The Tears of Thirteen Years

Chapter 19

This is the re-worked version of the brand scene.

I think there will be another eight or so chapters to this story. Ending with Wei Ying's return.

If there are any scenes you would like to see next, please let me know! Thank you.

------

Gold eyes, indifferent and mournful watch the sky of Gusu as it slowly lightens with the coming dawn.

The deep blue of the night washes away with the heavy rain that runs in rivers down the stone paths, the light of the sun hidden by the grey of the clouds. The air is cold and damp with the storm blanketing the mountains and yet all is still, the only sound the thunder and rain.

Lying in the center of his bed, he listens tiredly to the rumble of thunder and the sound of the rain falling to the terracotta tiles, the faint clatter and rush of the water escaping to the soaking ground below. Sleep has eluded him for most of the night. His nightmares have only grown worse, visions of Wei Ying's death and all his regrets magnified. Tonight it was the storm that woke him rather than his own desperate screams or cries.

Yet he prefers the nightmares to the dreams that leave him aching with hurt and loneliness. The dreams where Wei Ying is alive, happy and carefree, sitting in the sunshine or worse still, the delusions where Wei Ying returns his feelings. These moments are so perfect, he never wants to leave and waking to the truth that Wei Ying is gone, is a agony that cannot be described.

He stares out the window, at the grey clouds he can just see from this angle. It has rained for two days now, the water pooling into a sea that flows down the steps, a waterfall along every pathway or rise. The type of storm that has not come to Gusu for a handful of years, the wind and thunder making the odd, soft roar that he had only ever heard in the mountains. The quiet of the Jingshi replaced by the sound of nature, resplendent in its glory and its rage.

When it rains like this, all Lan Sect disciples remain inside wary of the dangers. Gusu was carved into the side of the mountain and its location guarantees flooding and dramatic thunderstorms, protected only by clever positioning and cultivation energy using the protection talismans that block the worst of the damage.

The ferocity of the rain is blinding and the mountain paths are lethal in these conditions, the ground wet and unforgiving in a fall. Everyone in the central area chooses the corridors, leading to the dining hall and the classrooms that are sheltered, never straying across the courtyard which always floods, the water pouring down the roofs in a constant waterfall and then down the steep hill. The inconvenience and difficulty much preferred over the possibility of injury or the breaking of the sacred protocol, created by their Sect Founder.

Those who live further away, like Wangji chose to stock the essentials in preparation for the storm. It may rain for days more, he thought.

He hoped Sizhui was warm, knowing that his son was still asleep half and hour away from dawn as it was. The little boy needed rest, he thought, after the last few days of trials and heartache. Sizhui's wrist was healing well and his heart had settled but Wangji could only hope that was true.

He had failed to see that Sizhui had been afraid, caught in a cage build by the Elders and Uncle, terrified that he would fail and be thrown from Gusu. That he might lose his home, his family and his future, becoming a disgrace to Wangji as he had been warned. It angered him, to think that they had told a little boy such lies, making him think of himself as less, that Wangji didn't love him as his own.

Neither he nor his brother would abide by others hurting A-Yuan so. Xichen's anger had been a surprise to many, too used to his serenity as they were, especially Uncle.

Xichen's anger lent him a defiance only Wangji had seen before, refusing to allow them to wound his nephew, to suggest even mildly that he was less and there were no words that could express his gratitude to his brother.

This defiance took many quiet forms. Xichen was like the storm above them now. When he chose a path, nothing would stop him. Brother had decided to teach Sizhui the art of silk painting, a rare and highly prized skill their mother had taught them and had sat with him for over an hour improving his calligraphy. He had stood on the training grounds and praised Sizhui's first attempts with a wooden sword, and made sure that he was sitting at the Lan family table during breakfast.

When the weather cleared, Xichen had also requested Sizhui play the guqin in a private recital, for him and the Elders. Designed to showcase his talents and reiterate his place as Xichen's nephew, smiling at Wangji's look of pride as they sat together. This was a sign to them all, that Xichen would not be moved from this position and that Sizhui in his eyes, was a son of Lan. One that would inherit Wangji's place, as a heir if anything should change, if either of the Twin Jades died, never reaching immortality.

Ocean eyes had filled with anxiety and looked at him for answers, confused by Xichen's sudden dogmatic interest. Wangji, unseen by his brother had patted Sizhui's small hand in reassurance, already planning the piece and the setting, for the recital that was a great honor for any Lan student.

Lightning lit the sky in a breath taking arc, a vivid purple like the gentians that blossoms around Mother's cottage. Like the tassel of the silver bell.

He sighs. The breath lost in the sound of the rain, the creak of wood.

The sky is crying but he has no tears left. The mountains would drown if all his pain and sorrow could become tears, his regret and the agony of knowing Wei Ying's death.

A pale hand reached into his inner robes and pulled the silver bell free. It was warm from his skin, from being tucked against his heart as he slept however fitfully. The long purple tassel brushes his hand and the metal gleams, even in the muted dark of the gloomy morning.

Wei Ying.

Another crack of thunder and the bell rang quietly, like the echo of a stilled heart. It was not like the peal of the bells that warned disciples in the fog along the corridors, or the trio of little chimes that danced in the breeze above Xichen's door.

It was a long, low tolling sound, that shivered in the air. The metal vibrated slightly and he felt the talismans bathing him in calm, in serenity that he had not felt since that night. The night he met Wei Ying. It was the purpose of the bell, the symbol of calm as the Yunmeng Jiang Sect as their creed dictated, tried the impossible. It was a focal point and a spiritual reminder, an anchor for each disciple. A thread that was still tied irrevocably to Wei Ying.

Flicking the bed covers back, he shifted and sat up with another sigh, cradling the bell to his heart. It was close to five am and there was no point remaining where he was, wallowing in pain and bitter memories.