#and tend to fumble in general with plot laden endings

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 51

Emperor Wei WuXian And His Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birthday

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1 | Chapter 8 Part 2 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 Part 1 | Chapter 15 Part 2 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 Part 1 | Chapter 22 Part 2 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Chapter 34 | Chapter 35 | Chapter 36 | Chapter 37 | Chapter 38 | Chapter 39 | Chapter 40 | Chapter 41 | Chapter 42 | Chapter 43 | Chapter 44 | Chapter 45 | Chapter 46 | Chapter 47 | Chapter 48 & Chapter 49 | Chapter 50

Jiang YanLi is asleep.

Her eyes had not strayed from Wei Ying’s face for the majority of the evening and the night, but now, her head is pillowed on her arms, her breaths soft and nearly soundless. The dawn is only a few hours away, the darkness assuming a gentle, mellow glow, as it usually does before giving way to the morning light. Resting in the far corner of the Imperial chambers, uncle’s form is only a shadow draped in blue robes. XiChen is playing, his fingers moving over the strings, the stiff posture of his shoulders giving away the misery in his wrists.

WangJi’s own wrists and fingers ache, a dull, burning sensation that refuses to fade. He is grateful to the pain, for it keeps him alert. Even under the shifting light of the candle flames, Wei Ying’s face is no longer ghastly pale. There is a delicate flush across his cheeks now, a healthy color of dreamless sleep. His mouth is slightly parted, his breaths deep and even. Jiang YanLi had been the one to remove the cumbersome hair ornaments, to brush the thick curtain of Wei Ying’s hair until it shone. It is braided loosely now, a heavy, glistening coil of impossible length. WangJi has moved to touch it more than once, but drawn his hand back each time.

The memory of sliding his fingers through the strands, marveling at their texture, at the rich and lush weight in his hands, is a painful, physical presence. Wei Ying will recover, uncle had said. He will wake. WangJi keeps these words in his heart, a small, burning flame of hope. But there is very little uncle can say about the adverse effects of Wei Ying’s ordeal. Since the time of YanLing DaoRen, the study of resentful energy and demonic cultivation has been prohibited, its practitioners facing a swift and brutal death in every corner of the Empire.  

Uncle may be knowledgable on the subject, but he has said precious little, leaving most of WangJi’s questions unanswered.

Wei Ying will wake. Wei Ying will recover. But will he still be Wei Ying?

The Rogue Prince shifts slightly in his place against the far wall. He has long ago settled down to meditate, the sword placed across his knees, the white bandage around his eyes glowing in the gloom.

At first, WangJi had believed his presence to be a family matter. After all, what is more natural than a concerned uncle at the bedside of his ill nephew? But now, WangJi thinks that perhaps Xiao XingChen is here for an entirely different set of reasons. There is no other living person so intimately familiar with YanLing DaoRen, with the corruption caused by the resentful energy, with the symptoms of YanLing DaoRen’s particular type of madness.

If Wei Ying wakes, and he is no longer Wei Ying, will Xiao XingChen take the matters into his own hands? Will WangJi be expected to abide by the man’s judgment?  

Silent and still, wrapped in white, the Rogue Prince is not a comforting presence, but a ghastly specter of an executioner. WangJi moves a little closer to the bed, his knees aching sharply, another pain that will keep him awake and alert.

Time passes, slow and thick with waiting.

In the soft light of the early dawn, uncle wordlessly takes XiChen’s place at the guqin. Although XiChen’s skill is significant, WangJi can immediately feel the difference in the richness and the depth of the sound, in the strength and determination behind every note. Each time it wraps around him, uncle’s spiritual power is familiar and comforting, a calming memory, a steadying touch, pressing gently on his weary shoulders. It is a battle now, to keep his gaze clear and focused. He had wanted to wait until Jiang YanLi woke on her own, so that he may close his eyes instead, but sleep is dragging him under despite his aches and pains. Reaching across Wei Ying to wake her, he feels a tremor underneath his arm, a stutter of a breath, a slight impression of movement.

He freezes in place, his own breath locking in his chest. Wei Ying’s eyelashes flutter. His mouth moves, the motion soundless. A tiny line forms in-between his eyebrows.

“Wei Ying,” WangJi says, his voice rough with disuse.

The Rogue Prince shifts again, a soft rustle of robes. WangJi can now feel uncle’s sharp gaze on the side of his face. Jiang YanLi sighs deeply in her sleep.

“Wei Ying.”

The eyelashes lift. Underneath them, Wei Ying’s gaze is blank and unfocused. They descend again.

WangJi carefully fumbles for the hand resting on top of the covers, mindful of the neatly splinted wrist. He struggles upright, the pain in his knees forgotten.

“Wei Ying.”

The throat moves. A heavy swallow, then another. Fingers tremble, brushing against WangJi’s own.

This time, when the eyelashes lift, Wei Ying’s gaze is focused. His lips move around a name, but no sound comes. Still, WangJi has seen Wei Ying’s mouth form that shape many times before; he does not need to hear, to know what it means to say.

Lan Zhan

The sound of the guqin ceases. Chaos erupts.

Uncle is first to reach the bedside, reaching down to check Wei Ying’s pulse. Jiang YanLi is awake; she relinquishes her hold on Wei Ying so that uncle may take her place. WangJi is grateful to be allowed to stay where he is, to keep his hand lightly pressed to Wei Ying’s palm. XiChen takes uncle’s place at the guqin, the Cleansing now forced to battle with the clamor of activity. Although her eyes are red and shining, Jiang YanLi’s voice is steady as she sends the guards scurrying out of the Imperial chambers. The Royal Companion and the Council must be informed that the Emperor is awake. More candles are brought in, despite the rapidly brightening skies. Servants are sent for tea, despite the fact that no one will drink it. More servants are sent for food that no one will eat. This all occurs around WangJi, meaningless and unimportant events that cannot compare to the gentle brush of Wei Ying’s fingers, the grounding pressure of his thumb on WangJi’s knuckles.

Nie HuaiSang appears just as uncle moves away from the bed, half-dressed and noticeably disheveled, the state of his hair perfectly reflecting the disorder around him. Jiang WanYin arrives on his heels, tidy where Nie HuaiSang is rumpled, contained where Nie HuaiSang is vibrating in place. Still, the dark shadows under Jiang WanYin’s eyes reveal that he had been the one who had not slept, his neat uniform the same one he had worn the day before.

“I can detect no traces of resentful energy,” uncle says, “However, the Emperor is very weak, and should not be moved. I would prefer to consult with the Head Healer on any further treatment.”

The Rogue Prince had not yet approached the bed, but now he does, a soundless movement bringing him into Wei Ying’s field of vision. Although the man’s smile appears to be relieved, WangJi finds himself turning slightly, just so he can monitor Xiao XingChen while still keeping his hold on Wei Ying’s hand.

“The Head Healer is in the dungeons,” Jiang WanYin says, “and so is her apprentice.”

Jiang YanLi hisses under her breath, turning a disapproving gaze onto her brother.

Wei Ying’s fingers tighten, his expression growing alarmed. He attempts to sit up.

This results in utter commotion, nearly loud enough to drown out the Cleansing altogether. Jiang YanLi tries to convince Wei Ying to stay put, her tone pleading but firm. Uncle grumbles in disapproval, giving voice to a string of words that should never be used in reference to an Emperor. Jiang WanYin curses loudly, a collection of profanities that make WangJi’s ears burn. Wei Ying ignores them all, his grip on WangJi’s hand now painfully tight, his breaths labored from the struggle.

Finally, WangJi can see no other course of action but to slide his arms under Wei Ying’s shoulder blades, and lift him up. Wei Ying is strong enough to latch on to WangJi’s robe with his uninjured hand, but not yet strong enough to remain upright on his own. With some shifting, his upper body settles against WangJi chest, forcing him to sit on the edge of the bed in order to bear its weight.

It is an intimate, utterly inappropriate position, and WangJi finds that he cannot look up at his uncle again. At this very moment, with Wei Ying pressed against him, he cannot muster the necessary fortitude to confront uncle’s disapproval. Somehow, in all the shifting and movement, the long braid had slithered down into WangJi’s lap. Wei Ying’s body is a scorching line of heat from his hip to his shoulder, and yet, it is the weight of that braid that that keeps driving WangJi to distraction, the inky black coil a sharp, eye-catching contrast to the white of his robes.

“A-Yuan,” Wei Ying croaks, the feeble sound lost in the ongoing procession of Jiang WanYin’s curses.

Still, Jiang YanLi hears it, immediately rushing to reassure, “He is safe, and well-hidden. The rest are unharmed.”

“A-Sang,” Wei Ying says.

“I am here,” Nie HuaiSang says, only now moving closer to the bed, his posture cautious.

“Tell me,” Wei Ying says.

“Are you stupid?” Jiang WanYin bursts out, “You cannot even sit up on your own. Do you want to die again? Wei Ying, you best lie down right now, or I will put you down myself.”

“You will not,” WangJi says.

He had not intended to speak out loud, but the words come out sharp and cold, leaving silence in their wake.

Nie HuaiSang’s eyebrows climb so high, they attempt to disappear in the messy tangle of his hair. Jiang WanYin has finally been made speechless, although his mouth is still moving; at this moment, he very much resembles Wei Ying, who does not know how to be silent even when his lips are sealed. Jiang YanLi is studying the carpet under her feet. There is an odd expression on her features that WangJi does not recognize.

Is she... going to laugh?

Wei Ying’s body shudders against his own. A soft gasping sound follows the shudder, and WangJi looks at him in alarm.

Wei Ying is... also laughing.

WangJi feels his face heat.

Jiang YanLi delicately clears her throat, “Sect Leader, if you wish to speak to the Head Healer, I am sure my brother would be pleased to provide an escort. It may be prudent to do so now, before the Council realizes that they had failed to impose any restrictions on visits to the Wen Sect.”

His face still burning, WangJi does not look up to see his uncle agree, or to watch him take his leave with Jiang WanYin.

No longer laughing, Wei Ying slumps with a sigh, forcing WangJi to wrap an arm around his waist in order to keep him upright. His temple presses to the side of WangJi’s neck.

“My protector,” he whispers, the teasing note obvious despite the weakness of his voice.

“Shameless,” WangJi hisses back, but there is no real heat behind his words.

It is hard to muster any heat, when most of it has collected in his face and throat. Wei Ying’s hair is soft against WangJi’s skin. His temple is warm and full of life. The smell of pears is heavy now, carrying with it memories of a mouth pressed against his own, a gentle huff of a laugh against his lips.

The sounds of the guqin have gone on uninterrupted, but he can practically sense his brother laughing at him. He has a feeling that the Rogue Prince is laughing silently as well.

It is not all due to WangJi, their amusement. The Emperor is alive, awake, and well enough to tease. The relief in the air is palpable and infectious. Under the circumstances, it does not take much, to be cheerful. WangJi feels it himself, a light bubble of air in his chest, bright with contentment. The mortification of being so intimate in front of so many witnesses cannot be simply willed away, but he finds that it can easily be overshadowed by joy.

“A-Sang,” Wei Ying says, “Tell me everything.”