The Quiet in Gentian House (Modao Zushi)
It is deadly silent in the Gentian House. Wei Wuxian would make a joke about renaming the Jingshi, but it doesn’t seem like it would be appreciated in this company. It’s his first time seeing Lan Xichen since he officially entered seclusion, and the man pours tea as quietly as he moves and breathes and contemplates his failure.
Lan Xichen passes a cup across, and Wei Wuxian listens in vain for a clink. “Are you finding Somewhere in the Clouds to your taste?” he asks, the picture of politeness. Despite his general aura of pallor and contrition, his voice doesn’t seem hoarse from disuse.
“Sure,” Wei Wuxian says, taking a sip. The tea is terrible. He would go so far as to call it ascetic. “Really different from when I was a student. Less stuffy, somehow, even if it’s not actually airier.”
“Yes, we had neither the knowledge nor the resources to rebuild it as it was before the fires,” Lan Xichen says, completely neutrally. “Much is lost.”
“Okay,” Wei Wuxian says, and thinks, that man used to be so cheerful. “I mean, definitely. Are you—how are you?”
“I have much time to reflect,” Lan Xichen says. “More tea?”
Wei Wuxian has barely taken a sip. “Sure, please. Um,” he says, fishing around for a topic that isn’t his dinner partner’s ruined ancestral home. “Wangji says he hasn’t seen you in a while.”
“We are having a disagreement.”
“Not over me, I hope,” Wei Wuxian says, trying for a joke, and Lan Xichen sets the teapot down audibly. “Oh.”
“Mm,” Lan Xichen says. “It is a disagreement between brothers. Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
The thing is, Lan Zhan told Wei Wuxian that Lan Xichen said he wanted to see him via a message delivered by Lan Qiren, which kind of makes it seem like something that Wei Wuxian should concern himself with. He has, historically, been on good terms with Lan Xichen relative to his terms with other people—perhaps reassurance is required. “You know me,” he tries. “Constantly concerning myself. That’s why Lan Wangji won’t find himself alone anytime soon—my total inability to disentangle.”
“Indeed,” Lan Xichen says, and Wei Wuxian knows immediately that he has misstepped. “Nightless City, for example, was a failure to disentangle.”
“Hey, whoa,” Wei Wuxian says, startled, but still casual. “Am I a guest or a defendant?”
“There are uncountably many who prefer the latter, but you know well that they’ll be disappointed.”
“Oh, there are thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands soon, I’m sure. We both know that rumors only grow.”
“Were the numbers of the dead insignificant?” Lan Xichen asks mildly, and Wei Wuxian stops, uncertain how they arrived here so quickly.
“What is this conversation about?” he asks, folding his hands in his lap and focusing his attention. He’s trying. He’s been trying more often, recently. “Are you warning me away from your brother? Because I mean no disrespect, but you may as well warn the moon away from the tides.”
Lan Xichen inclines his head slightly. “My apologies, Wei-qianbei. I did not mean to broach this topic so oppositionally. I’m not trying to fill the ocean up with stones—I simply felt the need to share some of my reflections with my brother, and I believe it would be productive to speak with you as well.”
“Okay,” Wei Wuxian says. He takes a more generous sip of the disgusting tea as a gesture of good faith. “Please. I’m listening.”
Lan Xichen folds his arms within his sleeves and sits, impossibly, even straighter. “Do you know why I remain in seclusion?”
It’s a strange question. Everyone knows what happened to Lan Xichen—it hadn’t seemed necessary to extrapolate a reason beyond those implied by the bald facts. “I imagine your experiences have been difficult,” Wei Wuxian tries.
“They have,” Lan Xichen acknowledges. “But no more so than many. My blindness was shameful, but no more so than the blindness of many others.”
Wei Wuxian finds himself nodding—this is fair. There is no paucity of shame to go around these days, even if Wei Wuxian himself was gifted less than his share. “Yao-zongzhu is still drinking too much and making a nuisance of himself at conferences,” he offers, considering the faces he’s seen in taverns and banquet halls while Lan Xichen has been cloistered away.
“Yes. And my seclusion is fully voluntary—I consider when to end it often. I feel that contemplation without meaningful progress is often self-congratulatory.”
Wei Wuxian agrees, but he tends to think less as a result, not more. “Why do you remain?”
“Because if A’yao returned today, I would throw myself at his feet and beg his forgiveness for all the ways I failed him.” Wei Wuxian blinks hard and thinks A’yao, still. “I have not learned. It is the reason I remain in seclusion, and why I know not if I’ll ever leave. This is the plain truth, and here is what I ask you ask yourself in return: what did Wangji do, when you returned?”
Wei Wuxian is struck by the memory of Lan Zhan before him on the bridge, when they first returned to Gusu. It had been evening, and so beautiful: there was no one around, like the night had been slipped into an envelope and preserved for them alone. Lan Zhan had gone to his knees, and Wei Wuxian had leaned back against the railing and watched the clear sky. I’m sorry, Lan Zhan had said into his hip, and Wei Wuxian, in ecstasy with life and starlight, had put his hand in his hair to comfort him.
It’s a good memory: Lan Xichen has shone a light on it, throwing the dark shadows around the edges into sharp relief. “Ah, he—”
“I don’t need a literal answer,” Lan Xichen smiles. “Just to know it’s something that you think about. You fell to evil.” It’s been a while since someone Wei Wuxian respects has put it so bluntly. “Wangji has forgotten, and I’m happy that in that way, at least, he can be at ease. But you must not forget: we repeat our lost mistakes, and my brother will not survive you a second time.”