#voracious jiejies

[mylittleponygrrl]

[FMV: The Selfieeee]

Source: @Yibo_baobeii

[curiosity-killed]

a bow for the bad decisions

canon-divergent AU from ep. 24 (on ao3)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14 | part 15 | part 16 | part 17 | part 18

They don’t talk more of it that night and by the time they arrive in Lanling, Jiang Cheng has all but forgotten the conversation. He can feel the wards still tethered like a thumb and index finger around his left wrist, even from this far away. There’s no tug like Sandu or Zidian, just a gentle pressure. Wei Wuxian claps him on the shoulder as they separate before the opening and Jiang Cheng draws in a steadying breath before walking over to the other sect leaders. It’s hardly the first time they’ve split up at these official events, but it is the first time Jiang Cheng’s been alone at one. Before, his father had always been at his side when they met with other sect leaders and heirs. In the war, Wei Wuxian had dutifully attended all those strategy meetings, the obsidian blade at Jiang Cheng’s back. Now, he is acutely aware of his own youth as he greets Jin Guangshan and then Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen. Lan Xichen’s the closest to his own age and technically only became sect leader a few months before Jiang Cheng, but he’s been acting sect leader for so long that the title seems to fit as well as any robe. Jiang Cheng finds himself approaching Nie Mingjue instead.

“Chifeng-zun, Yunmeng Jiang thanks you for allowing us to host Young Master Nie this last month,” he says, saluting. “His presence was welcome.” The words feel awkwardly floral from his mouth, and part of him expects Nie Mingjue to laugh at his attempt at propriety. Instead, he accepts the thanks politely, if a little stiff. “Qinghe Nie has long valued our friendship with Yunmeng Jiang,” he says. “Our fathers trusted in one another, and as we return to peace, we would reaffirm that bond.” If all the rest of his life is to be spent trading polite formalities with men older than him, Jiang Cheng thinks he might run off and become a rogue cultivator after all. He’s never had jiejie’s grace nor Wei Wuxian’s charisma. Nie Mingjue huffs out a noise that’s somewhere between a grunt and a laugh as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Last time you and Wei Wuxian visited the Unclean Realm, he promised my second a duel,” he remarks. “He could come fulfill that promise now.” Surprise and hope twine through Jiang Cheng’s chest at the invitation. He doesn’t know how to say that Wei Wuxian will never fulfill that challenge now, but they can address that when they have to. For now, it’s a start, an opening to build the relationships they so badly need. “Maybe he and Huaisang can remember their forms together,” Nie Mingjue mutters. Swallowing, Jiang Cheng salutes quickly. “Wei Wuxian would be honored to learn from the Nie sect’s example,” he says. It isn’t wholly a lie, even if he doesn’t mean Wei Wuxian will be using Suibian any time soon. Wei Wuxian has always had a voracious hunger for knowledge, and they both spent a mortifying summer of their adolescence infatuated with Nie Mingjue the year Jiang Cheng turned thirteen. If nothing else, a visit would give Jiang Cheng a chance to tease Wei Wuxian relentlessly. “Da-ge, Jiang-zongzhu,” Lan Xichen greets with a smile, joining them. Nie Mingjue shifts subtly, opening the space at his side. “Zewu-jun,” Jiang Cheng greets. “I am looking forward to seeing Yunmeng Jiang’s archery firsthand,” Lan Xichen says. “I recall both Jiang-zongzhu and Young Master Wei made an impression at the last discussion conference.” Wei Wuxian was the one who made an impression at that conference, sailing into first as if he’d been shooting since he could walk. Jiang Cheng had been pleased to beat Jin Zixuan to second, earning his father’s hand briefly on his shoulder. “It will be good to see the competition in a friendly air,” Jiang Cheng says instead of that. “The competition will only be between your brothers, I think,” Nie Mingjue says. “I can’t remember the last time Huaisang touched a bow.” “Mingjue,” Lan XIchen scolds, fond. “You are too hard on a-Sang.” Nie Mingjue shoots him a skeptical look as if to ask which of our brothers didn’t even fight in the war? Jiang Cheng politely averts his gaze and doesn’t comment. He knows without needing it confirmed that Wei Wuxian has been practicing increasingly absurd trick shots with their shidis over the last couple weeks. Before the sects are announced, Jin Guangyao arrives to politely usher them to their seats, and Jiang Cheng sits feeling newly settled and a little more comfortable than he was at the start. He might even enjoy this after all. The sects process in, Nie then Lan then Jiang. Wei Wuxian walks at the head of their disciples, head high and already half-smiling. They’d wrestled him into a robe of bruised blue and black, still Wei Wuxian but clearly part of Yunmeng Jiang, and seeing him in front of their shidis, Jiang Cheng feels a surge of pride well up in his chest. This is his clan. This is his brother. His work, his struggle and triumph. He lifts his chin and lets the warmth suffuse him. He tries to keep his face when jiejie arrives with the Jin entourage, but he can’t help smiling a little at her. It’s just – a lot, all at once. This feeling, this sudden bloom of hope and tentative belief in the future. Their sect is going to be strong once again, and they’ll be together to lead it, and it will work out. He’d forgotten, in the years between his parents’ deaths and Nightless City, what hope feels like. He’d been running on survival all that time, the dagger-edge drive of necessity. There had been plans and expectations, yes, the steps along a path laid out by need. There had been none of this, this bright-lined smiling thing that buds tentatively in his chest. Then Jin Guangyao brings out his surprise. Tension ripples through the crowd like a contagion, hands tightening on bows and eyes widening at the Wen prisoners traipsed out. In his periphery, he sees Wei Wuxian step forward, tension running through him like a bow bent to its limits. He shakes his head slightly, quickly, and can see the fight on Wei Wuxian’s lips. They can’t afford a mess. “What is the meaning of this?” Nie Mingjue demands. There’s a rustle through the assembly, and Wei Wuxian eases back into line.    “It’s only meant to be a challenge for the participants, da-ge,” Jin Guangyao says with a reassuring smile. “These prisoners fought under Wen Ruohan against us in the war.”

Unease slithers under Jiang Cheng’s skin. The prisoners all wear Wen red, but they’re dirty, unkempt. Dirt and grime cover them and the spare patches of their skin that are visible are pale and gaunt. He swallows. Wei Wuxian has done trickier things than shoot a single arrow over someone’s head. Jiang Cheng knows his aim, can call up a dozen memories of Wei Wuxian shooting the small black pupil out of a high-flying kite’s eye. It’s not his aim that worries him. “These are prisoners, not props,” Nie Mingjue continues. “Just treatment requires they be treated appropriately.” “Nie Mingjue,” Jin Guangshan calls from his seat across the dais, “are you defending these people who killed your father?” It’s too late in the season for frost, but Jiang Cheng feels something cold and biting creep across his skin. His hands tighten into fists in his skirts. Jin Guangshan never fought in the war, barely lent any forces at all, but his has been the sect to surge into the gap left by Wen Ruohan’s fall. The Jin sect is powerful in a way none of the others are: its leader is older, more experienced; its citadel was never burnt or besieged; its forces barely suffered a dent in all the fighting. Jiang Cheng bites his tongue. “The man who killed my father is dead,” Nie Mingjue says. “As Lianfang-zun can attest. These prisoners belong in their camps, as you agreed, not out here as target practice.” He’s still seated, but there’s a thrumming tension in his broad shoulders and the stiffness of his back. “Perhaps it would be better to remove the prisoners,” Lan Xichen suggests delicately. Between Jiang Cheng and Nie Mingjue, he holds himself carefully poised, in a precarious balance between his sworn brothers. Jin Guangyao wears a nervous smile still, hands folded before him like a lifeline. “The Nie sect will not shoot,” Nie Mingjue declares. Jiang Cheng’s fingers tighten. “Da-ge—” Jin Guangyao starts, placating. “Lives are not playthings,” Nie Mingjue interjects, even. “The Nie sect will not compromise its principles for fanfare.” There’s a soft sigh beside Jiang Cheng, and Lan Xichen rises to salute Jin Guangshan. “Respectfully, Sect Leader Jin, it is against Gusu Lan principles to risk others’ lives impulsively,” he says. His voice is as mellow and gentle as ever, and Jiang Cheng almost misses the meaning underneath. Two sects are standing against Jin Guangshan, however politely. He hesitates, sprinting through calculations he hadn’t expected to ever do. He stands and bows. “Yunmeng Jiang respectfully recuses itself from the competition,” he says. For a moment, his torso still dipped in deference toward Jin Guangshan, he thinks there will be a fight. The cultivation world has stood in careful alliance since the burning of Lotus Pier. The memory of conflict is still too fresh, wounds still scabbed and not yet scarred. His heart gallops, wild and terrified in his chest. “Ah please, brothers, Jiang-zongzhu,” Jin Guangyao says quickly. “The competition was only a ceremony. Clearly all cultivators here are more than capable of the hunt. Let us just begin, yes?” It’s not an apology, not quite an admission of a mistake, but it’s enough to at least soothe the tensions rising around them. The sects disperse with quiet murmurs, that uneasiness still threading interstitial through Jiang Cheng’s ribs. He crosses the grounds to Wei Wuxian and their shidis at just a careful enough pace that no one could accuse him of running to his brother. “Well that was exciting,” Wei Wuxian remarks when he’s close enough.

The grin he breaks out is a little brittle, too much tooth showing, and his hand has curled tight around Chenqing. “We don’t need any fights breaking out,” Jiang Cheng warns. Releasing Chenqing, Wei Wuxian heaves a sigh and waves his hand as he turns toward the gates. His shoulders are a little stiff, but there’s none of that snarling anger Jiang Cheng saw in the war. Everyone will surely be on edge until the hunt is properly underway. The knowledge isn’t the reassurance he’d like it to be. “Yes, yes, I know. I’ll be on my best behavior, Jiang Cheng,” he says, shooting a taunting grin back. “Go on, don’t wait around for me. I’ll see you on the mountain.” He waves an absent hand back at Jiang Cheng in farewell. For a moment, as he passes under the shadow of the walls, black bleeds the blue from his robes and he is only a shadow, a sliver of night, walking away. Jiang Cheng reaches absently for his wrist, curling his hand around the tether of the wards. They pulse twice, a familiar heartbeat, and lie still.