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As the only son of the sect leader of the infamous Ouyang Baling Sect, Ouyang Zizhen has been a witness to much of the beauty of Yunmeng Jiang.
With the distance between his and Yunmeng spanning a short amount, Ouyang Zizhen has bowed and greeted Jiang-zongzhu near a hundred times, at first frightened out of his wits by the grim looking sect leader until he saw Jiang-zongzhu practically melt at the sight of the puppy Ouyang Zizhen’s eldest sister had recently taken in and later caught sight of Jiang-zongzhu affectionately patting the dog’s head in the private courtyard his father allocated to him.
It was pretty hard to stay scared of a man who let a puppy scramble all over him with nothing more than a short scolding for getting puppy drool all over his robes.
Still, he can’t help being petrified in front of Jiang-zongzhu, growing up with stories of the man wielding lightning like it is water, his fierce fighting in the Guanyin Temple proving his resilience. In fact, Jin Ling - when prompted to talk about the distressing situation that was the loss of the man he lovingly called ‘xiao-shushu’ - claimed that if not for Jin Guangyao’s smooth silver tongue, Jiang-zongzhu would have sawed the man in half.
The Lotus Festival is one of Ouyang Zizhen’s favourite events, well lauded in the entire cultivation world for how it brings out the beauty and joy of Yunmeng after a time when the land was decimated, the villagers singing praises to the visitors at this time of the boy who clawed his way out of corpses and stood with the Yunmeng Jiang flag hoisted above his head, his hands trembling but his sincerity in bringing his sect back fierce.
As a child, Ouyang Zizhen had sat on his eldest cousin’s shoulders as he was shown the wonders of Lotus Pier throughout the festival, feasting on tanghulu until he was sick and watching the fireworks paint patterns against the dark sky with large eyes from his perch against the window in the guest quarters where his family was hosted - sent back home due to his youth and never able to see how the festival stretched itself through time, ignoring propriety in favour of enjoying itself.
As an adult, or, well, as much of an adult as a sixteen-year-old can be, Ouyang Zizhen is finally allowed to witness the beauty of the Lotus Festival without guards hovering around him and in the presence of the friends he made in a rather traumatic situation. Jin Ling had been the first to arrive, sweeping in on a boat so glided with gold it was a wonder it was floating in the first place, dressed in golden robes that made him shine, his vermillion dot between his brows and peeks of violet between all the gold - a subtle hint of his heritage to the Yunmeng Jiang sect. Ouyang Zizhen had greeted him with the severity needed for the young sect leader of the Jin Sect, and then plopped down in the Eastern Pavilion to chomp on lotus seeds so graciously provided by the servants of Lotus Pier, nearly spitting them all out when the Lan delegation arrived with a conspicuous black and red robed cultivator in their midst.
“You’re here?” Jin Ling spluttered after greeting the Lans and Wei Wuxian had smiled, a bright thing that nearly hid the anxiety in his eyes.
“Jiang Cheng said that I could visit if I desired. Besides! I’ve missed the Lotus Festival!”
“This disciple is glad that Wei-gongzi will be able to take in the beauty of the Lotus Festival,” a sharp-eyed disciple had said, an uptick to their lips that was entirely malicious in nature. “Although, perhaps you’ll find it have changed in the sixteen years since your absence.” Ouyang Zizhen had winced as had Wei Wuxian, at the not-so-subtle jab of Wei Wuxian and Yunmeng Jiang being no longer associated on the level it was in his youth. He had to hand it to the disciple, though. They had only responded to Hanguang-Jun’s glower with a flick of their sleeves, a demure smile on their lips before they had disappeared within the wielded gates with a call of ‘enjoy yourselves’.
Jiang-zongzhu had greeted them when they had all assembled in front of the courtyard that overlooked the open gates that led into the village of Kāihuā that Lotus Pier was situated in, dressed in elaborate robes embroidered with lotuses and robust lakes, braids woven in his dark hair and the rest of it bound away from his face. “The Lotus Festival is to emphasise on the beauty of the lotus - how it survives and grows even in the muddiest of lakes, rising amongst discontent and the aggression of the world to blossom beautifully,” Jiang-zongzhu’s voice had boomed, a strength and confidence in him that Ouyang Zizhen always envied.
“For many years prior, the Lotus Festival had been a testament to the blessings of the world on our sect. Circumstances have changed and now we celebrate the lotus to celebrate us, those of us who bear the lotus and bear the responsibility wielded by our ancestors to make our sect anew. The world had burned, and the lotuses were scorched, but we fought against the tides to rise and for that, we have every right to celebrate. We hope to pass on the torch of peace we have struggled to light from generation to generation, make a future where our youth can enjoy the short-lived beauty of their youth. I, sect leader of the Yunmeng Jiang Clan, am proud to call Lotus Pier and Yunmeng my home, and vow to uphold the promise I made years ago - that no matter what strikes the lotus, I will pledge even my life to keep it afloat.” Ouyang Zizhen knew it was going to be a good speech from how Jiang-zongzhu stood surefooted on the ground, his eyes sharp in a way that meant the worlds that were going to come past his lips were either scathing or incredibly touching, but he had forgotten exactly how well Jiang-zongzhu spoke; with an eloquence and grace he envied.
Jiang-zongzhu had gazed over the crowd that had assembled, head tipped up proudly as he surveyed the villagers and cultivators who had become a part of Yunmeng Jiang’s history before he bowed. “Let the Lotus Festival commence and let us once again show the heavens of how Yunmeng Jiang lives every day attempting the impossible, and delighting in doing so.”
“All hail Jiang-zongzhu!” The chant is practically defeating, Lan Sizhui wincing delicately while Lan Jingyi jumped into the air as the chant repeated three times to bolster the sect leader with luck. Only Jin Ling seemed unaffected, joining in on the hands clapping and cheers breaking out as Jiang-zongzhu accepted the rambunctious nature of those under his protection with a magnanimous wave, the elder man’s ears tinted pink and lips curving into a smile. Ouyang Zizhen had glanced at Wei Wuxian to see the man staring at Jiang-zongzhu with a soft smile, his eyes covered with a mist that made Ouyang Zizhen turn away immediately, letting the man have his privacy.
He finds himself now walking through the bustling roads of Kāihuā, the scent of flowers blossoming that earned the village its name spreading through the air as children run and yell cheerfully through the streets, flinging petals of flowers at each other with glee. “I remember doing that with the village kids and disciples when I was younger,” Jin Ling reminisces, a flush on his cheeks that comes from the lotus wine he had chugged in a challenge against a loud mouthed Yunmeng Jiang disciple and the cheer of having people greet him enthusiastically, recognising him as the boy who toddled in front of their sect leader years ago. “Jiujiu would grab me by the collar and hoist me on top of his shoulders to watch the fireworks, and the kids would scramble over his legs insisting he do the same to them.”
“Did he?” Lan Sizhui questions, chewing on a meat skewer Ouyang Zizhen had tested before handing it to him. Jin Ling laughs, shaking his head with amusement.
“He asked them if they wanted their legs broken that badly, and then had them sit on his arms instead,” The image of Jiang-zongzhu being accosted by children and then sighing in defeat before stretching his arms to let them perch on them obediently makes him laugh. He wouldn’t believe it if he hadn’t seen the strong muscles in Jiang-zongzhu’s arms, born from years of swimming through the harshest currents of Yunmeng and from heaving swords and bodies of his fellow soldiers around in a war.
Wei Wuxian snickers, shoulders shaking with mirth at the same thought. The older man looks well, cheeks flushed and far from the gaunt state he was in when he was reborn into the starved state of Mo Xuanyu, wearing his new skin with confidence like he always belonged to it. His husband - husband, Ouyang Zizhen always swoons when he thinks of how Hanguang-Jun gathered Wei Wuxian in his arms and turned his back on the cultivation world to keep the man he loved. How romantic - is a pale spectre of light beside him, his twin on the other side, Zewu Jun’s genial smile on his lips. The man looks far better than he did when he finally left the home he had secluded himself in, his presence here in Yunmeng no doubt thanks to the tumultuous friendship rumours say he struck up with the sect leader of Lotus Pier.
Grandmaster Lan had sputtered and turned as red as a ripe tomato when he discovered that Zewu-Jun was replying to the surprisingly persistent letters from Jiang-zongzhu, hand rising to stroke his beard thoughtfully after he calmed down. “Perhaps Jiang-zongzhu’s forthright, blunt manner will be good for Xichen.” Lan Jingyi had reported him telling Hanguang-Jun, who was staunchly against the interaction between his brother and the man he despised, but nobody could deny that if there was someone who helped bolster Zewu-Jun to his feet, it might have been Jiang-zongzhu.
Jiang-zongzhu cuts through the gathering of dancers, the sight of him stealing away the breaths of everyone. He’s changed out of his battle worn jianxiu robes into something softer, the violet colour sloping from dark purple into a gentle shade of violet, half of his hair loose around his face and the rest of it bound up in a loose knot, golden pins embedded with curving amethyst jewels to form the petals of a lotus pushed into the bun. Rouge is dusted across his lips to make them more vivid and across his cheeks, adding to the flush from the summer heat, a nine petalled lotus inked in violet on his forehead, and there are anklets around his bare feet. The bells clink against each other with every step Jiang-zongzhu takes, a sound meant to please the Heavens, to entice the Gods of Rain and Fortune to shower Yunmeng with their good fortune and wisdom once again.
Wei Wuxian sucks in a breath next to him, face going pale and hopeful at once, and Jiang-zongzhu turns away from discussing something in a low voice with a disciple to the man, an expression of unadulterated shock on his face when he spots Wei Wuxian. For a moment, all the two brothers do is stare at each other, a bob to Jiang-zongzhu’s throat as he swallows before he turns back. Disciples mulling around with instruments in their arms settle down and a hush falls over the crowd as the pluck of a guqin starts the song, something sweet and gentle. Jin Ling grabs onto his friends’ arms, dragging them through the crowd until they’re standing right in the front of them, able to watch Jiang-zongzhu as he starts dancing.
Ouyang Zizhen has always appreciated the six arts, being brought up with an eye for discerning those with talents, much like his mother did. It’s easy to see that Jiang-zongzhu knows the dance he’s performing intimately so, his dark lashes casting shadows against his cheeks as he closes them and spins around, robes fanning out like a flower’s - like that of a lotus blossoming. The sweet voice singing of the tale of the lotus is joined by those of the villagers and cultivators alike, heads swaying and eyes not moving as they sing of how the lotus plucks itself for others but grows steadfastly regardless of its sacrifice, a beautiful melody made of those who lend their voices to the cause of the lotus.
“I didn’t know Jiang-zongzhu danced!” Lan Jingyi, always one with a foot in his mouth, exclaims and is neatly wrestled down when they spot Jiang-zongzhu’s eyebrow twitching, obviously having heard the boy’s comment.
“Jiujiu has always danced in the Lotus Festival. It’s the one time that he takes the centre stage in all of the Yunmeng festivals,” Jin Ling explains in a much calmer tone, his hand releasing Lan Jingyi’s mouth with a disgusted hiss when the boy tries to lick it. “Disgusting, Lan Jingyi!”
“What’s this dance called?”
“The reign of the lotus,” the boy answers without looking away from his uncle, the fondness and affection on his face so strong it makes Ouyang Zizhen’s heart twinge. Anyone can tell of the love Jin Ling has for his beloved Jiujiu from the moment they see them in the same vicinity, but it’s another thing to see how unabashed his adoration of his uncle is - his eyes full of love as they peer endlessly at Jiang-zongzhu. “It was a song that was written long after the destruction of Lotus Pier by Jiujiu himself. His first and last attempt at song writing, he said. The first time he performed it at the Lotus Festival, Liao Guozhi-shixiong says that the villagers and cultivators were all doing their best not to cry at Jiujiu’s sincerity.”
“Jiang-zongzhu has always made us aware of his sincerity,” Zewu-Jun agrees, a smile curving his lips as he watches Jiang-zongzhu move seamlessly through the next steps. “It is not the first time I am seeing the Reign of the Lotus, but it remains as beautiful as ever.” Even though he says that, his eyes are fixated only on Jiang-zongzhu and not the disciples that swan around him, the romantic in Ouyang Zizhen vowing to watch the two sect leaders far more closely from now on.
The dance is something different from the ostentatious celebrations Ouyang Zizhen witnessed at the Jin Sect, things of beauty but more lasciviousness with the dancers there for eyes to greedily guzzle up, bodies spinning and swaying for the pleasure of men rather than for everyone. He is glad that the onlookers are instead watching the gentle strum of the guqin and the flute playing mystically as Jiang-zongzhu, after much coaxing, too begins to sing. His voice is throaty and deep, raspy and like something entrancing, his ears flushing redder when his disciples grin at him. He sings of the lotus and its delight to find others like it, the grit between its petals and the lack of lustre but a desire to survive against all odds that makes it desire to make others shine if not for itself.
Wei Wuxian is watching everything with an expression that is much alike that of a child discovering something new, clutching onto Hanguang-Jun’s white robes as his eyes swivel from the singing civilians and to his former brother, entranced by the sight of Jiang-zongzhu singing a song he dedicated to those who responded to his calls for rebuilding with trust. Wei Wuxian would have been there, or at least, the timeline suggests that he should have been there. His unfamiliarity with the song paints a picture of dissonance, and Ouyang Zizhen remembers that all of the stories sang of the sole boy who had built up Lotus Pier, occasionally joined by his sister, but no mention of his brother there.
The slam of the tanggu starts off a new song, something more robust, the strings of a guzheng plucked steadily to increase the tension of the atmosphere. Jin Ling jerks upwards, eyes gleaming with excitement as there are more beats of the drum until Jiang-zongzhu is standing in the centre of the circle, surrounded by disciples of all genders, clapping his hands together to the beat of the tanggu. Wei Wuxian straightens up, eyes widening. “The Dance of the Lotus,” he breathes out, a fervour in his eyes.
“Do you know this song, Wei-qianbei?”
“Every resident of Yunmeng knows the Dance of the Lotus!” Jin Ling cuts in impatiently. “It’s the oldest song in the history of Lotus Pier, coined by Jiang Chi himself.”
“It’s taught to the main family,” Wei Wuxian explains, much more animated now that there’s a piece of Yunmeng knowledge he’s allowed to express. “Every year at the Lotus Festival, the Dance of the Lotus is performed to start off the festival, really amp up the feeling of it, and it’s made even more prominent since the members of the main family perform it themselves.” A gentle smile crosses his lips, thick with nostalgia and wistfulness. “Shijie and Jiang Cheng used to perform it every year.” Jin Ling pulls his knees close to his chest, looking longingly at his uncle. Ouyang Zizhen has only seen paintings of the deceased Jin-furen, once known commonly as the only Jiang-guniang, and can imagine her gentle smile as she moved gracefully to the sound of the drum thrumming in the air, how alike she might have looked to Jiang-zongzhu.
“What about you, Baba?” Lan Sizhui’s question makes the man puff up like a proud peacock, his arms crossed over his chest as he gestures with his head to the disciples swanning closest to Jiang-zongzhu.
“Of course I did! I used to dance in the innermost circle, right around Shijie and Jiang Cheng. He used to get so stressed before the Lotus Festival, drag me out at sunrise to start practising. Jiang Cheng was always good at it, could do it in his sleep but now…,” his expression rapidly softens as he stares at Jiang-zongzhu, the man showing great flexibility as he claps his hands near his anklets before spinning around and raising them to a sharp clap in the air, the sleeves of his robes flickering out as he sways his arms purposefully forward one by one. “He’s a sight for sore eyes.” True to Wei Wuxian’s words, there are people watching and cheering, their breaths hitching every time the light of the lanterns around the courtyard light up Jiang-zongzhu’s face, the handsomeness that earned him the title of the fifth most eligible cultivator in his youth elevated by the confidence he dances with.
Wei Wuxian’s lips move soundlessly to the lyrics, stumbling every now and then, a feat that makes pain crackle across his expression. His hungry eyes feast on the dancing form of Jiang Cheng with greed, fingers tightening in his black and red robes when a smile slips on Jiang Cheng’s lips after he claps his hands against those of his disciples. Ouyang Zizhen wonders how it must feel for the former martial brother of the forever formidable Jiang-zongzhu to watch the man who he knows now only as a sect leader to dance and frolic amongst his disciples like it comes as easy to him as breathing, to know that Wei Wuxian once would have been the disciple spinning around Jiang Cheng, their smiles like the sun itself.
It makes Ouyang Zizhen feel sympathy stirring in his chest for Jiang-zongzhu, the young man he must have been as he taught his disciples the dance rooted deep in his history, culture and blood - once mastered with his family and now nothing and nobody left other than him to pass down the dance of the Jiangs. How lonely it must be to spin and dance, expecting to be faced with smiles that echo yours only to be greeted with smiles but not those ones who peppered your youth.
He turns his gaze to Zewu-Jun, a light in the man’s eyes and his lips slightly parted as he gazes endlessly at Jiang-zongzhu. He is mesmerised by the artful way Jiang-zongzhu weaves between the disciples, his robes of satin violet silk fanning around him as he arches his back to touch his hands to resemble the blossoming lotus and then unwinds himself just as quickly to hoist himself in the air, everyone screaming in delight when Zidian crackles on Jiang-zongzhu’s finger to wind through the air - a God of lightning amongst the common folk, ready to share his benevolence and his beauty.
At the third beat of the drum, the guzheng’s strings pinched for a slight caesura, the people of Yunmeng stand up and join the gathering, Lan Sizhui letting out an aborted ‘Jin Ling-!’ before the golden boy is darting to join the disciples.
For a moment, all three Juniors can only watch how resplendent Jin Ling looks, beautiful with a grin on his face as he inserts himself between two disciples in the bright violet of Yunmeng Jiang, exchanging familiar banter with them before he starts dancing - slotting in seamlessly with the circle of disciples and civilians that gather in the courtyard. His golden guan gleams in the light, the vambraces on his wrists catching the beam of the lanterns as he claps his hand and then uses those same hands to drag them into the dance, gesturing impatiently for Hanguang-Jun and Wei Wuxian to do so too, the latter eagerly fitting himself in between the townsfolk to move to the beat. “How do we-” Ouyang Zizhen tries, and Jin Ling clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
“Like this.” He demonstrates a part of the dance, laughing when Lan Sizhui fumbles and righting the older boy. The group dance is fairly simple, nothing like the elevated dance Jiang-zongzhu was performing by himself, and the people of Yunmeng relish in dancing along with their sect leader; all of them united by the simple art of dancing.
“Jiujiu!” Jin Ling cries out when they’re deliberately spun into the man’s innermost circle, and Jiang-zongzhu smiles at his nephew, his gruff demeanour evaporated in the face of the joy of his people. He reaches out for Jin Ling and their gold and purple robes intertwine as they start dancing, more like brothers than uncle and nephew with their sharp features and mirrored smiles, their bodies moving in a well memorised dance.
“It’s been some time since I’ve had to bend down to hold your hands when we danced,” Jiang-zongzhu teases and Jin Ling puffs up like an annoyed peacock, petal pink lips curving into a pout.
“That was when I hadn’t hit my growth spurt yet, Jiujiu!” He spins around and claps his hands above his head while Jiang-zongzhu mimics the motion, aiming his claps to his clinking anklets before rising to swing against his nephew, fondness in his slate grey eyes.
“You’re growing faster than I expected,” It’s said in a gentle voice and Jin Ling abandons the dance in favour of flinging himself against his uncle, Jiang-zongzhu catching him in a hug and continuing to sway with his nephew in his arms.
“I’ll be here for every Lotus Festival!” Jin Ling vows. “I’ll be here for you forever, Jiujiu, just like you were for me. Lanling Jin, Yunmeng Jiang, both are my homes, but you are my home, Jiujiu.” Surprise crosses Jiang-zongzhu’s face before he closes his eyes, hand rising to cradle Jin Ling’s head as he smiles at him.
“You are my home, A-Ling,” he says softly, the sincerity blossoming in the man’s eyes unmistakable. Jin Ling grins and grabs his uncle’s hand to spin him ungracefully, Jiang-zongzhu squawking out a protest but laughing and going along with it, chuckles going silent when he spins into Wei Wuxian.
The man had been dancing with Hanguang-Jun for most of their conversation, indulging in the joy of seeing his husband surrounded by Yunmeng purple and the familiarity of the cheer of Lotus Pier, and he stares unabashedly at his former martial brother. “Jiang Cheng.” It’s almost a whisper, a quiet mutter that makes Jiang-zongzhu’s shoulders stiffen. “You- you were great out there.” Emotions war over the man’s face as he licks his lips and fixes his eyes over Wei Wuxian’s shoulder.
“You came.”
“You told me to,” Wei Wuxian says as if it that’s simple, as if he would throw away years of grievances and untold secrets as soon as his brother came calling. Jiang-zongzhu comes to the same realisation, a frown marring his face although it lacks any heat, a bob to his throat before he holds his hand out to Wei Wuxian. When the cultivator simply gazes at him, Jiang-zongzhu’s cheeks go pink and his frown turns into a scowl.
“What, a year and a half in Gusu and you forget how to dance?” he barks out and Wei Wuxian’s shoulders sag as he realises that the upturned palm was an invitation.
“This lowly servant thinks that he will never be able to beat this venerable sect leader when it comes to dancing.” It’s another olive branch and while Hanguang-Jun’s face scrunches up at his husband referring to himself in such a manner, Jiang-zongzhu rolls his eyes.
“Xianxian must have grown up enough to remember how to dance,” he drawls, voice heavy with sarcasm, and Wei Wuxian’s expression turns into the sun as he laces their fingers together and lets Jiang-zongzhu pull him into the centre of the courtyard. For a minute, it’s just the two of them facing each other, fingers tangled in the way siblings hold onto each other, and then they’re moving at the second strike of the tanggu. Eyes fixate on the sight of Jiang-zongzhu dancing with his former martial brother, their bodies spinning around each other as if it comes naturally to them, this level of closeness that nobody other than the leader’s nephew has had with him imbued in his relationship with his shixiong.
Slowly, they can see how Jiang-zongzhu softens in the presence of Wei Wuxian, the curve to his lips more genuine and a downright abrasive laugh leaving his lips when Wei Wuxian stumbles, having forgotten a move. The atmosphere warms with the man’s laughter, the folk of Yunmeng watching their sect leader clasp Wei Wuxian and mock him for ‘never having practiced enough despite me telling you so,’ and how Wei Wuxian’s eyes glisten at the familiar banter, hope lit in both of their faces as they frolic together, the past and the present of Yunmeng in front of their eyes.
Jiang-zongzhu catches Ouyang Zizhen’s gaze and he braces himself for a scolding, not expecting the dance to spin so that it catches them in the centre of it, Jiang-zongzhu rolling his eyes when he sees Hanguang-Jun standing like a jade statue. “Dance with your husband before the Heavens,” he says, still with that heavy scorn that Ouyang Zizhen will admit to having found hilarious, especially in the discussion conferences that bore the hell out of him. “Lest the Jiangs think him not a member of Yunmeng.”
“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian’s voice trembles, heavy with yearning. “Do you mean?”
“Stay in the family quarters at Lotus Pier,” Jiang-zongzhu replies in lieu of an answer, ears stained pink. “It’s been far too long since you’ve reacquainted yourself with home.”
“Home,” Wei Wuxian repeats and rushes forward to capture the man in a hug, deeply breathing the scent of him. “I’m home, Jiang Cheng.” Jiang-zongzhu’s hand hovers over Wei Wuxian’s back before he swallows and hugs him back, their embrace so tight it would take a well seasoned cultivator to even wrench them apart an inch.
“Welcome back home, Wei Wuxian,” he says back, voice soft and Wei Wuxian grins, exhilarated as he pulls back, clasping Hanguang-Jun’s hand and raising it aloft in the air like a prize before he joins the circle of disciples dancing. “Shameless.” Jiang-zongzhu’s nose is wrinkled in derision but the word is fond. He turns to them, his eyes spanning past them and then to the man still seated behind them. “Greetings, Zewu-Jun.”
“Jiang-zongzhu, greetings,” Zewu-Jun returns, a smile on his lips. “You were a vision out there.” The words are so bold the four Juniors and the sect leader gape at him, Zewu-Jun’s ears burning red when he realises how daring his statement was. “I mean- the dance was a vision!”
“Thank you for your praise, Zewu-Jun,” Jiang-zongzhu manages and Lan Jingyi gleefully elbows Ouyang Zizhen, both of their low titters cutting off when Jin Ling levels them with a sharp look, the boy’s arms crossed over his chest and his body inclining in a protective manner. Jiang-zongzhu clears his throat, looking at the members of his sect, his expression visibly softening. The energy of those who hail from Yunmeng Jiang is infectious; children scream in excitement as they are spun around in circles by their friends; married couples sway, bodies held close to each other as if they dare not be apart on this day; the elderly watching the ongoings with gentle smiles that make their wrinkles more pronounced. Standing in front of them, haloed by the soft golden light that comes from the numerous lanterns lit up around them, Jiang-zongzhu looks like a tempered summer storm, come to give relief to the parched lands of Yunmeng. He looks every inch like the sect leader praised up and down by the disciples of Yunmeng Jiang whenever they came to study at the Cloud Recesses, their backs straightened with the pride of belonging to the same clan as Jiang Wanyin.
Zewu-Jun is staring at Jiang-zongzhu, a light in his eyes that Ouyang Zizhen can’t quite place. “The festivals here must be far louder than you’re accustomed to,” Jiang-zongzhu turns to tell him.
“It is bolstering,” Zewu-Jun answers, a smile curving on his lips. “It has been some quite some time since I have been amongst the common folk. To see them delighting in such an innocuous festival makes me feel as if all of my worries are inconsequential in front of their joy.”
“Nonsense,” Jiang-zonghu snorts. “Your worries have their weight, but so does their joy. A single joy can brush aside a thousand worries. It’s only you who has to learn how to find happiness around you.” The words are particularly poignant coming from Jiang-zongzhu, who has gone through a thousand grievances yet somehow managed to remain standing. Zewu-Jun must be thinking the same thing, for his eyes are locked on Jiang-zongzhu once again, admiration in his gaze.
“I see.” His voice is soft, and his following smile is just as gentle. “Thanking Jiang-zongzhu for his thoughts.”
“You won’t be thanking me once you hear this.”
“Hear wha-“ Lan Jingyi’s question is cut off by the sound of something thundering so loudly it’s as if the Heavens are splitting apart, their eyes swivelling around in worry. Only those familiar with Yunmeng are unaffected, their heads tilted backwards to take in the fireworks, hands lifting to point in awe as the pattern of a purple lotus appears against the night sky. A symphony of crashes follows, quick as a whip as the rest of the fireworks are let loose, and Jiang-zongzhu glances at them, their shocked expressions making a laugh escape past his lips. It’s rough yet filled with genuine amusement, something so childish about the revered sect leader of a sect finding enjoyment in their reactions, but it humanises Jiang-zongzhu – making him less of the rigid man Ouyang Zizhen has always perceived him to be, lighting a lantern that reflects the mischievous boy he once might have been.
How many other things will he learn about Jiang-zongzhu, he wonders? The years will pass, and perhaps there might be a thousand things he discovers. Ouyang Zizhen finds himself looking forward to seeing how the story unfolds, both that of them Juniors and that of the adults in front of them who are seemingly still going through the passage of life.
