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Surviving long enough to leave this place is a triumph, but returning was an act of desperation.
The horses couldn’t be reasoned with. For all their training they were still simple beasts who could not understand “I will protect you.” Or maybe they were smarter than humans because they smelled death and refused to walk towards it.
Wei Wuxian slid out of the saddle and turned to face the refugees behind him. His face was tired, but he smiled anyways. “Don’t worry, I will protect you.”
He caught Wen Qing’s look of uncertainty. Did she not believe he was capable, or did she fear that he was lying?
“No one will follow us here,” he reassured her and everyone else. “This is not an easy place to live, but it can be done.”
He received no response. Their fear was so dulled by exhaustion that it may as well have been emptiness. Well, he could work with that. It was almost better that way: until he got the wards set up, strong emotions would draw attention.
He pulled Chenqing from his waistband but didn’t raise it to his lips. Weapon at the ready, he led the way.
The air was full of whispers. Angry voices wanting to be heard but unable to form words.
Unable, until they all find their voice at once. Screaming in pain, the deluge of voices overwhelms him. “Help me!” “It hurts.” “No! Please don’t!” “How dare you!”
He raises his arms, covering his ears, but that does nothing. He screams to drown it out, but his voice is only one of the many. Just another tormented soul for the Burial Mounds.
He blinked hard, steadying himself. For now, they only whispered. He rubbed his thumb across the holes of his flute. This was no time to get lost in the past. He had people relying on him. The black vapor rose amidst the trees. It was malevolent, yes, but it lacked a target for now. For now.
It was his job to keep it that way.
*
He wove lines of talismans together. Calming Wen Ning, calming the spirits outside, stilling Wen Ning, stilling the groping hands of mist, stabilizing Wen Ning, stabilizing the barriers.
To the Wen clan refugees it was impossible to tell how much time had passed since their arrival into the dark forest, but he knew how to count the hours from the subtle changes of light. Many had passed since he started his work, but there was no time to rest. Blank eyes watched him run about. Soon it would be night, and his spell weaving would turn into a battle.
He gritted his teeth as more blood came up between them. His fingers ached from drawing as they bled. He was running low on willpower, but he had enough. There had to be enough.
Another talisman made more blood come up. Iron on his tongue becoming so familiar that it could replace air.
Spirits are tearing at his mind, tearing at his body. The sword, that sword that he is certain is Yin Iron, is his only defense. He must master it. There is no choice: his will has to be enough. He coughs up more blood and is almost surprised. Blood is the only thing he’s tasted for days; he didn’t think he had any left.
Warm hands caught him before he hit the ground. He gasped: he didn’t know where he was. The hands squeezed his shoulders a moment, comforting. His father? No, impossible. Jiang Fengmian was dead.
“Master Wei,” spoke an old man’s voice, “are you alright?”
Turning, he saw one of the elders of the Wen clan. “Ah. Yes Sir. I’m sorry to trouble you.”
Standing, the world felt unsteady under his feet. Funny, normally it takes a lot of liquor to get me to this point. He took a swaying step forward. Now where did I leave off?
Before he could stumble, the elder caught him again. Hands rough and gnarled as an ancient tree that’s stood long in the sun, yet with a tremble inside their strength. “Master Wei, may I help you?”
Smiling without having to force it was as refreshing as clean water. “Sir, please rest. I don’t want to trouble you.”
“Master Wei, you’ve done so much for us. This is no trouble at all.”
*
If Lan Qiren knew how humbling it was to start a village from nothing, Wei Wuxian would never have memorized any of the Lan clan strictures. It wasn’t just a matter of food and water, it was endless questions of what to prioritize followed by more work than could be finished. What tools do we need to build shelter? Should we gather wood for fires or grasses for blankets? No lecture on the dangers of arrogance could compare to poverty. Three months alone in Burial Mounds had taught him was it was to have nothing; three days with the Wen clan refugees was teaching him what it was to have nothing while people with even less looked to him for everything.
His stomach complained a little, but he ignored it. He’d eaten enough to survive so there should be no issue, but still his mind wheeled. He leaned against the cold stone wall of the cave and rubbed his eyes. What to do, what to do?
“Wei Wuxian?”
He looked up to see Wen Qing by the cave entrance, mouth tight with concern. She held a bundle of bloody bandages, which she moved to balance on her hip as she stopped to talk.
“Lady Wen.” He forced himself to smile.
“Are you alright?”
“As well as can be expected.” He took a deep breath, putting aside the pride he clung to. “Lady Wen, I need help.”
“A-Ning?” She turned to go further into the cave.
“No, no. He’s fine. He’s stable.”
She waited for him to explain himself.
“I know you’re already busy, taking care of the sick and wounded, but I need…” What did he need? Advice? Another set of hands? Someone to tell him that it would all be okay? “I cannot do everything that I must do.”
She nodded. “Come with me. We can talk while I clean these.”
He followed her to a spot downstream of where they drew water. He sat on a rock while she tied back her sleeves. She found a smooth stone that fit well in her hand and began working the cloth. Stripes of colors stained the water as she struck against the clotted blood, the puss, and the vomit.
“Will those be clean enough to reuse?” he asked eventually.
“No.” She didn’t look up as she responded. “But as long as they don’t stink we can spin them into rope.”
“Rope. Good; we need rope.”
He stared at the river. Before, every thought was as loud as carrion birds. Circling his mind, crowing endlessly. Now, sitting and resting, every thought passed as quickly as the flowing water. They slipped between his fingertips without leaving any memory of what they were.
“Here,” Wen Qing rinsed her hands and pulled a small packet from her robe. She tossed it to him. “Chew on this; it will improve your focus.”
He caught it and unwrapped it, glancing at the dried root for half a second before tossing it into his mouth and biting down. He gagged. “Ai! Ah! Ah! It’s, it’s so bitter!” He looked to Wen Qing for sympathy and found none. “Ah! Ah! Lady Wen! What happened to the gentle hand of a doctor?”
Her look could have withered the strongest of spring growths.
He chewed on the root sullenly. She ignored him, focused on her washing.
Closing his eyes for a moment he listened to the sound of moving water. He shivered and tried to imagine the gentle warmth of the sun.
Without opening his eyes, he spoke. “We slaughtered the horses for meat, and our supply of that can last a little longer, but not much. No horses mean we no longer have use for the saddles and bridles. I’m going to go into town to sell them, but what should I buy? We need everything.”
“Buy a couple of large cooking pots. We need to be able to boil water. After that?” She thought it over. “We need to save money for seeds once the ground is ready, but we also need tools. When I check on everyone’s health this evening I’ll ask what tools we cannot make with what we have, and if anyone still has valuables they’d be willing to part with. I can have a list for you by the time you wake up tomorrow.”
He couldn’t believe his ears. Could it be that simple? “You’ll do all that?”
“Yes.”
A shopping list seemed like a silly thing to bow for, yet he was in motion before he could overthink it. He had no other way to express how much weight she was taking from him. How paralyzing the fear of doing it wrong was when he would not be the one suffering from his mistakes. “Lady Wen, thank you.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “Let me know if you have other concerns of this nature. I can handle things such as this.”
“Thank you,” he bowed again.
The two sat in silence for a moment before Wen Qing spoke again. “As a doctor I must caution you against what you’re doing. You’re running yourself ragged. I understand why; we need more than we have and there is more work than there are hands to do it. But you are in danger of forgetting that there are other hands here. I don’t know why you insist on helping my people, but while you are here, you are not alone.”
He felt his throat close and his eyes prickle. When he was hurt and clinging to sanity, he would have given his right arm for the presence of another living human. Wen Qing could not know how much those few words meant to him. For his voice to feel rough in his throat and it not be from screaming, that was a gift. It was a gift to be on the edge of tears in this cursed place.
His voice is broken, his lips dry, his hair tangled, his clothes tattered. His hands shake. Yet for all his misery he cannot cry. No grief. He is too hollowed out for grief.
He fought against the tears, but that only made them burn hotter. “Thank you, Lady Wen,” he said heavily.
The tone of his voice made her look up. She said nothing, but her cold expression softened. Neither of them knew much of what the other had been through since they parted ways after the surgery, but pain recognized pain with accepting quiet.
*
Zht, zht, zht, the saw moved back and forth through the wood. Fibers fell like light sand. The morning was chill, but Wei Wuxian was sweating. He straightened, stretching his back and wiping his forehead, before leaning back over his work.
Impact from a small weight hit his leg. He stopped sawing, moving the blade away from the toddler. “Be careful A-Yuan! Sharp!” he warned, smiling.
Madam Wen came running up, out of breath. “I’m sorry Master Wei, I didn’t expect him to run off.”
“It’s alright, no harm done.” He couldn’t help it: he had a soft spot for A-Yuan. The child was orphaned and being taken care of by more-or-less everyone in Burial Mounds, but A-Yuan picked favorites among his caretakers. And Wei Wuxian was far from immune to flattery of any kind.
“A-Yuan, I’m busy right now. Can you play with Madam Wen?”
A-Yuan clung tighter.
“A-Yuan,” he gently shook his leg. “You need to let go.”
To his alarm, the child began to weep. He looked to Madam Wen, hoping for an explanation.
She had one. “He had nightmares again last night. No one’s been able to console him all morning.”
Wei Wuxian, with awkward heavy steps, moved away from the work area. He squatted down, transferring A-Yuan from his leg to his arms. “Shh, shh. It’s okay. Those were dreams, and now they’re gone. Gone poof!” He blew into A-Yuan’s face, surprising him out of his tears.
Red and teary eyes stared into his, confused.
“That’s right!” He poked the running nose. Then, because he’d gotten used to living in filth, he wiped the snot away with his hand and rubbed it in the dirt. “The dream’s gone poof because it wasn’t real. So you’re okay now.”
A-Yuan considered this for a moment, then buried his face in Wei Wuxian’s chest.
“Master Wei, I’m sorry.” Madam Wen looked about as helpless in the situation as he felt.
“Really, it’s fine. I always have time for A-Yuan.”
He did not really have time. He’d promised to aid in construction before he needed to tend to Wen Ning in the afternoon. But he reclaimed a bit of his old self as he shirked his responsibilities.
His side twinged as he stood, but he ignored it. Walking with A-Yuan in his arms, he chattered out a string of comforting nonsense and cheerful jokes. None of it worked. Wracking his mind, he finally remembered how Yanli had calmed him when he woke her up, trembling from dreams of barks and sharp teeth.
“A-Yuan, can you tell me about your dreams? Tell me about them, so that we can fix the ending.”
At first there was no response. Wei Wuxian was about to give up on this tactic when A-Yuan found his voice.
“The scary men in gold were back. They were hurting mommy. I know because she screamed a lot and they cut her and hit her. Then she stopped screaming even though they were still hitting her.” He hiccupped. His words got harder to understand as he went on.
“And then they grabbed me. But they didn’t hit me. They made me sit in a chair and showed me Wei-daddy. And they were hurting Wei-daddy too. They…They…”
“That’s enough,” Wei Wuxian interrupted softly. He hugged him tight. “That’s enough. I’m here. I’m not hurt. I’m…“ his own voice hitched, both from grief and anger.
How could he fix this? What ending could he possibly give this nightmare that would be honest? It wouldn’t be right to say “well actually, your mother wasn’t beaten to death in front of you!”
“I’m…” he started. “I’ve… I’ve been hurt very bad before, A-Yuan. Not by the men in gold, but by different very scary men. And I didn’t like that at all, so you know what I did?”
A-Yuan shook his head.
“I got scarier. And now no one dares to hurt me. If the men in gold came to hurt me, I’d scare them all away with an army of ghosts. They’d take one look and go running away because of how scary I am! You understand?”
His brows knit together as he thought all that over. “Wei-daddy doesn’t seem that scary.”
“That’s because I like A-Yuan. If I didn’t… I’d eat him all up!” He tickled the child’s stomach.
He screamed a laugh.
Abruptly, Wei Wuxian realized what A-Yuan had been calling him. “Wei-daddy? I’m Wei-daddy?”
A-Yuan nodded confirmation and leaned his head against his chest. “Wei-daddy.”
He couldn’t help but burst into tears. He kept them silent, kept his breathing steady, not wanting to upset A-Yuan. The fact that he’d never see Jiang Cheng or Yanli again ached deeper than the sword wound his brother gave him. Twice orphaned, banished by his own choice from his clan, he hadn’t expected to ever have family again. In choosing exile, he’d assumed he’d never again know love.
“Oh A-Yuan.” He rocked back and forth, hugging him. “My A-Yuan, my son, I will protect you. I promise you, no one can ever hurt me, and no one will ever hurt you.”
*
Back bent, Wei Wuxian dug through the soil with his hands. Finding what he was looking for he gripped onto the narrow root system of the weed. He tugged on it, trying to be gentle enough not to break it, yet firm enough to actually pull it out. The thin plant fibers bit into his hand like wires.
Adjusting his hold, he pulled harder. Snap! The weed shattered.
Wei Wuxian leaned forward, hands buried, and searched for his patience.
Everyone knew that nothing could grow in Burial Mounds. There was only dead grasses and dark trees. Yet apparently the instant you plant turnips, suddenly you are overrun with the most annoying sprawling plant known to man.
Somehow he found the will to go on. If only Jiang Cheng could see me now, he wouldn’t believe his eyes. Actually, his private smile faded, he’d be angry. Demanding why I could work so hard for the Wen clan, but not for the Jiang.
It’s different here, he argued with his imaginary brother. Lotus Pier was so full of life and people. You had plenty of help. Here there is nothing. He glared out at the twisted trees.
I hate this place. There truly was nothing here. A-Yuan was the only one who laughed with any frequency, and with food as scares as it was, he cried more than he laughed.
He jabbed his hands into the soil, taking out his frustration on the weeds.
Finally pulling free a spindly plant, he tossed it over his shoulder into the small pile he’d made. He wiped sweat from his forehead, realizing too late he’d smeared dirt across his face.
He stared down at his hands. Dirt compacted hard against his fingernails formed dark crescents at the tips of his fingers. These hands had changed so much throughout his life; it was a wonder that he still recognized them.
A cold breeze bent the branches and chilled the sweat on his back, making him shiver. He recognizes these hands.
He claws at the dirt. Shrill screams in the air drench him in frigid sweat. All his practice in inedia meant nothing without a golden core. Hunger, like a beast returning to stalk old territory, gnaws at him.
The ground is hard. He breaks a nail against it. He skins his knuckles against a sharp rock. The dead devour every drop of spilled blood as he searches for any root that might curb his hunger. All he finds is more bones.
The bones begin to move. Or is it his vision swimming? No, ghostly flesh, still rotten in places, form about the bones. From the earth comes a face, skin half peeled away, glazed over eyes staring into his.
He is weak. There is no more fight in him. Burial Mounds has won. The ghostly jaw unhinges in front of him. I may die with resentment in my heart, but the wards here will stop me from seeking revenge. Wen Chao has won.
The sword is in his hand. His resentment grows so much it hurts. The ghost recoils. He is hate, he is pain. He is pain, he is hate. He is nothing but the biting teeth of the wind.
“Master Wei?” an old voice called.
He doesn’t respond.
“Master Wei?” The voice was warm.
He drew a breath. How long had he been staring at his hands, seeing something else?
The elder leaned over his shoulder. “Are your hands hurt?”
He breathed again, shaking, still struggling against the chill. “No, they are fine.”
“Has something disturbed you?”
“What is there to disturb me?” Wei Wuxian forced a laugh. “Turnips are not fearsome creatures.” He looked up at the old man, mentally begging him do not ask me what I have seen.
A beat of silence, then somehow, the message was received. Half a grin came to his face. “Perhaps Lord Wei is not used to seeing dirt on his hands?” he teased.
In a different world, he would have showered down praises upon the man for giving him a way out. “Yes,” he answered. “Uncle, you must teach me the value of hard work. I know only fine liquor and beautiful women.”
The elder laughed and slowly knelt down next to him. “Here young master. I will work beside you, and you may learn from me.”
The two of them got back to work. Soon he was cursing the weeds again. Sweat ran from his forehead. He was hot and uncomfortable. His skin itched. He was tired.
And yet, he was not the only one sweating in Burial Mounds. There was a difference between being here alone and being here together. It was the same as the difference between a cold sweat and a warm one.