Oblivion

"I know how to protect us. All of us. We can't be afraid every day that the world will decide to kill us". "And what do you suggest?" "I will make them forget".     There is a man in his dreams. He can never remember his face. But he feels he knows that face. He knows that smile, those eyes, that laugh. He knows it, but he can't remember it. It's a boy. A little older than him, and he knows it. This boy is important to him, this boy has been there for him, this boy has promised to be with him always. This is a young man. He is taller and prettier than many of their peers, he is not the last among the most enviable bachelors. He brings trouble, and it annoys him so much that he often calls out his name, which slips away faster than he has time to think about it. This is a man. He has changed, he is strong and dangerous, but above all, this man is sad. More often than not, it is the man he sees. He knows his hands, but he cannot remember what those look like; he knows that there is tenderness in his touch when someone else's hands touch his face. He knows what he feels is a mixture of incomprehension and exasperation. He knows this man. He knows his name. He knows him. And he can't remember. The man smiles at him, though he can't remember what that smile is about, except that it bothers him. The man cares for him, loves him, and he knows-knows-k n o w s  it. The man speaks to him, but his voice is deaf to him, as if he were him. But he knows the words, there are: thank you for everything and goodbye. Jiang Wanyin, leader of the Sect Jiang , wakes up with someone's name on his lips that never comes. The sun has not yet risen, and he catches his breath with his mouth. His head splits open and he puts his hand to his lower ribs, his golden core trembling. Sleep is gone in forty seconds, and he can't even understand why he woke up so nervous.     "How can all the people forget us?" "It's going to be hard, I'll have to work on the symbols, and I'll need everyone's blood to write at least one line. It will also take us a few days while I draw it all, should come out... the size of a house. A small house. Okay-okay, a medium-sized house". "And where are you going to get that much blood?" "I didn't say all of it would be ours. This puddle isn't for beauty in my cave".     There are empty flaws in her habits. The way she thinks she wants to embroider another lotus shawl, besides a pair for her little brother and her son. The way she sees the black fabric, touching the beautiful silk and thinking: 'he'll love it', before she realizes she doesn't know anyone who wears black. The way she puts the extra plate of soup, years later, after all the conversations with her husband, after seconds of waiting for someone to take that plate, smile at her and call her... "A-Jie?" utters A-Cheng, and she looks at her own bowl in her hands, red-hot, her skin painfully red. The pain comes dulled as she lets go of the bowl, and the soup scatters across the floor. "A-Li!" her husband is already by her side, with her little brother. Somewhere behind them must be— There must be— There's no one there. "Get a healer!" her husband shouts toward the door as her brother hands her some of his qi to heal the superficial burns. She cries. Tears run down her face, but not from the pain in her hands. Her heart yearns, and she doesn't understand: for whom? Someone has to be here now; someone has to be here to worry the most, but to speak to her in the smoothest voice and the most charming smile in the world; someone has to be here to kiss her confusedly on the temple, blow on her hands, and repeat: everything will be okay, — more for himself than for her. This man has a name; he has a face; he has a place in her heart, solid and strong, next to A-Cheng, and she can't remember. She lets out a sob when she thinks the man she owes it to herself to know tells her: I love you both and it's best for you. Jiang Yanli, the wife of the future leader of the Sect Jin, sleeps deeply from her medication and can barely comprehend the reason for her tears the next day.     "What will it mean to those who love you?" "..." "Wei Wuxian". "..." "Wei Ying. What will happen to them?" "They'll make it, they'll have each other. Shijie will take care of Jiang Cheng, and she has a husband who kind of became normal, and Jiang Cheng... he's strong. And he's a great leader, he'll feel better if no one knows he's related to me".     There is a name. He knows that it is a very, very important name to him. It is a name with shades of annoyance, resentment, embarrassment, joy, anger and fear. It is the name of the person who meant everything to him. It is the name that will mark his life. And he can't remember whose it is. And he can't remember the name. AnD hE dOeSn'T rEmEmBeR aNyThInG. This name — is synonymous with impossibility; this name — denotes perseverance; this name — means ghost. [Wei is chinese for 'ghost'] He does not know how it begins, he does not know how it ends, he does not know if it is a man or a woman, he does not know who it is. But this is the person who greeted him with a cheerful laugh, and it won him over. This person was close to him, was distant from him, but never like this. This man has been sick, has been hurt, has been rejected. And he can't remember who or what. He asks the dead in the solitude of the waterfall, the fireflies, and the melody of the guqin. The dead are silent for a long time before they answer: we are forbidden to tell, and there are only more questions than answers. Lan Wangji, Hanguang-Jun, catches himself buying the Emperor's Smile for someone else every night when he returns to the clan.     "You must say goodbye to them". "Qing-jie, I—" "You don't have to tell them what you want to do, but you have to give it to them. And to yourself, too". "...you're right".     Nie Huaisang is smarter than he seems at first and second glance. His memory is a painterly canvas with all the details and colors without any black spots. He is also an incredibly consistent and observant person, even if his older brother sometimes underestimates him. Nie Huaisang feels... like he's missing something. Something extremely important that has decided to hide from him. There's a black and red blotch, in his perfect head, that's been clogging his eyes and forcing him to hide his frown behind a fan. He frowns when he sees Jiang-sun — or Jiang-zongzhu, if they are at a conference; — he tilts his head when he looks at Lan Wangji, more unassailable and quieter than he has become in recent years; he hums thoughtfully when Jiang-guniang takes care of his four-year-old son, spoiling and nurturing him. Something is so close in his head that he feels an incoming migraine when he thinks about it. It is strong enough to be noticed by his brother, who made him come to the conference (of course, he pretended to be sick then and didn't expect to have a real headache). He can only meet the understanding gaze of Yao-ge, who has been complaining about similar things for the past few years: a slow and oncoming dizziness, like the weight of a stone getting heavier somewhere behind his eyes. Nie Huaisang hears another one: the dogs-Wen, — somewhere not far from him. No conference goes by without mentioning the Wen Clan or Wen Ruohan, talking about how much evil he has caused and how good it is that they were able to stop him. Suddenly, it hits him, and he stares straight ahead. He can feel the blood flowing from his nose, down his lips, down his chin, down to the ground. He hears his brother stirring beside him, turning sharply toward him and half standing up as if he were going into battle; he hears his name, and feels his vision blur before him, as unconsciousness almost embraces him; he hears something about healers, hears fear in his brother's voice, but he cannot calm it because his mind is drowned in the question:

 

How did we win the war?

  "What risks could there be? For you, if you do it". "I'll definitely do it, and don't worry, I'll live". "Just 'live'?" "I may spend some time outside my body. It doesn't have to be longer than a year. If I do it right, and I'll do it right, you'll be protected. I'll be back, I promise". "Gods... don't do anything too stupid, please". "I can't promise that, though!"     Lan Qiren seems to be dropping something from his hands. There is something to do with Cangse Sanren, long deceased and laid to rest. Something that his self-appointed shimei left him as a nuisance. Exactly what she always did with her silly smile and loud laughter, breaking the rules and driving him to deflect qi. Something that looked like herself, but was never her; something vivid and impressive; something impossibly noisy and unbearably unforgettable. What an irony that he did just that. Nie Mingjue thinks of the Nightless City. He thinks that it burned with green fire, and that the demon himself was on their side. He doesn't know where these thoughts came from, but he can't shake them off, looking at his brother with severe mental exhaustion. It seems to him that it was like a shadow of death that led them to victory. Lan Xichen worries about his brother sitting among the rabbits. The ghost of someone seems to be haunting him, making him look more tired and sleep-deprived. Making him turn sideways, as if expecting to see someone and not finding one. He is very worried about his little brother, stroking a rabbit that has run up to himself. He squints at the dull pain in his temple: where in Gusu Lan did the rabbits come from? Jin Guangyao cannot escape the feeling that he must have done something very important; something that might cost him his life; something that must cost the lives of others. It causes him the kind of headache he has never even dreamed of, it is with him every day, every night, it exhausts him enough to sidetrack his loyalty to his father into irritation, and then into disgust. Meng Yao thinks about shifting his attention to eliminating this problem. Xue Yang doesn't know how he knows what he knows. He is certain that there was someone who invented the demonic way before him. Someone powerful and deadly; someone he would like to call shizun; someone the shadows talk about. Someone who rules death as if it belonged to him; someone who could end wars alone; someone who must be the analogy of evil. Xue Yang does not know who such a man must be, but he is sure that he is hiding, and it makes him laugh to think that this man has deceived the whole world. Delightful.     "Please", he begins, embracing his shijie, breathing in her perfume, the smell of lotus and spice from the kitchen, the smell of home; "take care, both of you", he smiles as he pulls away from her. Wei Ying looks at his shidi, and can't remember anything about their feud as he pulls him to him almost as much as shijie. His palms are on someone else's cheeks as he leans his forehead against his. "I love you. I would do anything for you. I—" he looks at them, his shijie pulls his hand to his face, whispering his name, Jiang Cheng full of concern, almost interrupting him, but he persists: "thank you for everything", he smiles, his heart on fire, his shidi and shijie in his hands, the taste of lotus soup and ribs still on his lips — his first family; behind him in the distance are the remains of Wen, Qing-jie, Wen Ning, A-Yuan — his second family; his eyes sting treacherously, but he continues to smile, his voice miraculously unshaking: "it will be better for you. And goodbye".     There are mountains near the city of Yiling that are blacker than ink and colder than ice. The mass grave is so old and greedy that no one remembers its beginning or can foresee its end. The sky there is unnaturally red and the ground is deadly black. They are called Burial Mounds. Thousands, tens of thousands of souls that will never be laid to rest howl and roar with the force of hurricane winds, and reanimated corpses hang around without purpose along their paths. A dangerous and unfriendly place, uncontrollable like a rotten infection. Many have tried to subdue them, more have tried to clear the area — to no avail. The Burial Mounds are impregnable, unwavering, and unchanging. But, they say, in a whisper of burning incense, Burial Mounds has a Master. No one knows how long ago he was there, just as no one knows the history of these places. It is as if he has always been there. A demon in black robes, like an evil dark energy that swirls around his tall and lean figure, and red eyes like the sky he rules. In his hands is a flute, a black dizi with a red tassel like his eyes, and the dead follow the music; they go deep into the mountains and return no more. People, in fear and awe, call him Yiling Laozu.     (When Mo Xuanyu comes to Burial Mounds he is fourteen years old, lost in what only he remembers and knows. Of the man who was briefly with him as a spirit, of the voice in his head, of whom legends were made in his lifetime. About whom he was told when the war was going on, with equal amounts of horror and hope. And then the world forgot him. Mo Xuanyu did not know why he alone remembered Wei Wuxian, better known as Yiling Laozu, before or now, but he was about to find out).