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Meng Yao is thirteen years old when he resolves to go meet his father, using the golden pendent that his mother refused to sell no matter how rough times got.
Meng Yao is thirteen when his mother dies from a preventable illness, if only they had the money.
Meng Yao is thirteen when they start. The flashes. The nightmares.
The memories.
One moment, he was kneeling at his mother's bedside, her body long gone cold and still. His hands shook, though his head remained high. His heart ached, though his eyes were vacant of tears and emotions alike. Outside the thin door -only permitted to them to keep the other ladies from falling ill as well- prostitutes and customers both caused a ruckus that betrayed the somber scene.
And then, shuddering breath falling from his lips, Meng Yao was on his knees, throat torn from his screams of agony. There was blood pooled under his fisted hands, and from between the strands of ink-dark hair that fell like a curtain, he could see the bodies of his fiancée, his sister, his family—
His golden core, once primed for ascension, shattered, and his soul almost fled. But his grief and rage was too strong, too alive. Before his soul could flee, resentment coalesced around it, forming a shield of bitterness.
With an oath of revenge, He Xuan again arose, a Calamity.
And Meng Yao blinked back into his own body with a shudder.
Meng Yao is fifteen when Nie Mingjue, Sect Leader of Qinghe Nie, takes one look at the underfed, dirty teenager before him and decides he'll be a good friend for his brother.
Meng Yao is fifteen when he meets the Young Master, Nie Huaisang, who is bubbly and spoiled and flighty in a way that makes his heart, inexplicably, hurt.
Meng Yao is fifteen when the memories shift from ones of pain and suffering, to those of comradery and ease.
The first -the one cemented in his mind, even more so than everything else his eidetic memory retains- happens on a still-warm day of autumn. The trees have begun shedding, but there are still flowers in bloom, and Nie Huaisang's birds sing joyfully well into the night. Their Young Master sits beneath a tree planted by the late Nie-er-furen, amongst a pile of colorful leaves, and beckons Meng Yao ever closer.
"Here," Nie Huaisang gushes, tilting the sketch toward him. Meng Yao's own features stare back at him, deep dimples and soft smile drawn carefully with delicate brush strokes. It was almost as if he was looking in the mirror, if it were not for the slightest of smudges around his eyes, and the braids decorating his light hair.
Meng Yao tips his head in silent question. Nie Huaisang flushes, just a bit, around the high of his cheeks.
"I thought you'd look nice with them," he says, not quite defensive, but definitely stubborn. And then the blush fades and his shoulders square, and Nie Huaisang meets Meng Yao's eyes, "And I was right! Besides, you're staying here, right? Even if you don't pick up the saber, the braid would mark you as ours! Get people to stop thinking you're a servant, too; at least, anyone familiar with Nie braids."
Meng Yao does not blush in turn, but it is a near thing. Ours, Nie Huaisang had said. He probably didn't mean it to be possessive, or at least, Meng Yao thinks so, but the concept of being marked as one of theirs—
He knows now the feeling of a memory taking hold. It's abrupt, and often leaves him wrong footed, but there's subtle tells, like the numbness in his quick hands and the fogginess of his usually sharp mind. So when this memory takes hold, it's only the realization that he didn't remember how he got there that allowed Meng Yao to piece this as another flashback to his -as he's beginning to learn- rather arduous past life.
The first thing he notices is soft warmth pressed against his arm. He tears a glance away from his hands, where a brush and scroll rest, and toward this warmth. There, sitting with an indulgent expression, is a woman.
No. Not a woman, he thinks, and then He Xuan opens his mouth to say, "Shi Qingxuan. I need to move my hand."
Shi Qingxuan, as innocent as a songbird, as quick witted as a crow, hums. They tip their head up, jade green eyes mirthful and smile teasing. They ask, a pout in their voice, "Ming-xiong… The paperwork can wait! Don't you want to go down and answer prayers with me?"
"No."
"Ming-xiong…" They drawl again, this time with a full, exaggerated pout. Shi Qingxuan flutters their eyelashes once, twice, a third time. "You're no fun."
He Xuan continues to stare at the little wind god. They are described as flighty, often, yes, like a summer's breeze, but wind can also come in winter, howling and forceful enough to tear apart homes. Shi Qingxuan is a force of nature in every way.
…That is to say, He Xuan sighs and turns back to the scroll. "Ling Wen will gut me like a fish if I don't finish this," he says. Pauses. Adds, "We can go after."
He Xuan's ear twitches as Shi Qingxuan erupts into victorious laughter, spiritual fan clutched tight as they lean even more of their weight against him.
Meng Yao stares into jade green eyes he had loved known once before, and sighs, giving in as easily as he did all those centuries ago. "I suppose a few braids wouldn't hurt. If the Young Master would indulge this one…"
Nie Huaisang's laughter is just as victorious this time around, too.
Meng Yao is sixteen the day he is helping file paperwork under one of the pavilions, clouds heavy with the threat of rain, only to look up in time for Nie Huaisang to come barrelling into the grounds. Nie Mingjue is hot on his tail, scolding for all he has a wide grin, and Baxia and Yu Zi dangle in his grasp.
Meng Yao smiles, fond and indulgent, as Nie Huaisang laughs, bird-like and full. Then his robes of green silk brighten to blue, and his hair curls around the vermilion mark between his brows. Shi Qingxuan teases their brother back, unrepentant. Shi Wudu sighs in exasperation. The other two Tumors do not hesitate to take sides.
And He Xuan stands there, eyes trained on Shi Wudu's dark robes, fluttering fan, mouth full of half-truths. He Xuan's chest burns with justified wrath. He thinks, then and there, that his revenge is soon, and will be oh-so-sweet.
But Shi Qingxuan spots him first, and their eyes light up like lanterns in the night, and their smile is equally blinding as they wave and shout for him to come closer. He Xuan blinks, sighs, and corrects himself:
One more decade. Or maybe two. The revenge will be sweeter if it's from a friend, after all.
He steps over, closer, and Nie Huaisang ducks behind him with a request to hide. Meng Yao finds himself laughing along to the chaos as Nie Mingjue, all power and no strategy, decides to just pick up both his brother and Meng Yao, throwing them over wide shoulders.
They barely make it inside again before the downpour begins.
Meng Yao is seventeen and is following Nie Huaisang through the roads of Qinghe. The both of them are donned in heavy cloaks, hoods thrown up to cover the distinctive Nie braids from any stray glances. Of course, it wouldn't be odd to see the sect's heir and right hand in their own home, as opposed to Lanling or Caiyi, but-
Well, Nie-zongzhu and Nie Zonghui thought Meng Yao was trying to get Huaisang down from the roof after another refusal to practice his saber, not sneaking out to buy a certain someone a birthday gift. Honestly, Meng Yao himself wasn't entirely sure how this had happened. One moment he was coaxing Huaisang to come closer, with the tone one used with a bird they were intending to catch in a trap. An hour later, here they were.
Meng Yao suspected there was a lot of whining that got them from point a to b. Whining, or begging. Bribery? Some flavor of emotional manipulation tied to watery green eyes and fleeting touches?
No. Huaisang wasn't capable of the latter. Whatever got Meng Yao here was probably a combination of general patheticness and old urges.
Point being, Meng Yao was being dragged around the city by Nie Huaisang, desperately looking for a gift for Nie Mingjue ("It has to be useful, Yao-ge! Da-ge won't except anything that's not!" "Perhaps you actually participating in your training would be a good gift?" "…Ha. Ha. You're so funny. Anyway-") when another flashback snapped away his focus from a lovely little paperweight to-
To a fan. Lightweight and soft gray. Silver around the edges. He Xuan tipped it back and forth, considering, wondering, debating. Shi Qingxuan always had a fan on them, but it was their spiritual fan, a concealed weapon. This, however, was just a simple object, one for form rather than function. Perhaps he shouldn't.
And then, as usual, the origin of these… odd emotions bounds around the corner, robes dancing around their feet and earrings bouncing with every step. Shi Qingxuan waves, unwavering as always in the face of He Xuan's blank expression. He Xuan turns away and hands the money to the vendor, tucking the fan into his sleeve, fighting back the wave of rage, unease, longing…
Affection.
Meng Yao sighs. Nie Huaisang gasps, and begins to tug him away towards a bunch of gauntlets. The shopping continues.
Meng Yao is eighteen, and Nie Huaisang is ill, and Nie Mingjue is snapping at everyone out of worry, which they all ignore to save his pride. The Nie Sect easily works around this yearly occurrence, and so too does Meng Yao, even as flickers of memory appear with every blink.
The issue, really, is that none of the flickers amount to anything substantial. It's as if he's grasping at air; as if he's trying to shape water into a cube. They're distracting, in short, and it's throwing off his carefully crafted image. No longer is he efficient, unflinching, calm headed, but as air-headed and ditzy as Huaisang.
And with it comes the rise of whispers about his mother.
They were there before, of course. Meng Yao would likely never be free of them. This laps of dignity simply strengthens them. It boils the blood in his veins, and by the end of the week his lip is in tatters from him barely refraining from snapping.
Still, Meng Yao is not weak. He will not tell a soul how much this bothers him.
Still, Nie Huaisang finds out. Or at least, he can read Meng Yao's mood to know something is wrong and tries to fix that mysterious thing.
"Is it Da-ge?" Nie Huaisang rasps, eyes glassy with the fever. Screams ring in Meng Yao's ears, pleading apologies. "He doesn't mean to snap, really. Loud and angry is just his default. And Baxia's."
Meng Yao breathes through another voice's shouts, of seeing hands around another's throat. He wipes away Huaisang's sweat heavy bangs and agrees, "Nie-zongzhu and his blade do have quite the strong personality. I wonder, can saber spirits drink tea? I hear the Lan have wonderful calming brews."
The bait is tossed, and promptly ignored. Huaisang puffs his cheeks and tips his head away, saying, "Not Da-ge then… You know, I didn't mean to get sick. This happens-"
"Every year, yes. I know, Nie-gongzi," Meng Yao soothes. He reached out for a too-warm cheek, and tips those brilliant jades back toward him. There are heavy tears, He Xuan thinks, bubbling down rosy cheeks. But Meng Yao blinks and finds none. "I'm not angry at you."
"You're upset." Nie Huaisang declares with a frown.
"I'm not."
"Liar."
Meng Yao, against his better judgment, against the grief encasing his heart, snorted. "Yes," he said idly, turning to grab at medicine and lukewarm tea he had entered with. "Your Yao-ge is a no-good liar." Meng Yao turned back and offered the medicine. "Does the young master still want this scheming one to help, or should I go fetch one of our lively medics?"
Apparently, as Meng Yao had found out, the main family has a strong aversion to seeing any doctors. He suspected it had something to do with the rumors surrounding the late Nie-zongzhu, though he never asked. Whatever the reason for it, the threat of successfully cowed Huaisang, and he obediently took the medicine.
Meng Yao paid no mind to the blood dripping from his hands.
At nineteen, Meng Yao accompanies the Nie disciples to the Gusu Lectures, hosted by the infamous Lan Qiren.
Under normal circumstances, it would be a time of wonder for Meng Yao. To see the rivers, the towering mountains; to understand the workings of another sect; to gather intel and make ties- yes, normally, he would be brimming with barely contained wonder.
Yet here he was, shoulders stiff and eyes constantly shooting to the others of the traveling party, equally as tense, saber spirits alight with an eagerness to fight. Even Nie Huaisang, who normally gives everyone a run for their money by straying off the path for birds and talks the ears off anyone who'll listen, has his lips pressed thin and a white knuckled grip around his fan.
It makes sense though, Meng Yao thinks. After all…
He spares the east a glance, as if even from here he could spot the border the Nie and Wen share. Squabbles there have always been common, or at least since that fateful night hunt nearly a decade ago, but these days, they're all the more often, and growing more violent by the hour. Scouts have come back missing limbs. Some don't come back at all. The knowledge the Nie Sect has had for years -that a war was on the horizon; that a war would be necessary- seems to hang heavy over everyone.
Everyone in Qinghe, that is. The other sects don't care, or are just ignoring it. Meng Yao has heard enough gripes from both Nie brothers more than a few times, even with Huaisang's insistence that he knows nothing about his family's secrets, even with Mingjue's determination to keep things relatively diplomatic- with the Lan, anyway.
So. A war is coming. A war is on the doorstep. And Nie-zongzhu, to no surprise, sends the youngest fighters and his brother far away from where the knock will echo. And they all shoulder this fact as they walk up the cliff side in silence.
Meng Yao heaves a sigh, sudden exhaustion having nothing to do with the hike. He glances back to Nie Huaisang at the head of the group, who's eyes are dark in a way they shouldn't be, in a way that triggers-
Meng Yao's center of gravity shifts down to his hips and the white skyline of Gusu turns gloomy. The cliff below them leads to an abyss. There are many large men chained down around them. Shi Qingxuan, taking the place of Nie Huaisang, taps at their lip in thought. He Xuan tears his eyes away from the action to meet those of a young man in red, amusement dancing in the tilt of his head-
A gathering. Men and women and those not quite either stand around an enormous room, draped in finery that could rival the imperial capital's fashion. Tension lies thick in the air, most of which surrounds the man in the throne on high. Shi Qingxuan shifts closer to He Xuan, and Shi Wudu closer to them. He Xuan wants to scream-
Screams. Fire. A city. A dark robed being with a mask. This place is familiar to He Xuan, but not to Shi Qingxuan, who runs through the streets anyway. Footsteps sound behind them, equally as rushed. A fight has broken out, He Xuan knows, and here Shi Qingxuan is concerning themselves with him, who plans to-
Fingers, thin and calloused from brushes, wrap around Meng Yao's arm. He stumbles, coming back to himself with a jolt, and finds Nie Huaisang's wary expression, a hint of concern in the way he opens his mouth, pauses, then closes it.
Meng Yao gives an indulgent smile, this life's teachings combine with another's to shout distract, lie, ignore. He lays a hand over Nie Huaisang's, their combined warmth a balm against the chilly wind, and says cheerfully, "Don't worry, Young Master. We're almost at the top."
But in the face of such blatant diversion, as had happened many times before, Nie Huaisang frowns. Before, Meng Yao had always assumed Huaisang was just good at figuring out when people were lying to him- a skill he likely desperately needed when his brother always assumed people were telling the truth. Now, with more and more memories to draw upon…
Is it a coincidence that Nie Huaisang reminds him so of Shi Qingxuan? Is it a coincidence the eyes are the same, sparkle with feelings the same? Is it a coincidence that he had a brother who would do anything for him? Is it a coincidence the way the fan flutters?
Could Nie Huaisang -like how Meng Yao is He Xuan- be Shi Qingxuan?
The question remains unvoiced, unanswered. Instead, Nie Huaisang speaks softly, "…Will you go back?"
Meng Yao blinks. Rewinds the conversation. Hesitates. Asks, intelligently, "What?"
"Will you go back to Qinghe? And help Da-ge with the war?" Nie Huaisang clarifies. He lets his hand drop back to his side, where it fists at his sturdy robes- imbued with talisman to fight against the cold. "He's not stupid, and we've been preparing for this since I could walk, but…"
It clicks. Meng Yao reaches back for the hand that fell and squeezed it. When jade meets gold, he says, "If it will make you feel better, then yes, I will go assist Nie-zongzhu. After the greeting ceremony, that is."
Huaisang nods a shallow little thing, and then his eyes drift to the gates now in view. He doesn't say anything -no further concern, no thanks, no apprehension- but Meng Yao catches a sob nonetheless, one that gasps out, "I can't, ge! Why can't we both live!?"
It sets an uneasy stone within his gut. He, too, nevertheless turns to the awaiting Lan disciples, and does not worry about the fate of those he- of those he cares about.
Fate will not repeat itself. It has no reason to. Meng Yao swears it.
Meng Yao-
Meng Yao isn't quite certain how old he is. He's not certain of how many days have passed since the bloodshed began and Huaisang was taken by the Wens and Lan Xichen smuggled countless books into Qinghe and Nie Mingjue gave him a seal of recommendation to meet Jin-zongzhu-
He's not sure what was the final straw that made him snap. One moment, he was carefully scrawling ink across delicate paper, a battle plan based on what little information they had managed to collect. The next, rage was climbing up his throat like bile, thoughts he hadn't needed in this lifetime at the forefront of his mind.
Really, it was such a simple thing to lure that infuriating captain out into a Wen raid. Meng Yao knew where the enemy would be, after all; that was why he was in charge of plotting battle plans. And the captain- that stupid, stupid man would take any chance to grasp glory. So, yes, it was a simple thing to lure the captain into a fight, to snag one of the fallen swords a Wen had dropped upon their death, to stab the captain through the heart while meeting his eyes, a feral grin stretched across Meng Yao's face. So simple.
There was just one thing he hadn't managed to predict: Nie Mingjue.
Perhaps there is some irony there, in the fact that its always a protective older brother that ruins these careful plans. A swapped fate; an interrupted murder…
Perhaps fate will repeat itself.
Nie Mingjue is still talking- something righteous and unyielding. Meng Yao was never sure if he respected or hated that about him. He Xuan, however, finds it refreshing that this elder brother has a moral backbone, as opposed to one as fluid as the element he wields. Nevertheless, Nie Mingjue's back is turned, and schemes are filling an already shattered heart.
It was, once, the only thing He Xuan grew to regret: Shi Qingxuan's involvement with Shi Wudu's death. He had felt it necessary then, but after Shi Qingxuan fell, after watching them grow old and grieve with that fragile smile… Well. He Xuan has the opportunity to keep them out of their brother's murder while also ensuring he won't be stopped again. The chance to be rid of a problem before it could fully blossom, while keeping some of that innocence he so cherished.
He Xuan Meng Yao allows a watery breath to spill from his lips. The Wen blade is still held in his hands. He says, quiet, to ensure Nie Mingjue is paying attention, "You are, of course, right, Nie-zongzhu…" Meng Yao raises the blade, tip against his stomach. "I will repent for my sins with my life."
The blade slides in cleanly. Bloodily. Perfectly.
Nie Mingjue spins around, panicked. Endearing. Naive.
As the sect leader rushes to his side, Meng Yao prepares. Lan Xichen, eternally kind and trusting, had taught Meng Yao how to seal off qi, hoping it would help protect him from the enemy, should they ever dare show themselves in the Nie territories again. Would it hurt him to know Meng Yao would use the technique on Lan Xichen's dearest friend? Most definitely.
Did Meng Yao particularly care?
Nie Mingjue's hand settles over the stab wound, sun-tanned skin quickly becoming dyed crimson, sun-like qi pushing its way into Meng Yao's core. His image is replaced with cool blue eyes and darker hair and a hateful expression. The answer comes instantly:
No.
Meng Yao twists, just so, and he gets the joy of watching Nie Mingjue's eyes widen. Blood, suddenly, leaves his mouth, and Meng Yao's own lips twitch back into that feral grin.
"Zongzhu," he purrs, pulling out of slackened arms. Meng Yao trails a few fingertips over a strong jaw, other hand falling to put pressure on the still-bleeding hole in his stomach. Nie Mingjue watches, frozen, on the verge of deviating at the sudden cut of meridians, with eyes that are Nie green, and not the jades Meng Yao holds dear. "I can't have any get in my way. Not again." His voice softens further, "I'll watch after A-Sang."
He turns and leaves the field of bodies. One last wrathful scream follows him.
Meng Yao is twenty-three.
The Sunshot Campaign has drawn to an end.
His father has accepted him into the Jin.
Nie Mingjue is not dead.
Meng Yao is… not quite disappointed. It's hard to be upset when Er-ge smiles so warmly still and Huaisang laughs brightly. He knows, should he have succeeded in killing Nie Mingjue, both those sights would be rarer, if not entirely lost to him. And yet.
Nie Mingjue is a thorn in the Jin's side. He is strict with his morals and enforces them on all. He does not believe any should hold the title of Chief Cultivator after what the last person who held such power had done. He believes killing for your own pleasure is wrong and that no one should hold unchallenged power over others. It's respectable, at least until he tells you to kill yourself after taking someone else's life, or wants to destroy powerful tools that could be studied for further replication.
Which is to say, the one thing Meng Yao Jin Guangyao and his father agree upon fully is this: Nie Mingjue's sway on the cultivation world has to be put to an end.
Now, theoretically, that should be easy. He is one man, belonging to a sect of what many view as barbarians, with little political tact, a family history of losing his mind young, and a rigid view that put many on edge. Theoretically, it should be easy, because the vow of brotherhood puts Nie Mingjue on the same level as Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao, meaning the other two should be able to speak the same amount of sway over the people. Theoretically.
In practice, however, it's not nearly so easy. For as many chafe against him, many more hold a great respect for Nie Mingjue after he became a driving factor for the war, a martial god for all he cut down hundreds with just one stroke of his saber. He has been sect leader since he was but a teenager, meaning despite his temper and the way others view the Nie, he is good at swaying the members of the gentry. He is the eldest of the brotherhood, the one with the most experience, and so Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao are more akin to Nie Huaisang than Nie Mingjue.
So. Nie Mingjue has to be removed from power. The only way to do so is to kill him. Jin Guangyao Meng Yao does not want to kill him, not for any noble reasons, but because it would break his heart to have to listen to Nie Huaisang Shi Qingxuan plead for their brother to open his eyes again. To have empty eyes turn to him, knowing he was the one who took their brother away, who took their everything away.
Compromise: qi deviation. Natural, predictable, unassuming.
The plan comes to Jin Guangyao the night of the feast. The Nie arrive late, and painfully uninterested. Everyone, from the brothers with their intricate braids to the youngest disciples with their too large blades, have an expression that screams "We hate it here and did not want to come". He Xuan, deep within, empathizes with that- the Heavens are much like the Jin, and there's only so much snobbery one can take while bubbling in anger.
Jin Guangyao, on the other hand, does not. This is exactly where he wants to be! Acknowledged by his father, atop the gilded stairs, dressed in gold and within a position of power. Sure, it could be better, but this is what his mother wanted for him, so Meng Yao does not complain.
He seethes, instead.
He plots, instead.
And then the He Xuan part of him catches on that previous thought. Bubbling with anger. Jin Guangyao risks a glance at Baxia, safely sheathed, for now. He thinks of how Wen Rouhan killed the previous Nie-zongzhu via qi deviation and got away with it for a decade. Technically, he got away with it until his death- the other sects weren't fighting on behalf of a murdered father; they were fighting from their own fear. If Jin Guangyao could just trip Nie Mingjue over the edge, who would be there to stand in his way?
His ears prick at the sound of a fan snapping. Instinctively, Jin Guangyao's eyes go to his father, but the man is doing his usual: unashamed flirting with every pretty thing that gets too close. The next option-
Nie Huaisang, fan having snapped open to obscure his lips as he leaned toward his cousin to whisper. Nie Zonghui, for his part, kept careful eyes on the rest of the gathering, twin sabers in his lap like disobedient children. A bodyguard, through and through, with deadly precision and unwavering loyalty.
Nie Zonghui would be an issue, Jin Guangyao amended with an internal -never external- grimace. He would not take Nie Mingjue's death lying down. Huaisang he can manipulate to steer clear, but this…
For a moment, the twin blades are replaced with two Tumors, blue and red, calm and loud. Ling Wen, with dozens of war crimes hidden beneath her robes, and Pei Ming, a martial god who defends his own. They stand, eternally, at Shi Wudu's side. They pull strings that should be better left alone.
A problem indeed.
Jin Guangyao has his work cut out for him, that is certain. …But first, the Nie can prove useful one last time, for the final stepping stone Meng Yao needed cleared out of the way:
Wei Wuxian.
Meng Yao is twenty-seven, and Nie Mingjue is dead, and Nie Huaisang still turns to Jin Guangyao with those blank eyes.
He Xuan revolts at this. Meng Yao is no better. But Jin Guangyao does not make mistakes- cannot afford to make mistakes. Not with Xue Yang, not with the Ghost General, not with Jin Zixuan and Jin Zixun. Not with Nie Mingjue. Nie Huaisang got exposed to the song of turmoil repeatedly and was there when Nie Mingjue slit his own throat, aware enough to not want to hurt his brother even after years of rage qi deviated, so what? It is of no matter.
It's just that-
When Jin Guangyao walked into the sect heir's room, he found it in pieces. Charred remains of fans and books lay scattered across the floor. The bedsheets were stripped off the bed. Brushes were snapped and paintings ripped to shreds. And there, in the center of the room, was Nie Huaisang, fists shaking and shoulders heaving.
For a terrifyingly long moment, Meng Yao fears a qi deviation. He Xuan knew he shouldn't have allowed Huaisang to listen in on the music, but to deny him would be to arouse suspicion, even more than Nie Mingjue already had for him. It was the safest bet at the time. But if here and now, the notoriously mellow heir who only stabilized his golden core recently were to deviate-
Meng Yao wouldn't allow it. He Xuan rippled with emotions he didn't dare name. Jin Guangyao would have one more potential threat removed.
In the end, it is Meng Yao who beckons, as light as the songbirds the other so loved, "Huaisang."
"San-ge," came the instant reply. Not lost in his mind and rage then. That was good. Nie Huaisang raised his head, loose strands falling from his mourning braids, and met Jin Guangyao's eyes with a blank stare.
He Xuan's dead heart clenches at the sight of tear-stained cheeks. His vision is double for a moment, an ethereal being knelt before him, soft brown curls dark with salt water and hands a bloody mess. Shi Qingxuan stares forward, unseeing, not quite there. From He Xuan's lips spills, "You called the wrong name."
"Huaisang," Jin Guangyao repeats overtop. "Do not grieve in excess. Da-ge wouldn't want that for you."
There's a flash of something in Huaisang's eyes at that, and it is like a balm to Meng Yao's frayed nerves. It's dangerous to Jin Guangyao, though it didn't look like anger in the flicker that it was there, so he does not raise concerns. Just watches as Nie Huaisang bows low, mumbling an agreement.
…He Xuan bristles. Something is wrong.
Nothing is wrong, Jin Guangyao dismissed. If Nie Huaisang is Shi Qingxuan, then they are not a threat. They love us too much.
Two brothers taken; an eye for an eye.
Nie Huaisang straightens. Jin Guangyao tips his head. He had not been close with his half brother, and had him killed nonetheless. There would be no vengeance to be had with killing an already dead man. The fact that there were surely more bastard children scattered around the cultivation world was irrelevant- Jin Guangyao had no care for them. Besides, unlike before, Nie Huaisang is in the dark about how exactly, honestly his brother died.
There is no threat here, Jin Guangyao again declares. Meng Yao says. "Come, A-Sang. Er-ge made tea. Perhaps it'll help calm your spirits."
"Of course," Huaisang says, just as soft, just as obedient. He moves to glide past Jin Guangyao without so much as a glance back at his room. He does not grab a fan. He walks -steps measured, chin up- like a Lan. It's not quite what Jin Guangyao meant when he said restrain your grief, but so be it.
He moves to follow.
He ignores the smell of the dead sea.
He does not think about Shi Qingxuan.
Meng Yao is twenty-seven and a half when he and a few men rob the Nie saber tombs, stealing away Nie Mingjue's corpse, just barely withstrained in the qiankun pouch. The Jin that accompany him die to Baxia. He does not mourn them, nor does he think about how he would react if someone stole his beloved's corpse in that time long past.
Meng Yao is twenty-eight when they decide that, actually, controlling Nie Mingjue as a fierce corpse is not worth the effort. Between the resentment built up by his cultivation style and Baxia herself, it is not worth the risk.
Xue Yang and Mo Xuanyu chop him up, one cheerful and one apathetic. Jin Guangyao has to threaten Xue Yang's pay (candy) to keep him from stealing Nie Mingjue's tongue. A month is taken to meticulously plant the body parts.
He remembers, during this time, of what it was like to hold Shi Wudu's limp head in his palm.
He decides, during this time, to keep Nie Mingjue's head at his bedside.
Meng Yao is thirty. He is thirty, and free of his father's judgment. Free of Jin-furen's cruelty. Free of Nie justice.
Lan Xichen visits Lanling with word of his brother and new nephew. He brings poetry he thinks Meng Yao will like and sweet treats that toe the line of savory. They gossip over politics, and over what new toys Jin Ling would like, and all that comes to mind.
Qin Su (oh, A-Su) gushes over their son with a joy so bright, it's as if the sun had settled in her eyes. Rusong is a happy baby, and loves his mother much. But it's as if he can sense the wickedness in his father's heart. The babe stares with too wide eyes and frowns.
Nie Huaisang sobs, heart wrenching cries into Jin Guangyao's arms on a weekly basis. He begs for help though the Nie Sect remains afloat. He does not touch Yu Zi.
He does not touch his brushes.
He Xuan remembers Shi Qingxuan in the after. Even alone, in rags and with no power, they had still smiled. They had still found joy in the arts and in community. Nie Huaisang does not.
Meng Yao knows it is his fault.
Meng Yao is thirty-seven and dying and knows now that, no matter how gentle a soul is, when pushed too far they will still do terrible things.
Shi Qingxuan is Nie Huaisang. He Xuan knows, Meng Yao knows, Jin Guangyao knows. It's in the way they flutter their fan and bite their lip and grieve for a less-than-perfect brother and sparkle their jade eyes. They are one in the same, which is soothing to He Xuan's fragmented soul.
But it is a trap for Jin Guangyao. For Meng Yao.
Because he can think back to hundreds of years ago, back to when Shi Qingxuan forgave him. Because he can think back to Shi Qingxuan praying to him. Because he can think back to decades of companionship and familiarity and love. Because he did not believe Shi Qingxuan would ever hurt him, and thus the same applies to Nie Huaisang.
But in this life, they are born of those who wield grudges like blades. They are born of resentment and death. Nie Huaisang has known for who-knows-how-long and has not forgiven Meng Yao.
Nie Huaisang has decided, as He Xuan had once done: an eye for an eye.
A life for a life.
Meng Yao is thirty-seven, a drop in the bucket that was his last life, and raises his head to meet Nie Huaisang's gaze. Lan Xichen is still between them, expression agonized and sword buried through Meng Yao's gut. But Nie Huaisang stares, cold, calm, unflinching. Meng Yao grins, and blood spills out of him.
"A-Sang," he coos. It comes out as more of a hiss. "Qingxuan." There, like when Nie Mingjue was killed, was another flash; this one, he managed to catch: anger. Grief. Love. Sympathy. But no- "Are you happy? Has my debt been paid?"
There's whispers around them. Lan Xichen keens a particularly pathetic noise. Zidian crackles. Rain falls like tears against the temple's roof. It all goes ignored because-
No is the answer to both of those questions. He knows it. Nie Huaisang knows it. Whatever -whichever- gods tied their fates together once more know it. They have become each other's canary- the sign of them sends fate into a downward spiral of misery. And not even death would change that now.
Nie Huaisang stays silent. Meng Yao cackles. The coffin rumbles.
"Perhaps one day," Meng Yao He Xuan whispers, head tipped toward the Heavens, pleading desperately, in vain. "Perhaps one day, we will be together."
The coffin erupts. Voices shout. The temple trembles. He Xuan-Meng Yao-Jin Guangyao is swallowed whole by the resentment, pushing Lan Xichen into Nie Huaisang and out of the way. A dizi's haunting tune fills the night.
When the calm settles over them, Fairy's barks intertwined with concerned disciples, Nie Huaisang who was once Shi Qingxuan will whisper to a lover, to an enemy, to a soulmate, "No. I don't think we will."