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Click here for the art of Jiang Yanli waking up as Song Lan escorts her to Koi Tower

“ A-Li! ”

“Don’t move!”

“ Wake up .”

“ Wake up. Now! ”

Her Mother’s voice rings in her ears, a fierce whisper, breaking through the smothering darkness covering her, pushing her out of her daze and towards consciousness.

She opens her eyes, knowing it is impossible that her Mother could actually be there, but for one moment as her heart beats wildly and her eyes search the dim corners of the carriage, she dares to hope.

She is alone.

As she knew she would be.

It is one of the reasons why she has been avoiding opening her eyes until now, allowing herself to stay in that comforting nothingness that Wen Qing’s tranquilizing powder had provided.

A still quiet dark space where she doesn’t have to face the fact that A-Xian had deliberately deceived her and A-Cheng had willingly helped carry her into this carriage, to see that they had chosen to send her away, even though they were all she had left.. the darkness tugs at her, pulling her deeper into the depths where her mind was quieter in its grief. 

“ A-Li. Listen carefully and no one dies. ”

Her Father is even less likely to be here than Mother and his words make even less sense, so she doesn’t bother to open her eyes this time, but a lifetime spent being a dutiful daughter does open her ears.

It takes a few moments before she can understand what is happening outside the carriage, the wood and heavy blankets cocooning her muffle the sound effectively.  

Footsteps.  

Voices. 

The cart is not moving.

The footsteps and voices are coming closer, and Jiang Yanli huddles into the corner, making herself as small as possible beneath the blankets. If the window is opened she will be seen, and - 

“We don’t want to hurt anyone!”

The sudden thud of an arrow piercing the wood near her head has Jiang Yanli freezing in place, barely daring to breathe.

“That arrow suggests otherwise.”  Song Lan states calmly, standing beside the carriage. She thinks if she opens the window she might be able to touch him.

“We said we don’t want to hurt you, not that we wouldn’t!” A harsh voice yells back at him in reply and she hears mocking laughter. Her mind distractedly tries to count….4 - maybe 5 voices, all of them further away and on the same side of the carriage. Song Lan has placed himself between her and danger.

“The carriage bears nothing of value for you.  I will share what little money I carry with you, but we are simple people.  We have no riches to share.”

For a moment, Jiang Yanli hopes they will be convinced, but the footsteps come closer.

“I may even believe you, if it weren’t for that fancy sword you are carrying.”

“I am a rogue cultivator.” Song Lan replies evenly.  “I belong to neither Great Sect, nor any important clan.  This sword is both my livelihood and is bound to me.  It is of no use or value to you.”  He pauses, then adds with a hefty undercurrent of steel in his voice.  “Even if you were capable of taking it.”

“You think you can stop us?  Five armed men against a single man with a fancy sword and one unarmed porter?  You think too highly of yourself!”  The sound of running footsteps is followed by a sharp clash of metal on metal and a pained cry.  The footsteps shuffle back.

“I do not seek to harm you.” Song Lan’s words ring through the dimness of the carriage, as reassuring as the pulse of her heartbeat in her ears. “However, I will not hesitate if you endanger anything of mine.”

“I knew it,” the bandit chief crows.  “What are you carrying? Gold? Silks?”   He pauses, and Jiang Yanli’s breath stops as his tone turns crafty.  “Or should I ask who is in the carriage?  The Wens have posted a mighty reward for those missing Jiang heirs.”

“I told you, this carriage bears nothing of value to you, but is of immense value to me. Move on. While you are able.”

“Gongzi! Above us in the trees!” Their porter yells, and the carriage rocks with the sudden weight of a body landing on the roof. She clasps a hand over her mouth, stifling any sound, as the carriage sways and then she hears the heavy thud of a body hitting the ground.

“Now you have five men,” Song Lan says bluntly. “You could have walked away with all six.”

“Porter!” the bandit chief snaps, and Jiang Yanli tenses.  Even here in the dark she can hear his rising anger. “Answer truthfully and you will leave here with your life.  Who is in the carriage?”

Song Lan stays silent, and Jiang Yanli braces herself for the window to be opened.

“He does not lie.  The carriage holds value only for him.”

“Open it.”

“I will not.”

“You prefer to die?”

“No.  If I open the carriage though, I probably will, and so may all of you.”

“You are wasting my time. Open it.”

The horse pulling the carriage whinnies, and the carriage shifts, as a wave of noise breaks over her, shouts, and metal strikes on wood and cries of pain and a cry of alarm is ripped from her throat.

“Stop! Stop it now! Don’t endanger yourselves!  Gongzi, let me explain to them!” The porter yells and the noise outside abruptly stops.  “It’s his grandmother. His grandmother is in the carriage!”

In the pin drop silence that follows, Jiang Yanli thinks she can hear Song Lan breathing on the other side of the window.

The porter scrambles around the side of the carriage, she can hear him moving to stand beside Song Lan.

“He is escorting her to Qinghe, following the death of the rest of the family. The entire lot of them took ill and died over the last week, every last one of them. Son, Wife, their eight children, all of them, youngest to oldest, even their bird in a cage.  The sickness moved like a plague through the entire household, sparing none except the grandmother.  She begged to be taken to Qinghe which was her childhood home.”

“And him? He was also spared?” The bandit chief asks suspiciously.    

“I am a rogue cultivator. I travel from city to city to protect those in need. I was not there beside them when my family died.”  The dignified sorrow in his voice resonates, and Jiang Yanli’s heart aches.  Such fresh loss for both of them.

Finally the bandit chief says uncertainly, “This is not the way to Qinghe.  This is the road to Lanling.”

“Indeed.” Song Lan answers, and nothing more, and for one wild moment, Jiang Yanli imagines Lan Wangji is standing out there too.

“What he isn’t saying,” the porter adds with an audible huff, “is that the old woman would not survive the journey to Qinghe.  She is too frail to make such a long journey, and there is still the possibility that she will succumb to whatever infection has carried off the rest of the family.”  The porter takes a step away from the carriage and says in a carrying whisper, “It was really quite awful apparently. The local doctor said they were burning with fever so hot they pulled their own hair out, and that their tongues were so swollen from thirst and bile that they rested on their chins. Their hands and feet swelled, they lost control of their bodily functions, the air around them was fetid with blood and urine and sweat and bile, and any one of them could have passed the sickness onto the next. The old woman lay in the house with them dying around her for almost two weeks - they pulled her out on a board lowered from a hole in the roof and washed her clean, before they burned the rest of them in the house.  Bodies, possessions, everything.”  

Sensing the growing unease in the silence outside, an idea seizes her and between one breath and the next, she pulls the blanket over her head, fashioning a deep hood to conceal her face.

She thinks back to warm afternoons and the sun setting over the lotus dappled lake, and the enraptured faces of A-Cheng and A-Xian as she told them old folk tales, voices shifting between characters.  The quavering voice of the old lady she had based on their washer woman, husky and brittle with age - but she needs something to scare them away from approaching…

The porter had claimed she was sick with plague - a visible sign of it would work.

Her stomach churns at the idea and she nods in resolve.  

She bangs against the window shutter, quick hurried blows. “Xingchen! The pain! Xingchen!”  She calls in distress, voice quivering with shame.  "Xingchen, I’m sorry baobei, Popo is so sorry.  The blankets are soiled.”  She lets out a muffled wail of shame, then an awful retch as she forces herself to gag. Using all her strength she pushes the shutter aside just enough for those outside to see her stooped miserable silhouette as she vomits out the window, barely missing Song Lan’s shoulder.  Without turning to look, he slams the shutter closed.

Everyone outside freezes, silent, and Jiang Yanli holds her breath.

“Once the sickness takes hold, it moves quickly,” Song Lan states firmly.  “I told you I would share what coins I have -”

“Keep them,” the head bandit interrupts.  “We don’t want anything touched by illness and death.” After a short pause, he mutters hurriedly. “May her passing be peaceful.”  With nothing further to say, he whistles and she can hear the movement of people leaving.  

They stand still for what seems like an eternity, until they are assuredly alone.

“We should move quickly,” Song Lan says. “Any distance would benefit us.”

“There is a village an hour behind us,” the porter says.  “I think this is where our ways must part.”

Jiang Yanli can stand it no longer and she pushes against the shutter.  From the outside, Song Lan guesses her intention, and helps her push it aside, allowing sunlight to flood into the carriage. She flinches and Song Lan steps closer, allowing his shadow to cover her so that she can look out comfortably.  The blanket falls to the floor of the carriage as they look at each other.

“Guniang. Are you well?” He asks.

She nods, silently, her mouth too dry and sour for words as he steps closer and unstoppers a flask.  He offers it to her, and she sips, knowing that drawing too much too quickly will cause her stomach to rebel and she has already disgraced herself once in front of him in the last hour.

He doesn’t comment on her drinking, but he does seem to read the questions spiraling in her mind.  “We have been traveling for four and a half days.  If you had not woken before sunrise on the fifth day, I was to rouse you.  You may feel dizzy, nauseous and weak, but your condition has suffered no lasting harm from the enforced rest.  We are on the road to Lanling, but we still have many days of travel before us.”

She sips again and nods to show she understands, even though his words swarm dizzily in her mind with the proof that this was no fever dream or nightmare.  Deep down she is thankful that Wen Qing’s powder had left her some level of awareness, as the possibility of awakening to find herself so helpless and discarded like kitchen scraps fills her with horror.

Finally, the flask is empty and she hands it back to him. He takes it silently, and she looks at him, suddenly lost for words. She doesn’t really know what to say to him, how to ask him what they have left behind, or thank him for his protection. She feels unmoored, unsteady and fragile, and has never felt so uncertain of her path.

Song Lan gives her no empty platitudes or cheery reassurances, he remains stoic and steadfast and for a wild moment she wants to poke him to see if he reacts, but then he meets her gaze and a solid sense of warmth, like stones warmed by sunshine, pulses between them.  Her brothers trust this man enough to entrust her life to him. She hopes it is not misplaced.

“Are you well enough to resume our journey?” He asks quietly, as his gaze flickers down to the ground beside the carriage.  “We need to move quickly but if you require some time…”

“I am well enough,” Jiang Yanli replies, also looking down. “That was a ruse. I apologize.”

“A successful one.” The smile he gives her is faint, but enough to show her that he approved of her actions, and the lack of scolding gives her a small flush of rare hope that he will listen to her.

“Gongzi? Guniang?”

Song Lan starts, and Jiang Yanli realizes that the porter must have called them previously. 

The porter steps forward, bowing to each of them.  “If you are truly well, Guniang, I fear we must move quickly. The road is no longer safe for you.” Before Song Lan can respond, he bows quickly, forestalling any protest.  “The Wens have cultivators searching across Yunmeng, and there is a chance that the bandits may return.  They will also report you to the Wens if it pays well enough. Gongzi, you must travel from here onwards by sword. It is the only way to leave this area quickly enough, and you must do so without leaving any further trace.”

“You were hired to transport us to our destination.” 

“I was.” The porter holds their gaze and now he does bow.　”If you have any chance of reaching your destination, it will not be with this carriage. The net is closing too rapidly.”

“The net?” Song Lan asks calmly, but Jing Yanli sees the shrewdness in his expression, matched by the porter.

“I have not been told your final destination, or your names. For your safety and mine, I did not insist upon it.” He turns towards her. “I have traveled the roads of Yiling and Yunmeng for almost two decades. The people here are as close to family as I have, and I will not see anymore of them lost, not if I can prevent it.” 

Jiang Yanli knows that currently she looks nothing like the young lady of the Yunmeng Jiang Sect, that her robes are not the pale lavender she loves, that her hair bears no lotus pins and her Jiang bell is tucked away in her sleeve.  The porter takes another step closer, and she grips the side of the carriage until her knuckles turn white.  He places a calloused yet gentle hand upon hers and pats lightly,  a gesture of comfort that brings tears to her eyes.  “Yesterday we passed through a village where a mother and her son were seeking transport to Meishan.  I will return to that village and convey them both there.  If the Wens stop us they will find two passengers who do not match who they are seeking, and I will be conveying two passengers who are exactly who they appear to be.” With a final squeeze of her hand, he says, “Meishan is lovely this time of the year, but the journey would not be safe for everyone, and they are not the most welcoming place.  I will be sure to explain myself and my travels to anyone sent out to welcome a simple porter like me traveling there - from here.”

“Thank you,” Jiang Yanli whispers, and he smiles at her, a small smile that conveys the truth.

“Then you must travel safely,” Song Lan adds, and bows deeply to him, much deeper than a cultivator needs to do towards a porter.

“I always do,” the porter replies matter of factly, but Jiang Yanli can hear the reassurance in the undertone. “I know these roads like the back of my hand.”  He points east.  “Move away from the road, and travel parallel to it as far as possible - you will see when it turns directly.  The mountains will be dangerous, the winds are treacherous to anyone traveling by sword - go north around them, then pick up the road on the far side of the range.”

Song Lan nods, and Jiang Yanli grips the carriage for a moment longer. Traveling by sword is her least favorite choice, but there is no other.  The porter opens the door, and Song Lan holds out a hand to assist her as she crawls out.  He holds her steady as she climbs down, her legs shaking beneath her. She leans heavily on his arm, and he braces her effortlessly, as if he can do this for as long as she needs him to.  As he doesn’t seem to begrudge the action, she swallows the shame that rises at her need of his assistance, and concentrates on standing as tall and proud as she can manage on her trembling legs - her mother always says - said - a straight back and raised chin gives the impression of strength elsewhere.

“I wish you both safe travels.  Gongzi. Guniang.”

Song Lan subtly presses against her arm, helping her move to the side of the road without stumbling, as the porter turns the horse and carriage, and leaves them there.

“There are a few hours of daylight left.  We should put as much distance between us and this area as possible.” Song Lan pauses, and his eyes are kind as he asks, “Do you have much experience with sword flying?”

“I do not have the cultivation level required to lift myself aloft,” she answers and looks away, cheeks hot with shame.

“You are not carrying a sword,” Song Lan says, but she doesn’t turn towards him because she doesn’t want to see the look of kindness turned to pity that will be in his eyes.  “Your brothers are both strong cultivators. Did you never try with them?“

A very unladylike snort escapes her, and now she really can’t look at him. Perhaps they can pretend it didn’t happen if she answers quickly enough. “I did.  Neither of them were particularly good at holding the blade steady, so it was not something I hurried to repeat.”

“If they were young,” Song Lan answers diplomatically, “They would have lacked experience in maintaining the sword form smoothly.  I can’t guarantee we will make the journey unscathed, but I can promise you that I will carry you as far as needed, and as quickly as your stomach will allow.” She bites her lip, and Song Lan shakes his head.  “We - The Doctor,” he corrects himself, “The Doctor advised that your stomach may trouble you for the first day after you awoke. Adding a sword flight to it will increase your discomfort.”

“I will be fine,” Jiang Yanli answers, and even manages a smile.

“You will endure it,” Song Lan retorts, “because you are strong and do not wish to trouble others.”

She has no answer to that.

“Guniang, there is no shame in this.  Her medical advice was sound, we will rest when needed.  Do not hesitate to ask to stop if you need to do so.”

“Very well,” she mutters, and he bows, and their entire predicament seems almost ridiculous if it were not for the mortal danger they were actually in.  “Meimei,” she says evenly.

“Guniang?”  

He is patient, she will give him that.

“Meimei. Call me Meimei. Better to get into the habit of not using titles, and as I am not a younger sister, no one ever calls me that.”

“Very well. Who should I be? Dage?” He answers in kind, and a small grimace twists his lips, hinting at a swiftly hidden pain. “I was called Didi when needed.”

“Dage.”  She extends her hand, to gesture at his sword.  “Shall we go?”

“We shall.” He unsheathes his sword, and mounts the blade, hovering in place.  His grip curls under her arm, pulling her up before him, and allowing her to settle. “I shall need to keep an arm at your waist.  If you need something, wave your right hand. I will descend immediately.”  She nods to show her understanding. “Flying is taxing.  Don’t push yourself too much - it will be a better use of time to rest frequently than need to recover from overexertion.” She glances over her shoulder at him, and he adds, “that applies to me as well.  Now, stand strong.”

The blade rises steadily into the air, clearing the canopy of trees, and then Song Lan steers them up and across the sky, the green trees spread out below them across rolling plains.  If she had the mind to do so she would have said it was beautiful, but in the moment all she can think of is how much safer she had felt concealed among those trees in a wooden box.     

They fly for hours.

Song Lan is stronger than she had realized, but even he was not invincible.  As the sun sets and darkness starts to roll in, he takes them gently to the ground, landing beside a small stream.  He jumps down from his sword and then swings her down to stand beside him, catching her elbows as her knees give way.

“Rest,” he commands simply, and seats her on a nearby fallen log, and she does so, trying to settle her stomach and strengthen her legs and catch her breath, as he moves around gathering firewood and setting up camp for them.

Finally she judges her legs to be capable of carrying her, and she stands, brushes off her skirts and asks him for a pot.  He pauses in building their fire, and pulls one from a qiankun pouch. He smiles as she heads towards the stream to fill it with fresh water. 

Jiang Yanli clasps her hands together, fingers interlaced so tightly the tips turn white from the pressure. As she sits silently, the water in the pot heats to a rolling boil, steam rising into the sky above it. A deep sense of rage within her boils along with it, the vicious word useless ringing in her ears, singing along with the steam.  Her body is exhausted, she is tired all the way down to her bones, yet somehow she still has the strength to feel this rage - an emotion she knows will do her no good, and yet. Yet, it fills her.

Song Lan says nothing, his patient watchfulness as unruffled as ever.

He says nothing, but he does lean forward and angles the pot slightly away.  He adds some chicken, radish and carrots, making sure the roughly chopped lumps fall gently into the water.  As he turns a large knob of ginger on the board, a hand tugs gently on his sleeve.

Jiang Yanli mumbles something, her voice rough and rusty with disuse. She meets his gaze, and she swallows and tries again.  “Pass me the board and the cleaver?”

Song Lan nods, and hands it over. Jiang Yanli hefts it easily, checking the balance and weight, and finally carefully tests the edge.  Kneeling down beside the fire, she balances his small cutting board on a rock and slices the ginger into smaller segments.  Two thumbnail size lumps are skilfully peeled, her touch is so delicate that the cleaver barely seems to touch the board on each stroke, the tap of metal against wood a soft and steady current.

In short order, the ginger is ready, and she steadies the board. Two sharp slams of the blade’s side against each piece finely mince both of them. With two flicks of the blade, she sends them into the pot.  “Roughly chopped ginger can make the soup harder to digest. Mincing it just so with the cleaver is the quickest and easiest way.”

When Song Lan doesn’t answer she turns to look at him and finds he is looking at the pot, watching it simmer with a mainly concealed amused smile.  “Meimei is as skilled at cooking as I was told,” he says gravely. 

Jiang Yanli reaches into the bag, and when she feels the crinkle of paper, she pulls out the small twisted sachets of spices. She rifles quickly through the contents, seasoning the soup with pinches of spices she knows from experience will help balance the taste.  She hesitates over the final sachet of red pepper flakes, A-Xian’s pleading voice ringing in her ears asking for ever spicier soup while A-Cheng argues for the opposite, just to be contrary as he also loves the spicy depth of heat they give.  

Their absence makes her heart ache fiercely and her jaw throb as she holds back a sob.

She will not cry.

They are not here to eat this soup she is making through their own choices.

They left her.

After everything that has happened, and everything she said, and everything they have done, they left her behind.

The paper sachet crumples in her palm, then she replaces it in the pouch. She would prefer the soup without the spice. She doesn’t need to add it. This time she will make it to her taste, to how she would like to eat it today.

Although…

Song Lan is sitting patiently beside her, risking his own life to protect hers - he is also here.

Jiang Yanli peeks over at him.  Perhaps he would prefer it with the red pepper flakes?

She peeks over at him, but he is still watching over the pot.

Before she can ask if he would prefer a spicier soup, he leans forward and stirs the broth.  The soup will not be ready for some time, and before she can apologize for it, Song Lan taps the spoon against the pot and leans back.  

“What do you think? Half an hour?” He asks.

She gapes at him, flustered, and then nods.

“I will watch over it then.  If you wish to rest, please do so.”

“I have done nothing but rest!” she snaps, then covers her mouth in horror.

“If you wish to walk a little,” Song Lan says placidly, easily, as if she had not snapped at him, “you may do so.  Obviously, you will need to stay close by, as the area is not entirely safe.”

“Perhaps later. I should prepare the soup,” she says, in way of apology, but Song Lan shakes his head.

“I can do that.  After all, I owe you a number of meals. I remember you cooking for us all while I was recovering.”

“That was different.”

“In what way?”

“What else could I do?”

The words fall heavily between them, and Song Lan makes no move to answer her quickly. Instead he pokes a little at the fire, contemplating, and she realizes that he is truly weighing his words, to give her an honest answer.

Finally he answers.  “You could have remained in your rooms. You could have allowed yourself time and space to grieve alone. You could have left the care of your brother to others.”  He waits… as if weighing his last point against his silence.  “You could have allowed a stranger to go hungry, or make do with a meal that was less well prepared.”

She shakes her head in denial, but he continues, “Strength comes in many forms, Meimei. I have no aptitude for talismans or speaking winningly with those who hold power.  I can however raise my sword to protect those in need.” He gestures at the pot. “The Doctor gave me a list of ingredients and told me how to prepare this soup, because she knew your stomach would be unsettled.  Your skills will make it both easier to digest and more effective.  If you think I, or any other cultivator, would prefer a day spent utilizing inedia over a meal prepared by someone as skilled as you, you are mistaken.”

  She turns away, and looks out over the river, tears burning on her lashes.

Finally, she leans across and takes the spoon from his grasp, and settles to watch over the soup.

As expected, the soup helps restore strength to both of them.

They eat in silence, and Song Lan wordlessly gathers up the pot, blade and bowls and carries them to the river. When she goes to stand, to follow and help with the clean up, he quirks an eyebrow at her and bows slightly, as if to say she should leave it to him.  

When he returns, any trace of tears in her eyes have been carefully wiped away, and her shaking hands have neatly tidied the space around the fire.  Song Lan is carrying the small pot upright and she realizes as he carefully places it upon the fire that he has filled it with water.

He sits quietly beside her and they watch it heat in silence for a few minutes.  Before it can boil completely he removes the pot, placing it between them. A small sachet appears in his hand, and he passes it over to her.  “The Doctor recommended this tea.”  Jiang Yanli lifts it up and sniffs carefully, the now familiar herbal scent tugging at her memory.  

“It is good for stomach ailments and helps build strength,” she recites from memory,

“It also helps with fatigue and injury recovery,” Song Lan replies, and gestures towards the pot.

She adds enough for both of them, and as the tea steeps, she looks at him carefully, hiding her gaze.  Song Lan sits straight and unbowed beside her, none of the lounging that A-Cheng and A-Xian will display at rest. He doesn’t look uncomfortable - merely… focussed.  Ready to respond at a moment’s notice - just like the sentries at the gates of Lotus Pi - .

He notices the way her fingers clench around the sachet, and reaches over to take it from her, but he doesn’t ask her any questions, and she is grateful.

When two small cups are filled with the tea, she takes one carefully, fingers curling around the warmth.  She sips carefully, dutifully, the familiar blend of herbs soft on her tongue and the slightly astringent aftertaste reminding her of the classes of Cloud Recesses.  Wen Qing had given her a similar sachet, along with the advice to ask her Sect Doctor for a similar blend when she returned, and even though there had been some resistance, they had prepared a similar blend for her.

It wasn’t …. pleasant to drink… but it was familiar.  Familiar and designed to support her wellbeing.

A few weeks ago she wouldn’t have dreamed that the simple taste of this tea would be reassuring that at least someone in the world valued her life enough to want to prolong it.

Before the tears come, while she struggles with her breath feeling harsh in her throat, Song Lan finishes his own cup and sets it down beside the pot.  Without looking at her, he extends his hand, palm up, patiently waiting.

She drags in a breath, hating the way it rattles in her chest, and then swallows the rest of the tea, bitter medicine against her tongue, but a reminder that she needs.

He takes the cup and straightens their supplies, unnecessarily as she had done it earlier, but she appreciates the time it gives her to dab at her eyes with her sleeve.

As the silence settles between them she finds it oddly comforting. Silence is not something familiar to her whilst in the company of others - she is accustomed to spending time alone obviously, as the only young lady of her sect she knows that solitude well, but there are always maids who chatter with her, and the younger disciples who seek her out for advice and comfort and the older disciples who come to her with -

Stop it, she berates herself quietly.  That path will do you no good.

Silence is comforting.  She clings to that idea.  There is no need for chatter.  None at all, even if it would help a little with the …

“Meimei?”

She looks over at him, and Song Lan has a complicated expression on his face, as if he is turning over the words he wants to speak, and finding no solution to the puzzle of how to put them together.

“My apologies.  I am not good at making conversation”   A rueful smile tugs at his lip, and she stares at him, at the first real sign of softness he has displayed.  “Usually I can rely upon a friend to cover my shortcomings.”

“Xiao-gong zi?” The name escapes before she can stop it, and she can only pretend not to see the wince he tries to hide.

“Yes,” he mutters.  “Xingchen is always better at making conversation, for all that he was raised on an isolated mountain.”

There are small signs of fatigue around his eyes.  Jiang Yanli wonders if she can see them only because he is so close to the fire.  The light changes the shadows on his face, somehow making him seem less distant even though his expression has not changed at all.

“Dage,” she says softly.  “My days have been filled with stretches of both conversations and solitudes for as long as I can remember. I was given lessons in both. There is no shame in preferring one to the other.”  As he pokes the fire with a stick, she takes a shrewd guess at the unspoken heart of his troubles, but hesitates.  For all his kindness, the man beside her is still a relative stranger, and he may not welcome her interference. And she has never even met the other man, only heard stories of him and heard from her brothers what they were like when they met them, and - he looks so alone. Perhaps, just perhaps, knowing that someone else is willing to listen to him will help, and is worth trying?  “Do you know why I called you Xingchen earlier?”

“I do not.”

She waits for him to answer further, but the stiffness in his shoulders and the way he has turned towards the fire tells her she is on uncertain ground, and should tread carefully.

“It was a sign. I knew you would recognise the name. I wanted you to know I was awake and aware of our situation.” He shifts a little, not turning back towards her entirely, but enough that she can see that he is listening.

“I see.” Again he barely answers, and Jiang Yanli wonders if she has overstepped, but he has not walked away.

“Both of you are well known, you know. Your names are linked in the minds of others because the stories about you are full of your deeds together.  The Bright Moon and Gentle Breeze with the Distant Snow and Cold Frost.”

The almost imperceptible flinch encourages her to pause for a moment, give him space and then continue.

“I think it is unlikely that those bandits will remember the name. If they do, anybody who hears the tale is unlikely to link him to it, especially with their description of your black robes and the family story.”

Song Lan nods, showing again he is listening, and she hesitates, knowing that this might truly be overstepping, but she can sense the empty space where the missing figure usually stood beside him.

“If Xiao-daozhang himself hears of the story, I think it may even be possible that he would recognise their description of the cultivator in black, and may come to find you.”

“Unlikely.” The answer is short, whispered, and very, very firm.

“Why?” She asks him gently even though his reluctance to speak would be obvious to someone in the center of the darkest room.  The stoic shell he cloaks himself with is thick and sturdy, but she can see the hairline cracks running through it.

“We did not part on good terms.”

“What did you argue about?”

“Our future plans to found a sect together,” he answers grimly, and nothing more.  He holds her gaze, a silent warning that the conversation should end.

“Words spoken thoughtlessly in the heat of anger may not be true.”  This time she is the one who looks away.  “My brother is especially prone to harsh speaking in anger, and all the while hiding concern underneath it.”  She turns back and extends a hand in silent apology. “I am sorry for prying, sometimes the pull of past experience is stronger than I realize. Truly, I meant no offense.  Forgive me for overstepping.”

With a sharp nod, Song Lan accepts her apology, and a somewhat uneasy silence falls between them, broken only by the crackle of their small campfire.

Finally, Song Lan reaches into a qiankun pouch, and a soft roll of silk and wool appears.  Carefully he unwraps the bundle, shaking out the material and placing it around her shoulders.  “I will take the first watch,” he says, and before she can object, pulls the makeshift blanket tight.  “I will meditate long enough, and sleep for a few hours at daybreak.  It will be rest enough.”

She bites her lip, unwilling to argue and knowing that any objection would be overruled. She was not the one best suited for an overnight watch, but the knowledge of it ate at her, the feeling of helplessness and reliance that was familiar but now more keenly felt.

“I - I - “ Song Lan stutters a little, and then simply settles back beside her.  “Give me your hand.”

 She extends her right hand automatically, doing as he asked, and suddenly a hilted dagger in a smooth sheath is in her grasp. The hilt is bound with red leather and the sheath of an inky black, it feels light and perfectly balanced in her hand, almost as if it was made for her.

“They told me that your sword was lost when…they came.” Song Lan touches the hilt of the dagger briefly, pushing it towards her, and Jiang Yanli pulls it closer, and frees it from the sheath.  Even in the red glow of firelight the blade gleams silver.  “The Doctor gave me this with a firm instruction to pass it to you when you were awake.” 

The blade glimmers in the firelight as Jiang Yanli turns it over, the blade arching back and forth with her movements, and she can see that the edge is keenly sharp.

“She is thoughtful,” Jiang Yanli says quietly.  “But - why? She knows that I do not have a high enough level of cultivation to use a weapon in the usual style. I - I don’t think she ever saw me carrying my sword.”

“You will come to no harm in my presence.”  Song Lan’s tone is earnest and his gaze steady - a repeated oath that he clearly intends to reassure her.  “Your brothers entrusted your life to me, and I vowed to fulfill the task given to me, and the trust they showed.” He pauses, a small grimace pulling at his mouth as if he doesn’t wish to sully his mouth, but he continues, clearly needing to speak of it. “I imagine that the Doctor has seen more of this world, and most assuredly more of the worse side, and does not trust so easily. She told me to consider how much my life was worth if I harmed a hair on your head, or allowed any other harm to come to you while you were in my care - all while brandishing a fistful of those silver needles.”

At Jiang Yanli’s shocked gasp, the grimace turns into a brief smile.  “You do not lack defenders, Meimei.” He gestures at the dagger. “She wanted you to have more than one option.”

The dagger turns easily in her hand, so light it was as if it was an extension of her arm. “I am not sure I could use it,” she admits softly, and this time, without warning, Song Lan reaches out to catch her arm.

Without thinking, she blocks his arm, pushing it away from her before his fingers can close around her wrist. The dagger rises, grip as solid as stone and defensive as she holds it, blade unsheathed and pointing at him.

“Easy, Meimei.”

She blinks, but does not lower her arm. Instead the dagger tilts up as her other arm comes up to brace her wrist.

“I don’t think you need to worry about using it,” Song Lan says dryly, and makes no further moves towards her.  He lifts his hands up, palms out, and she relaxes back onto the ground. Without realizing she had shifted into a crouch, muscles coiled ready to fight.

“I have heard it is common that some of the smaller cultivation sects instruct their disciplines in hand to hand combat; which they must master before they begin sword forms.  Most of the major sects seem to disregard it as an unnecessary step.”  He waits as Jiang Yanli sheathes the blade and folds her hands around it, resting it comfortably in her lap.  “My own master insisted we learn how to defend ourselves with a staff before we could begin sword forms.”

“I have never trained with such a weapon,” she responds, biting her lip, still unsure what she had done.

“Who taught you how to cook?  Your Mother?”

Jiang Yanli almost snorts at the thought of her mother voluntarily being in the kitchen, when she would usually only enter it to berate her about being there and demand she return to more suitable pursuits.  “No. When we visited grandmother, she showed me how to prepare ingredients and meals, how to make a soup base, and ask for a butcher to…”   She falls silent, a sudden wave of memory washing over.  Her grandmother’s kitchen in Meishan, and Yinzhu and Jinzhu standing on either side of her, demonstrating how to prepare a joint of meat, how to slice pork belly, how to filet and mince and debone as her grandmother watched.  How they had shown her the different blades, how each could be used to chop, slice, stab - showed her how to hold each one, how the handle for each was weighed differently, how one used the full strength from her shoulder, another the turn of her wrist, and how each felt different and gave different results. Her grandmother nodding as they practiced again and again, until she could prepare anything, and how proud she had been of each dish -and how each of the elder generation women had patted her on the head, and congratulated her on each new dish and skill. How her grandmother had said a kitchen would always be a place of safety and refuge, wherever she was and whatever she needed.

She looks over at Song Lan and he simply nods. “Whoever taught you how to prepare food with a blade, gave you more than basic instruction.”  Without moving, his tone changed to an order. “Conceal it.”  

Without thinking, she turns the blade towards her, placing it in her sleeve so that it would fall down hilt first into her grasp.  She stares down at her sleeve in surprise, then lets it fall into her hand, smoothly and silently, and deftly flicks her wrist.  

“You listened well,” Song Lan says simply.

“It was for working in the kitchen,” she finally says, unable to fully explain what she remembered, and Song Lan waves away her stumbling answer. 

“You carry the blade as an extension of your arm.  I noticed it earlier, while you were preparing the soup. While you aren’t using it you don’t lay it aside, you tuck it against your arm.”

“It is safer to do so in a crowded kitchen,” she stutters, but Song Lan smiles at her, clearly not believing a word of it.

“If you say so,” he answers, and she clutches the dagger until her knuckles turn white. “Being certain that you know how to use it, know when to use it, both of these things are good to hear. Knowing that you have it to use if necessary, that was enough for the Doctor.  There is one more thing about it you should know.”  He gestures at the top of the handle.  “She said there is a mechanism that will coat the blade with poison.  Push against the top of the handle until it clicks, and the next time you take it from the sheath it will be a poisoned blade.  She didn’t specifically say the poison was fatal, but she did say it would be useful in an emergency situation and would stop anyone from following you if you struck them with that blade.”

Carefully, Jiang Yanli runs her fingers over the braided leather on the handle, and at the top she can feel it, a small section slightly higher than the rest.  “I see.”  She makes no further move to unsheathe the blade.

“I hope you will not need to use it,” Song Lan says.  “From her words I think it would be truly an action of last resort. As long as I am accompanying you it will not be necessary.”

“You will not be beside me forever.” The blunt words fall heavily between them and Jiang Yanli stutters a little at how easily they had fallen from her lips.  “I am not complaining! I’m sorry, I was just - “ she rushes to reassure him, and he waves it away.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”  He holds her gaze until she nods, and subsides enough that she can truly hear him.  “You said nothing but the truth.  You will be alone, and it will be soon.  Having such a weapon, one that others do not know about, can only benefit you and keep you safe.”  He speaks no names, disparages no one, but she can hear the warning as clear as a bell.  Keep it secret. Tell no one.  Let everyone think she is as helpless as her reputation declares.

“The mechanism can be reset- but you will need a fresh application of poison. If you can find a doctor that you can trust to supply it -“

“If I have access to a kitchen, I will be able to find whatever is necessary.” Jiang Yanli interrupts, and then bites her lip at what she had just inadvertently revealed.  “Many things can be found in a kitchen, and not all things are safe to eat without the correct preparation.”

“Of course.  I am glad that it will be of use to you, both now and in the future.”

She turns away, before he spots the sheen of tears in her eyes, and pulls the blanket closer around herself. The now familiar roil of guilt in her stomach, at her weakness, her lack of strength, the way she must rely on others for protection.  It settles uncomfortably in her bones, the knowledge that without the weight of her family name and her sect behind her that she is as helpless as a kitten.

Song Lan laughs. “A kitten?” he asks.

She does not turn back, humiliation staining her cheeks red as she realizes she has spoken her thoughts out loud.

“You underestimate yourself, little sister.” When she doesn’t respond, he continues, each word stern.  “Could a kitten have fooled those bandits into leaving us alone?”

“Good fortune,” she mutters and he snorts.

“Good fortune that allowed both of us and the porter to leave in one piece, and even most of the bandits left alive.  If forced to draw my sword, how many would have died?”

She looks at him in alarm. “What do you mean?”

“There were too many of them for me to fight alone,” Song Lan reminds her bluntly. “I would have had to kill as many as possible as early as possible in the fight for us to have had a chance to escape.”  He waits for his words to sink in.  “To protect us both, I would have done so without hesitation.  You must know that your actions saved more of them than any other path.”

“I didn’t think of that, I just wanted them to leave us alone.”

“Strength comes in many forms.”  Song Lan repeats the words as if they were a sacred text inscribed somewhere and subject to veneration.  “Do not underestimate how a different form may be effective.”  He must be able to see the argument rising to her lips, because he pulls forward his own sword and presents it to her.  “This is Fuxue.  I have spent years cultivating with her and she acts as an extension of my arm.  Do you believe that I am strong?”
“Yes.” 

“You hold a dagger in your hands now.  Can you use it to cultivate?”

“No.”

“Could you use it to take another’s life?” She hesitates, and he smiles grimly at her. “It is a hypothetical question, one made of possibly and maybe, Meimei. There is a difference, yes there is between thinking and doing, and that is what we are discussing. Would it be possible?”

“Yes.”

“Indeed. I have a spiritual weapon and you have a dagger. We are both strong in different ways.”  He hesitates then pushes forward, even when she flinches at his words.  “When they left, neither of your brothers had a sword, let alone their own spiritual weapons.  Does that make them weak?” She can’t answer, and he presses the point.  “Does that make you stronger than them?”

“Of course not,” she blurts out as if it was the only truth she knows in this world.

“They are far stronger in cultivation,” Song Lan agrees easily.  “They are far stronger in sword forms and combat and defense. Do you agree?”

“Yes?”

“Yet I have a blade, as do you. Doesn’t that make us stronger?”

She hesitates, not sure how to express the conflicting feelings rolling through her heart, and her struggle must have become clear on her face, because he relents a little.

“Fear not, I am aware of how talented they both are, the prides of their generation.”  He pauses, choosing his words with care.  “Would you say that the Twin Jades of Lan are the strongest?”

“Maybe,” she replies pensively. “They are very accomplished with musical cultivation as well.”

“Indeed.”  He waits for her to continue, and when she doesn’t he repeats himself. “Strength comes in many forms, yes?”

“Yes.” She pauses then says carefully, “They don’t have swords, which means they are not at full strength.” 

“Correct.”

“That does not make them weak.”

“It does not.”  He waits for the words to bring her what comfort they can, and then he says, “and neither are you.”

“They left me behind!”

“They did,” he agrees.

“They didn’t even tell me! They tricked me and drugged me and passed me over like a bolt of silk to be carried away.  There are only the three of us now. I told them that we have to stay together.”

“They were wrong not to tell you, not to include you in their plans.”  He agrees easily, and kindly overlooks the angry tears that are spilling down her cheeks.  “When I agreed to escort you, I assumed that you were aware of it and had agreed to it.”

“I had not,” she manages through gritted teeth.

“As we now know.”  

Silence falls between them, as Jiang Yanli struggles to keep her breathing even and hide the tears she is shedding.  Song Lan makes no move to comfort her, which she is oddly thankful for as she is not sure if it would cause her to scream at him in frustration which he does not deserve, or to break into sobs which he also doesn’t deserve.

“You do, however, see the necessity of it.”  At his words, Jiang Yanli wonders for an instant if perhaps he actually does deserve either.  “In order for them to do what is necessary, they need you to be safe.  While we may not agree with their actions, their intention is understandable.”

“I disagree,” Jiang Yanli says through gritted teeth.

“Disagreement does not make their intention the incorrect path.  What has been done will have ramifications across the cultivation world. Sides will be chosen and those who can lead on the frontlines will need to have their full attention placed there.  Do you intend to be there with them?”

She hesitates, unable to easily claim that she would, and allows a brief flare of resentment to show, before she tamps it down as she always does.

“They need you to be somewhere that is safe,” he repeats.  “When they have done what is necessary, they will return to you. Let them focus on what is needed without worrying about your safety for now.”

“So as always, I am to wait.”

“Yes.”

“So much for the many forms of strength.”

“You think endurance is not a form of strength?”  He extends both of his hands, placing them on her shoulders in a gentle grasp.  When she doesn’t pull away, he adds, “We will travel together until we reach our destination. We will bear the burdens and grief that have been placed upon us. We will wait and endure and watch until given the opportunity to help where we are needed and to do what we can.  Opportunities will come, and we can take them when they arise.”

“I am so tired,” she whispers.

“And strong,” Song Lan replies stoutly.  When she shakes her head, he squeezes her shoulders.  “My sword is not within my reach. You hold in your hands a dagger that could end my life easily. After all that has happened you are still breathing and still concerned about others. You care for them and worry and consider how to help others.  How are you not strong?”

She has no answer for him, and he finally releases her.

“I will take first watch. Rest as much as you can, and I will wake you just before sunrise. After a few hours sleep I shall be ready enough for us to continue our journey.  Do you agree?”

“Yes.” She settles close to the fire, his presence a solid beacon of safety beside her and closes her eyes. Before she falls asleep she whispers quietly, “Thank you, Dage.”

The weather holds for the next few days as they travel towards Lanling, but the constant strain of carrying both of them on his sword begins to take a toll on Song Lan.  They start to spend less time in the air, and Jiang Yanli insists that she takes first watch now when they make camp, insisting that he have the chance to sleep more, and taking care of their provisions.  Yet she can still see how much strain he is placing himself under.

She is sure now that they are close to Lanling, possibly a day or two at most left in their journey. The glimpses she has caught of the terrain, the trees and flowers, even the sounds of the birds make it seem like they are close.

Today is especially bright, the sun so strong and the sky so blue that Song Lan had actually torn a black strip of cloth from his sleeve and tied it over her eyes, saying that it would help.  Surprisingly, it had helped, shading her eyes enough that she could see shapes without squinting in the glare of the sun.

As she gathers the firewood and Song Lan naps beside his sword, she sorts through her memory for the closest towns to Lanling.  Usually when she had traveled with her mother to Lanling, they had stopped for the night at a small town called Jinhuayuan. The town was not exactly secret, but it was secluded, as it was not connected to the main trade routes because the local farmers were all dedicated to producing the sparks amid snow peonies that were so central to the Jin sect identity. They had no need for other crops or skills to trade, as the flowers were resources enough to support them.

The fields of white peony crops should be visible from the air, and the town beside them… She remembers that the inn at the center of the town was owned by a fearsome Madam Li, who was always ready to greet her mother and press sweet buns into the hands of her hungry children.

It would be a risk.

Madam Li certainly knows who she is, and is likely to remember her.

Yet - she has different robes, and maybe she could wear the blindfold? Allow Song Lan to do all the talking? 

Would that be enough?

She bites her lip and runs through the situation one more time, as she prepares a meal with the last of their provisions, and Song Lan stirs back to wakefulness. 

***

Song Lan had not agreed with her plans. 

He had wanted to continue on, to risk another stop or two without provisions, to rely on his experience with enduring inedia. He preferred that to risking the village.

He did not agree with her, but he did listen when she said she could not endure it herself. He listened as she explained the precautions again, stating clearly the ways in which they could increase their safety. 

He finally agreed with her plan when she held his gaze and said bluntly that if he faltered in the air, they would both fall, but he would be more likely to survive it.

He was unhappy but he agreed that between two bad choices, the inn was probably the safer option.

Jiang Yanli truly believed it to be so. Right up until the door to the inn had been opened by a cowering young man, and revealed the room to be full of scarlet and black clad cultivators.

The Wens are drinking wine and calling for more food, tossing chicken bones upon the floor and laughing. In the far corner a small group of them are crowded around a game board, some shouting encouragement at the players while others take wagers on who will win.

Song Lan sweeps Jiang Yanli behind him and lifts his sword, as a few heads turn, eyes narrowing at the sight of a black robed cultivator in the company of a woman. A startled hush falls over the room as the Wen cultivators stand. 

“Luo-gongzi.”  The name rings in the taut silence, and the Wen cultivators turn sharply towards a tall woman dressed in green robes who is walking purposefully across the room.  She doesn’t spare the collected Wen cultivators a glance, keeping her gaze fixed on the new arrivals in the doorway.  “You are late Luo-gongzi.  Luo er-guniang has been beside herself, worrying about the both of you, but most especially what has befallen her sister here.  The poor thing, well she has not eaten for days.” She reaches them, placing her back between them and the Wens, and subtly turns them towards the staircase. 

“My apologies,” Song Lan says as the woman takes the arm of his charge, jade bangles clinking as her fingers curl into the fabric of her sleeve.  “The journey was difficult.”

“That is to be expected,” the woman sighs heavily, and reaches to cup Jiang Yanli’s cheek, turning her blindfolded face away from those watching. “Is her sight truly lost?”

Song Lan hesitates, turning his gaze left and right as if he can’t bear to answer and then nods, once. 

“Madam Li!” Jiang Yanli wails, a piercing sound cut short as she is hauled into the embrace of the innkeeper, who tucks her face into her neck, and rocks her steadily. Jiang Yanli weeps, crushing sobs of grief torn from her throat, as the innkeeper holds her. Song Lan turns away, as if to give them privacy, and his gaze lands upon the Wens.  They shift uncomfortably, the ones furthest away turn back to their game, and the wagering resumes at a lesser volume. Although a few still seem suspicious, the lure of returning to their meals is strong.

“Upstairs, second room on the left,” Madam Li hisses in her ear, with a little shake for emphasis, before continuing in her usual voice, “Now, now, child. Tears will be of no use, and your sister is waiting. Hush, little silly egg. Luo-gongzi, please take her upstairs. The main reception room, turn right at the end of the hall.” With a final pat on her head, smoothing her hair down under the blindfold, Madam Li releases her, and moves towards the Wens, enquiring if cups need to be refilled and calling for more meat.

Song Lan slides an arm around Jiang Yanli’s waist as she sways, and wipes at her cheeks with her sleeve. The blindfold had caught most of the tears, but enough had escaped to tell him that ruse or not, the emotion behind them still has her in its grip.

He pushes her gently towards the stairs, keeping her shielded as much as possible from the others, and she stumbles forward with him.  She moves tentatively on the stairs, but he is there to guide her, and when they reach the top, she points to their left.

Song Lan doesn’t hesitate and follows her lead to the second room, where she slides the door open and he steps into the dimly lit room first.

The sword that appears level with his throat is unexpected. He freezes in place.

“Identify yourself,” a gruff voice demands and before Song Lan can respond, Jiang Yanli tears off her blindfold.

“Luo-guniang,” she says, the slightest quiver in her voice. “It’s been some time since we last met.”

The sword drops away from his throat, and he turns to slide the door closed behind them.

Luo Qingyang surges forward to grasp Jiang Yanli’s hand and sweep defensively in front of her, but she is thwarted by her resistance.

“There is nothing to fear. He has sworn to see me safely to Lanling.” Jiang Yanli smiles, wan and brave in reassurance, and then extends her freehand for Song Lan to take.  “Madam Li told us that Luo er-guniang was waiting upstairs for us.  Your dage and jie are happy to see you.”

“It has been so long since I saw Dage that I did not recognise him at all.” Luo Qinyang says with a small smile. “Are you both well?”

“We are uninjured,” Song Lang replies, and Luo Qingyang nods.

“The journey has been long, and we would welcome a meal and some tea?” Jiang Yanli asks, casting a quick glance across to the low table where there appears to be a warmed kettle and covered dishes.

“Of course!” Luo Qingyang hurries across the room and begins to prepare two bowls. “Come, please sit and rest. There is enough food and tea, and Madam Li would bring us more if we ask.”

Song Lan seats himself across from the door, leaving Fuxue in easy reach.  Jiang Yanli makes her way around the table to kneel beside the kettle and prepare the tea.  The other two kindly do not comment on how badly her hands are shaking as the cups rattle.

Luo Qingyang waits for them to eat, and refills their bowls twice before she finally breaks and asks, “Our…. Brothers?”

“Send their love,” Song Lan replies when Jiang Yanli sends him a pleading glance. “They could not accompany us on this journey as they had a task to complete.”

“But they are well?”

“They were healthy the last time I saw them.”

Luo Qungyang leans towards Jiang Yanli. “I am glad of that. I worried when I saw you had come alone.”

“They entrusted me to Dage,” she replies quietly, evenly and Luo Qingyang hears the remnants of hurt. “I didn’t see them before they left.”

“I am sure they will be happy to know you are safe.”

Jiang Yanli glances away and says nothing.

“The rest of our story should probably wait.” Song Lan gestures to the door, and then begins gathering a small selection of sweet fruits in a bowl, and hands them to Jiang Yanli. “The details are too long and complicated to discuss now.”

Luo Qingyang nods. “I agree. Returning should be our priority. I know this area very well - after a few hours of rest, we will be able to reach home before midnight.”

“You wish to travel after dark?” Song Lan asks in surprise.

“I know the area well enough,” Luo Qingyang reassures them both and then adds, “I have traveled there by sword many times. I can lead us in. It will also allow us to enter the tower more discreetly.  It would not be wise to announce our arrival too openly.”

Jiang Yanli stiffens a little, and Luo Qingyang hurries to reassure her. “You will be safe, I promise! It’s just - well news of… Sect Leader Jin and Madam Jin were told things and they fought in public, and Jin-gongzi sided with his mother, and Sect Leader Jin was angry and - he declared ...” She bites her lip. “We had visitors. He was making them happy.”

Song Lan leans across to grip Jiang Yanli’s wrist. “If you wish to seek shelter elsewhere, I will escort you.”

Jiang Yanli shudders, and shakes her head. “There is nowhere else.” She holds his gaze and he can almost hear her listing the places that are impossible for her to go to - Qinghe is besieged, the Cloud Recesses burned, the smaller sects between Qishan and Yunmeng turned or destroyed. Meishan - her last safe port in a storm - would not be able to withstand a Qishan Wen attack. Lanling is the only chance she has. For now. He wills her to understand that. For now - later there would be more options, other opportunities.  

“It is where they will look for you,” Luo Qingyang adds softly, and Jiang Yanli nods. 

“Then we shall go there,” Song Lan says, and squeezes Jiang Yanli’s wrist once more. “If you ever wish to leave, send for me and I will escort you.”

She turns her wrist in his grasp, and he loosens his grip, ready to release her. A moment later her fingers close around his own wrist, and she holds him steady, a silent thank you and a promise to call for help if she needs him hanging between them.

“It’s settled then,” Luo Qingyang finally says, head bowed over the kettle as she prepares three cups of tea.  “I will send a butterfly messenger to Jin-gongzi to meet us, so he can vouch for us to enter the restricted family quarters. My token alone won’t grant us all entry, but his will. Jie, I have a spare set of our robes for you to change into; the guards will look less closely at you if you are in them.  I’ll help you change into them while Dage rests for the journey.” She hesitates a moment and then grins at them, so deeply dimples appear in her cheeks. “If we meet anyone on our way in, call me Mianmian. No one will question it, as everyone there calls me by that nickname.”

Jiang Yanli nods, but Song Lan hesitates, a sense of unease at how easy this had become tugging at him.  Jiang Yanli had brought them here, with memories from past trips to Lanling. Madam Li had certainly recognised her, and had every opportunity to turn them over to the Wens, but had not… but to have this Jin cultivator waiting upstairs to offer assistance seemed too convenient.

“Who would you need to send a warning of our arrival to Jin-gongzi?” he asks slowly. “If subterfuge is our aim, announcing our arrival is counter-productive.”

Jiang Yanli’s shoulders stiffen and Mianmian looks unhappy with the question, but understanding dawns on her.  “Ah, I did not tell you how I came to be here.  Madam Jin was very unhappy with the decisions her husband had made.  Deeply unhappy and angry. She asked her son to immediately set out and search for any trace of… those people. She wanted them escorted back to her so they could be placed under her protection. Jin-gongzi searched for days, with no trace found and then the We-... those visitors came, and his father began to demand his presence. He asked a few of us who had been with him at Cloud Recesses to continue searching, but our duties meant we had to stay closer to home. Madam Jin stationed me here. She said Madam Li would be of help, as you often stopped here as children.”
“That is true,” Jiang Yanli says quietly, looking up at Song Lan. 

“And of course, she comes from -” Mianmian catches herself at the last moment. “The same town as our grandmother,” she substitutes with an expectant look at Jiang Yanli.

She stares back at her. Could that be true? Madam Li was from Meishan too? Jiang Yanli thinks back to the way her mother had been greeted, the extra time they had always spent here, the way Madam Li remembered them and - gave warnings of what to expect in Lanling. 

“That would explain why she showed no fear downstairs,” Song Lan muses.  The pieces do fit together, but - after everything that has happened to them both recently, he doesn’t wish to place too much trust in fate.

“She called me a little silly egg,” Jiang Yanli says, and looks at Song Lan with tears in her eyes. “Just like grandmother does. Mother trusted her, as she does Madam Jin.  It’s why...they... chose to send us here.” 

He nods, his reservations appeased enough. Maybe the universe was attempting to rebalance itself. “Very well,” he says. “After this meal and a few hours of meditation, we should be able to finish our journey tonight.” He fixes his gaze on the door. “I will wake if anyone enters this room.  Rest for now.” He closes his eyes and deepens his breathing, settling into a well worn meditation path that he knows will focus his mind and reinvigorate his body.

When he opens his eyes four hours later, the door is still shut, but the room has been cleared and tidied carefully.  Jiang Yanli has been dressed in the gold and cream silks of Lanling Jin, tiny embroidered sparks amidst snow peonies line the sleeves and Mianmian has pulled her hair back in the functional style she wears herself. She is talking quietly with Mianmian, a quiet hum that he has been conscious of while meditating but not loud enough to disturb.

“Dage,” she greets him with a smile. “Mianmian has been catching me up on the cultivation world’s latest news. Who would have thought our little meimei would be so good at explaining things?”

Song Lan nods as Mianmian looks disconcerted and flushes a little at the praise.  He understands what Jiang Yanli is telling him - within the confines of this room, Mianmian has been as forthcoming with information as possible and he is grateful to her.  The more information and knowledge that she has, the safer Jiang Yanli will be.  It will also be good for her to have someone to assist her there - the reputation of Koi Tower for intrigue is famous, and in this unprecedented time of change and shifting alliances it will be good for her to have an ally.

Jiang Yanli rises and spins in a circle. “What do you think? Shall I pass inspection?”

“Definitely. After all, we will be arriving in darkness.”

Jiang Yanli stops and fixes him with a wide eyed stare.  “Dage. Was that a joke?”

He shrugs. “It may be whatever you wish it to be,” he answers generously.

Mianmian stifles an amused giggle, and picks up her sword. “Shall we go?”

They move quietly down the hall, and Madam Li waves them past a roomful of now drunk and sleeping Wens, to the front door. She bows deeply to Jiang Yanli, less so to Luo Qingyang and Song Lan, and they respectfully return the gesture. Together, they set off into the darkness, Luo Qingyang on her sword, and Song Lan once more carrying Jiang Yanli on his.

Luo Qingyang had not lied. She is very familiar with the flight to Lanling and proves it by bringing them towards the city via a quiet approach and a secluded gate, and using her token to take them as far as the family quarters. Koi Tower was slightly more relaxed with visitors using swords to access the higher levels, and she leaves the impression that the three of them are arriving on official business, without saying exactly what it is.

Song Lan and Jiang Yanli follow behind her, Jiang Yanli keeping her gaze down and hoping none will recognise her, and Song Lan draws attention away from her, but the darkness and routine entry smooths their path until finally they arrive at the final private gate, which sits on the threshold of a sturdy wooden walkway, heavily embossed with peonies.

There is no sign of the usual armed sentries, only a single man clad in rich golden robes and clutching a stunning golden sword. Luo Qingyang signals to land, and Song Lan maneuvers them down to land gently beside her.  

Jin Zixuan steps forward and extends his arm to Jiang Yanli who takes it, stepping easily from the low hovering sword down to the ground.  She thanks him quietly, and he places his hand over hers, as if to reassure himself that she is really there.  “Welcome to Koi Tower Jiang-guniang.”  He hesitates as all the usual greetings seem inadequate or simply wrong. He can’t say he is pleased to see her, when the reason she is there is so awful. He can’t say to make herself at home because they need to hide her, and he can’t find a proper way to reassure her, without it sounding ridiculous in his own head.  So he says nothing, and stands there, clutching her hand, hoping that she can sense his willingness to stand beside her at the very least. He barely notices that she is wearing the golden robes of his own sect, more concerned at the quiet grief in her eyes.

Luo Qingyang sends him a despairing look, as if she has many things she could say, but will not for the sake of propriety at this point, and instead turns to the man who has carried Jiang Yanli on his sword, and ensured she has arrived safely.  “Didn’t I say I could bring us all the way here?” she demands cheekily. “Praise me, Dage!”

Jin Zixuan starts violently, eyes wide with surprise because he knows that Mianmian has no siblings.

“Indeed. Mianmian was the perfect choice to help us today. She has done well,” Song Lan says with a straight face, and Mianmian pretends to preen, like a peacock.  Their antics pull a small and tired smile from Jiang Yanli, as they had hoped it would.

“For my reward, may I know your identity at last?” Mianmian asks, and Jin Zixuan once more is glad that somehow amongst all the cultivators in Koi Tower, he has found such true support in her.

Jiang Yanli starts, as Mianmian had intended and hurries to perform the formal introductions. She lets go of his arm, and Jin Zixuan manages to focus on the name of this man who had somehow managed to bring Jiang Yanli safely to Koi Tower.

“Song Lan? From the massacred Baixue Temple?” he blurts out and this time the look that Mianmian sends him is also visible to Jiang Yanli.

“The same,” Song Lan acknowledges with a bow, and Jin Zixuan hurries to respond with his own.

“Please accept my apologies, my words were thoughtless. The attack on Baixue Temple is a tragedy and the perpetrators must be punished.” Jin Zixuan manages to respond, and Song Lan bows once more in acknowledgement of his words.

“Song-daozhang,” Mianmian says, once more his loyal and faithful friend who steps into the breach and completes her own introduction.  “Thank you for your assistance. It has been a pleasure being your little sister, even for such a brief time.”

“Luo-guniang,” he responds, “I believe the experience of being your older brother is one best served in small amounts.”

“Another joke!” she crows and turns to Jiang Yanli. “He made another joke!”

Jiang Yanli smiles, a shadow version of her usual one. “Indeed it was.”

Jin Zixuan pulls open the gated door, and escorts them inside.  It is cool inside the hallway, and somehow fragrant, and Jiang Yanli can feel her composure starting to slip, and she wishes frantically for a moment’s solitude but she knows it cannot be granted.

The hallway takes them to a closed door, beyond which it branches off in three directions, and Jin Zixuan brings them to a halt there.

“There has been a development,” he says, and Jiang Yanli’s head snaps up, fear and hope warring on her face, and he rushes to reassure her. “I have no news of your brothers. I would have told you immediately if I did.”  Hope drops away, leaving only fear and grief, and Jin Zixuan burns with the need to wipe those expressions away from her.  “Wen Chao is here,” he says baldly, “He arrived at sunset with a further squad of Wen cultivators. My father is entertaining them in the main pavilion now.  They are still searching for all three of you.  I don’t know how long he intends to stay here.”

Jiang Yanli nods, eyes burning bright with rage and sorrow and fear, and for one moment Song Lan actually wonders if she will find a way to use her dagger.  He cannot find it in himself to caution her against it, as he knows he may do the same in her position.

“Which creates an unforeseen problem,” Jin Zixuan says, drawing their attention back to the current situation. “Mother had intended to present your presence here as a fait accompli, forcing Father to protect you. But now - now we know what the Wen are truly capable of, and I do not trust Wen Chao to respect any guest rites and responsibilities. These are the family quarters, you will pass unnoticed into Mother’s wing and she will welcome you and protect you from any who wish you harm. As will I and Mianmian and a few others that can be trusted in this.” He holds her gaze, almost pleading for her to understand. “We did not intend for you to be confined. You are not our prisoner, and you don’t need to fear we will betray you to them, but - most of Koi Tower will not be safe for you. Not while they are here, and not while..” he trails off before he can be wholly unfilial about his father, and manages to say instead, “the situation remains as it is.”

“I understand. I am grateful for your willingness to aid me.” Her voice is cool and calm, and so fragile.

“We will continue to search for your brother and Wei-gongzi,” he hastens to add. “However we can help them, we will.”

Jiang Yanli nods, and Song Lan steps forward to take her arm for a moment, turning her gently.  “If you are to be hidden in the family wing, then it is time for me to take my leave.”  He steels himself against the shattered expression in her eyes, holds her gaze, allowing her the chance to react and grieve because he knows, they both know, that there is no choice.  “Another female cultivator in Jin robes will draw no attention, but I will.  I will not bring danger or suspicion down upon you.”

“You have done all that my brothers asked of you, and more. My thanks for your assistance in this matter. Song-daozhang.” She bows, deep and graceful and sways just enough that he knows she is holding back tears.

“Song-daozhang is correct.” Jin Zixuan says slowly, gaze moving between them as he notes how easily they seem to understand each other.  “He cannot be hidden in the male side of the family wing, there are too many people who pass though.  I regret that I cannot even extend a single night’s hospitality.” He fumbles in his sleeve and pulls out a heavy purse.  “Please take this as a token of our deep gratitude for bringing Jiang-guniang safely to us. Mother agreed it should be the equal of the reward that the Wen had offered.”

Song Lan makes no move to take it.  “I require no compensation for doing what is right,” he says flatly.

Mianmian winces, seeing how badly both of them are misunderstanding each other in this matter.  “Song-daozhang, such a reward is usual in the Jin Sect.  There is no offense meant, it is simply a gesture acknowledging the central role you have played in bringing Jiang-guniang here safely.  Well, Jin-gongzi also feels guilty that he cannot even offer you shelter for tonight. The Jin sect will not miss it, and Madam Jin will demand to know why we insulted you if you leave without it.”

Jiang Yanli takes the pouch from Jin Zixuan and presses it into Song Lan’s hands. “Use it to repair Baixue Temple, or endow an orphanage in their name. Whatever good you can think of to do with it. You ensured my safety. Use this to ensure someone else experiences the same thing - including yourself if necessary.” She closes his fingers around the pouch. “Thank you, Dage. The words are inadequate and I owe you so much more than this.”

“As you wish,” he finally agrees, and Jin Zixuan looks relieved. He had truly not intended to insult him, but he forgets that not all men value money in the way that the Jin sect does. 

Song Lan bows to Jin Zixuan and Mianmian and finally Jiang Yanli. “I will take my leave. Jin-gongzi. Luo-guniang. Jiang-guniang.” He bows a final time, deep and respectful, and turns back the way they had come.

“Song-daozhang!” 

He turns at the threshold, as footsteps hurry towards him.  He waits for Jiang Yanli to reach him, his hand automatically coming up to cup her elbow and support her.

“Song-daozhang.”  She repeats his name, but this time more gently, as she knows he is listening and there is no need to risk being overheard. At the far end of the hallway, Jin Zixuan and Luo Qingyang stand guard, their attention turned towards the set of closed doors, assuring them of privacy in a gesture that Jiang Yanli had not anticipated yet gave her a warm sense of hope.

Song Lan nods gravely, his grip steady as Jiang Yanli gazes up at him.  She doesn’t reach out for him, not in the way she would have done for her brothers.  The way she stands beside him, the stillness in her posture and the way she leans into his grip shows the trust she holds for him, even here under the gaze of others.

She looks up at him, and bites her lip. 

Knowing that he has fulfilled his responsibility, the duty he willingly took on to see her safely to Lanling, is one thing.  Knowing that this last link, however tenuous it may actually be, to her brothers, to her life before is about to leave - she can’t find the words to actually say it.

Song Lan seems to understand at least.

“Jiang guniang.”  He releases her elbow and bows formally, hand clasped over his sword, back straight; the picture perfect gesture of respect shown to a daughter of a major sect leader. A daughter who is also a cultivator.

She takes in a deep breath and returns the gesture; although her own sword is now lost to the Wens as part of the spoils of Lotus Pier, she holds her hands high as if she still held it, her form elegant.

“Thank you for everything,” she whispers and glances up.

Song Lan smiles at her, genuine and sweet.

She straightens and says firmly, “When I see you next, I expect to see you in the company of Xiao-daozhang.” She leans closer, letting her sleeve hide the way she catches his wrist and grips it firmly. “I would hope you both have time to take tea with me. I would like to discuss your future plans to establish a sect in more detail.”  

Song Lan pauses, but the confidence in her gaze helps him find his own strength to answer.  She truly does believe that Xiao Xingchen will be happy to see him, and truly believes that he would still consider him a friend. She has once again looked straight into his soul and found the words that will help him along the next necessary steps. “We would be honored to do so.”

Everyone always claims that Jiang Yanli, the flower of Lotus Pier, is plain and unassuming.  

Song Lan has heard it himself, more than once.

Such people have obviously never been the recipient of one of her most sincere smiles.

“Then I will look forward to our next meeting.” She inclines her head in an elegant bow and takes a step back, the golden sleeves of her borrowed robe swaying gently, and the handle of the black dagger peeks out at her waist.  “If you see…” 

He waits, but her voice trails off, leaving unsaid the words that she doesn’t really need to say.  He knows who she is referring to.

“I will.” 

She looks a little startled, and then her gaze turns rueful, in agreeing that she really did not need to say exactly who he might see.

“Take care,” he adds, and this time it is she who doesn’t need him to complete the sentence - take care here in this place where she will be alone and with few friends.  His gaze pointedly drops to where she has hidden the dagger.

Jiang Yanli carefully brushes the silken gold skirts of her borrowed robes, and then pats the material smooth at her waist, a silent signal of reassurance.  “Travel safely, Song-daozhang.”

With a final bow, Song Lan turns and leaves the hall, heading back out into the warm sunshine and the long trek down the tower stairs.

Jiang Yanli turns and walks towards the other end of the hall. As she approaches, Jin Zixuan and Luo Qingyang turn.  She stumbles a little, exhaustion creeping through her bones from the chill of the long sword flight, and the situation.  Luo Qingyang calls her name and before she can reassure her that she is well, Jin Zixuan strides forward and extends his arm.

“Mother will be waiting,” he says, and Luo Qingyang snaps to attention.

“Jin-gongzi! I will go ahead and announce your arrival.” She salutes briefly, tosses a warm smile at Jiang Yanli and hurries towards the family quarters.

Jin Zixuan’s face is cold and stern, but his offered arm does not falter.  She places her fingertips on his arm, and he pulls her along in Mianmian’s wake.

She risks a glance at him, and catches his eye. He looks away hurriedly, then says stiffly, “Mother will be glad that you are here. We should not keep her waiting.”

In silence they walk through the halls, golden silk shimmering as they cross the courtyard.

“Thank you,” Jiang Yanli finally whispers and he shakes his head.

“There is no need for thanks. You are safe here. I … Mother…. We will make the Lanling Jin Sect protect you.”

Before she can stop them, tears brim and fall down her cheeks.  She raises a hand to dash them away, but her wrist is caught by Jin Zixuan.  He dabs carefully at her cheeks with the edge of his sleeve, his touch gentle against her delicate skin.

“Mother will be waiting,” he repeats awkwardly, and pulls her along behind him.

Without a word, and with nowhere else to go - for now, only for now she hopes from the depths of her soul -  she follows him.