scratch of the pen stopped; the bamboo clacked a bit when it was set down. “Baba?” Lan Yuan held up the paper again. “What does this character mean?”
Lan Wangji unfolded himself from behind his qin and stood stiffly. Three years of sitting still had warped his body to that position; bending out of it continued to hurt. He was still building his body back to fighting form, a progress slowed by bouts of sickness as he was forced to adjust to the world again, adjust to himself, to the form of Hanguang-jun he had to reclaim. Though, it seemed no matter how much movement returned to him, the scars on his back always felt tight and ached in the chill, a constant reminder, a lesson learned. He gave none of his discomfort away.
Kneeling beside Lan Yuan in a graceful sway of robes, he looked where his son pointed and instantly understood the furrow in his little brow.
“That is the character for cultivation,” he explained, smoothing the paper back down so Lan Yuan could copy it out. Lan Wangji explained each stroke of the character, and though it came out wobbly, it was readable by the end. Lan Yuan re-dipped the pen and Lan Wangji reached for it, helping Lan Yuan write another character that meant the same thing, only with far less strokes to count. “Shufu uses this during lessons.”
“Oh! Like in the book!” Lan Yuan beamed, and for a moment Lan Wangji could only sit there and wonder how Lan Yuan’s hand could be so tiny in his own, yet the boy’s presence filled his life so full, beautifully improbable and everything that mattered. It was hard to breathe around the crushing love he felt as that sweet face looked up towards him.
“Mn.” Lan Wangji moved his hand away so Lan Yuan could copy the character by himself. His handwriting was gaining more control by the day. Soon, they’d be moving on to brushes. This too was proof that life continued no matter if he was ready to face it or not, that he must take root now lest he miss what was important. Lan Yuan grew by the day; if Lan Wangji closed his eyes too long, he’d have grown up that much sooner.
Lan Wangji had gone into those three years alone like a man walking to the gallows, knowing it was not to be a quick death, but one drawn out over endless days and hours of silence. Three years suspended in time, he’d re-emerged only to find a world still moving, still breathing, a life not willing to wait. In that way, he’d been no better than a babe first learning how to walk, lest he be left behind yet again.
It had not been until he’d taken guardianship of Lan Yuan that he’d realized he had not been dead at all, but simply hibernating through a long winter, asleep and waiting for spring to return. That the sun was upon his face again; that somehow, despite it all, it was time to bloom once more.
He’d always been stubborn, and what was more stubborn than the first shoots of green breaking through the frost?
Lan Yuan had moved on to a new character, one that meant voice. So, it was probably not an inventory list then, Lan Wangji mused, watching as Lan Yuan carefully copied it out. When his son turned his head up with a questioning smile, Lan Wangji nodded to show he’d done it right and got a flash of happy teeth in answer. It was amazing to him how this child could read him better than most adults. Lan Yuan took his meager words and silent encouragement and thrived, never demanding more. Somehow, the past year had taught them both how to understand each other’s nuances, and where many would find fault in Lan Wangji, Lan Yuan seemed content with this father that didn’t always know what to say or do. It was a grace Lan Wangji did not deserve, but he forced himself to be worthy of it all the same.
Loud was the next character, and Lan Yuan sounded it out in a whisper as he wrote it down. Lan Wangji’s gaze flicked over the other random words dotting the page in Lan Yuan’s shaky script, words like beautiful, obedient, and respected family. He frowned and looked further up, wondering why his brother or uncle would be writing such things that only ended up in the trash. To his surprise, it was not their handwriting he saw, but a different, less flowing script, precise and efficient in the style of a professional scribe.
Yunmeng Jiang Sect Council, he read in some bafflement. Sect Leader Jiang.
His brows furrowed. The name no longer held the same gut-punch feeling it’d once had, but there was still a raw part of him that immediately bristled, insulted just to have to read it. The feeling didn’t lessen as he realized what Lan Yuan was currently writing on had once been a prerequisite list for a suitable spouse for Sect Leader Jiang, no doubt sent out to all the major sects in a bid to get him a wife. The fact that it’d ended up here, amongst the trash, was a vindictive rush to his heart, coldly satisfying. If it was discarded, then either Jiang Cheng had a wife now or had failed even that venture and remained a lost cause. Also satisfying, that.
Now, if only he could throw away his own proposals as readily.
Unbidden, Lan Wangji found his eyes trailing back up the page, at the list of what Jiang Cheng deemed to be the perfect bride. Naturally beautiful, graceful and obedient, hard-working and thrifty, coming from a respected family, cultivation not too high, personality not too strong, not too talkative, and voice not too loud. Obviously he didn’t want a spouse that he had to compete with, Lan Wangji mused, a curl of bitter amusement against his heart. For a man that strove for the best of himself and his Sect, Jiang Cheng wouldn’t want a wife who outshined him. His pride wouldn’t allow for that. His past proved that well enough.
Still, a Sect Leader’s wedding was no small event to ignore. For his brother to have thrown this away, it more likely meant that Jiang Cheng had failed to secure a wife. Otherwise, Lan Wangji would have heard of it by now. No doubt Jiang Cheng was still sitting in Lotus Pier, a forever miserable bachelor. For a man who loved to destruction, the way Lan Wangji did, he was better off alone. Perhaps they both were.
He frowned, not liking how his mind had lined them up, and forced the thoughts away. What was the point of considering Jiang Cheng’s need for a wife, anyhow? He had a stack of letters already burning a hole in his patience to figure his way around. The Elders were desperate to reclaim their flawless Second Jade from the mess that’d been Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji’s consequent seclusion. His tarnishing of his own reputation had been excused as the Yiling Patriarch weaving a black magic over him, but still the Elders persisted. Perhaps they wanted a child sired by him to further keep him rooted to Gusu, so he would not go wandering. Lan Yuan was beloved, but he was not a blood son, and for some in the Court, blood was all that mattered. If they could tether Lan Wangji to the Sect, then they could keep such an embarrassment from happening again. It wasn’t even a bad plan, really, or unexpected, but still it chafed. It would be better if they’d simply wanted him gone, he couldn't help but think, reading over the list again. Maybe they even did.
He sat back a little and felt Lan Yuan shift into him so they were touching. He was still dutifully writing, even as his workable light faded, so Lan Wangji slid over a nearby candle to light his way. It won him a smile and Lan Yuan leaning just that bit more into him, content with his closeness. Lan Wangji breathed out softly, resigned to stay a moment longer, the scratch of the reed pen filling the quiet.
While the letters were becoming alarmingly numerous, so far his refusals had not met much resistance. He couldn’t help but wonder how long he could hold out, or how hard the Elders would push. Theirs was a Sect that prided themselves on finding their Fated One, but it was clear Lan Wangji had spent that token already. That made him a rare opportunity within the Gusu Lan to advance political interests through marriage. With Lan Xichen still looking for his Fated One, the way was clear for Lan Wangji to be married off first to be further controlled by the Elders.
The last time he’d willingly thought of marriage, he’d envisioned leaving Gusu to follow Wei Wuxian to Lotus Pier. He’d known, even then, that his love for Wei Wuxian was greater than his love of his home, just as he knew that right now, should Wei Wuxian inexplicably raise from the dead and ask for his hand, he wouldn’t hesitate, even if it still meant going to Yunmeng, though he doubted Jiang Cheng would allow either of them safe passage through his Sect. Gusu would forever be his home, but falling in love had taught him the depth of his own stubbornness. Life moved on forevermore, and he had to believe Gusu would still be standing no matter where his path led and remain long after he was gone.
He had Lan Yuan to consider now, to protect. The boy was suited to Lan ways, and once more the priority shifted, bringing Lan Wangji’s focus back home. It would not be fair to rip Lan Yuan from the family he was used to and trusted, though Lan Wangji sincerely doubted any of the hopefuls vetted by the Elders would allow Lan Wangji so much time away from the marriage bed just to raise a son that was not actually his. Politics were all about heirs. Having children would only distance Lan Yuan from all the love Lan Wangji wanted to give him, which was simply unacceptable. He’d been too late for Wei Wuxian. He would not fail Lan Yuan too.
A part of him hoped enough refusals would make the Elders stop. A part of him doubted it would be so simple. He had disgraced himself and to the Council, that disgrace reflected upon them. Being whipped and forced into solitude for three years was penance enough on the surface, enough to please the other Sects and restore their reputation, but what lay beneath all that maneuvering? Did they fear Lan Wangji would merely repeat his parents’ tragedy? Did they fear their hold on him was slipping away still? He had, after all, slipped from them once. Would he do so again?
Lan Yuan wrote out the character for beauty with calm, concentrated strokes. Jiang Cheng had made his standards clear to the Sects and his own Council. Would such a move work for Lan Wangji?
That would imply he even knew what he’d want in a marriage that wasn’t to Wei Wuxian. He could hardly fathom such an outcome, so alien it felt to his soul. He forced his eyes to trace Jiang Cheng’s list, forced himself to think, if only for Lan Yuan’s sake. If there was no dodging marriage, then he needed to turn the situation to his own control. He’d need to find a partner willing to be married in name, but not necessarily in body; a partner that would be willing to let him spend weeks at a time in Gusu, with his adopted son, who wouldn’t press for heirs or at least understood that Lan Yuan would always come first. Love wouldn’t be part of the equation, and that needed to be considered too. He represented Gusu, so any Sect he married into would benefit from the tie. But Lan Wangji himself was not a prince from a fairytale; he’d need his spouse to understand him enough for it not to matter. He was hard to read and really get to know. If taken simply at face value, he’d fall as a disappointment every time.
Such a list narrowed his choices greatly. He had not left Gusu in four years and had seen little of the outside world from his doorstep. Sect Leader Jin was a constant visitor, if only for Lan Xichen’s sake, but the man was married with a baby on the way. Of the Nie, Sect Leader Nie Huaisang was too new to his station to care about an arrangement like this, and marrying a Lan was a moot point for him given Lan Xichen’s sworn brotherhood with the Nie and Jin. The Wen were no more, which left the Jiang, and he had a feeling Jiang Cheng would only laugh in his face just to be considered. Hardly any help to his cause.
A shame the Jiang had to be led by such a cantankerous ass, he couldn’t help but think. Perhaps it was his heart still tied to Wei Wuxian that ever ran with hope towards Yunmeng, but with the Jin-Nie-Lan brotherhood alliance, the Jiang were left vulnerable in a political sense. A marriage between the two Sects had never been done before as far as Lan Wangji was aware, and while they already enjoyed a loyal and generous trade agreement, marriage to someone of Lan Wangji’s standing would solidify that relationship - a tempting prospect that would tempt any Sect Leader that was not Jiang Cheng.
Not that he wanted to tempt Jiang Cheng into anything. Grievances set aside, while he could respect the man for his skill in battle and leadership, his personality left much to be desired. They clashed more often than not, even when they were fighting for the same cause. Surely, anyone foolish enough to marry Jiang Cheng would never know peace again, he thought uncharitably, trying to push Jiang Cheng once more from his thoughts as hard as he could. No, whatever silly maidens the Council had vetted for him would be infinitely better than betrothing himself to Jiang Cheng. It’s not like Jiang Cheng would even listen if he cared to try.
That resolve did not sit in him easily. Lan Yuan was starting to yawn now and did not fight him when Lan Wangji redirected him to change for bed. Left alone with his tumbling thoughts, Lan Wangji returned to his qin, to the stack of letters he’d set by his seat if only to ignore them more properly. He took a breath and forced himself to open the first, then the second, hopeful for anything he could work with. But of course not. These courtly ladies wanted Hanguang-Jun as a jewel for their crown and the prestige that came with it, as any noble-born lady would insist upon. These potential wives would want his legacy, if not his heart, and knowing he was in love with a man long dead would only sour such aspirations. Would a wife demand he forget Wei Wuxian? How did one forget how to breathe, how to stop the beat of his heart? How could he survive without it?
A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed around it, discarding the letters, a strange desperate feeling clutching at his ribs like frozen fingers gripping the bars of a cell. Better to die than live as though Wei Wuxian did not haunt his very soul. Better to be alone than give away all he had left to grieve.
“Baba?” Lan Yuan’s voice was sleepy and when Lan Wangji stood, his son was rubbing at his eyes, a wide yawn overtaking his small face. It was a bit early yet, but a bit more sleep was hardly harmful to a growing child. Lan Wangji crossed to him and lifted him easily, carrying him back to the room he’d left to tuck him into his blankets.
“Baba?” Lan Yuan tried again as he set his forehead ribbon in a place of honor at his bedside.
“Mn?”
“Why do you look so sad?” Lan Yuan asked him, worried despite the heaviness of his eyelids. Lan Wangji swallowed yet another lump, pulling the blanket up to the boy’s chin, thoughts stumbling. How could he even begin to describe loss to a six-year-old, or how the grief of memory was a ghost ever at his ear, whispering in his mind? He sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, expression drawn.
“Sometimes memories are sad,” he murmured and rubbed the tiny furrow between Lan Yuan’s brows. “But it is still good to remember them.”
Lan Yuan considered that as he freed a hand from the blanket. His fingers tucked around Lan Wangji’s thumb, squeezing. “Does Baba remember memories that are not sad?”
“Mn.” His thumb was squeezed again, then he was released. Lan Yuan, content with that, settled fully into sleep.
“Good. Happy memories,” he yawned, eyes slipping closed. “Goodnight, baba.”
Heart aching, Lan Wangji stood from the bed, blowing out the last burning candle on Lan Yuan’s window. “Goodnight, A-Yuan,” he murmured, and quietly left the room.
He forced himself to carry the letters to his own bed, as well as a fresh candle to read by. He didn’t often stay up past curfew even with a little child to care for, but the stubborn tumbling of his thoughts left him restless. Sleep would not be easy, he knew. Not tonight.
Setting the letters on his pillow, Lan Wangji sat cross legged on his mattress, hair down and forehead ribbon carefully folded on his nightstand. The two letters he’d read already did not improve upon a second reading, so he discarded them from the pile and tried again. The others were more of the same: women who wanted his heirs, to be tied to his family, who had no need of a sweet-faced adopted son, no doubt. The more he read, the less his resolve stood firm. If this was the current marriage market, then what chance did he have to find someone who wouldn’t care about there already being an heir?
There had to be a better way than this, he thought, nearly shredding the last letter in half. He folded it up and set it over the fire just so he could watch the paper blacken and curl and turn to ash before his eyes. Perhaps if he refused a bit louder? What if they didn’t balk? What if there was simply more the same, over and over, until he was forced to choose from a sea of bad choices? At such a point, if he wanted the freedom to choose, he’d have to find a match of high enough status to override what the Elders demanded, and that led him back to the conundrum that was the Nie-Jin-Lan brotherhood… and Yunmeng Jiang, standing alone.
It was laughable how, on paper at least, Jiang Cheng was exactly what he’d need. For one, he did not seem anxious for heirs, rather doting on his nephew instead. Of the major Sects, Yunmeng would benefit from a marriage to a Lan the most, and even Jiang Cheng would find value in the alliance. They had enough shared history for Lan Wangji to know how well they fought together, strategized together. There was respect there running tandem with their extreme dislike. He was not blind to Lan Wangji’s temperament, nor Lan Wangji to Jiang Cheng’s, and surely he would not fault Lan Wangji for caring for Lan Yuan. Being men, they could only name heirs, not make them; Lan Wangji hoped Lan Yuan could be an heir of Gusu, if nothing else. Jiang Cheng would have the space and freedom to choose whom he liked for his own purposes.
It irked him to think of Jiang Cheng open enough to not care that far, that it was the least terrible option of many others, and that he couldn’t even hope for it because there was no way Jiang Cheng would ever agree. He hated Lan Wangji as much as he hated the Wens for destroying his family. They were more liable to fight against each other than on the same side. Jiang Cheng was caustic and violent, and even if he’d welcome the excuse to send Lan Wangji back to Gusu whenever Lan Wangji pleased, marrying someone of such poor temperament made his insides crawl. He could subject himself to a loveless match, but could he subject himself to a man who actively disliked him? How could they hope to build anything of worth while tearing at each other’s throats?
Could they even build anything but bitter anger?
Lan Wangji watched the last letter blacken and flutter into the air, ashes and dust, before blowing out the candle. Surely, he’d spent far too long thinking today if he was even considering using Jiang Cheng as a battering ram against the Elders. Laying back under his covers, he let his gaze fall to the window, to the frosty stars overhead, and felt the silence settle over him.