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His body reacts right away.
A feeling of desperation, the single thought I can't lose you, too, and then a piercing sensation through his chest-
He falls.
Dark. It's so dark.
He hears the sound of water. Instinctively, he stumbles toward it.
He stops when his feet sink into muddy ground, waves lapping against his ankles. His eyes adjust to the sliver of moonlight, revealing an endless expanse of water before him.
In the air, the cloying perfume of lotuses.
As though possessed, he enters the pool, one foot after the other, as the water passes his knees, then his waist, his chest, and finally his face.
When he is fully submerged, the floor gives way beneath him, and he sinks.
As he drifts downward, he breathes in and draws into his lungs an endless torrent of grief and pain, hate and emptiness, despair that never ceases, that always is.
Unwanted recollections rush to him against his will, forcing him to face a past he has long tried to bury, to hide away.
That day, the light in his mother's eyes flickers out as she stands, waiting, a smile vanishing from her lips as she watches the two figures approaching. The taller one holds, very tenderly, a small child in his arms.
He is too young to truly understand it then. Later, he knows. His mother does not cry because she cannot cry. But she never truly smiles again.
The heart can be murdered, a death so quiet, like a softly-released breath; what still lingers is a carcass, festering and rotting.
And she feeds him her decaying organ, bit by poisonous bit, forcing him to swallow.
He stares at the cold, hard back. If he stretches out his hand, surely he could touch it, yet it feels infinitely distant, like the ocean chasing the sky toward a horizon forever out of reach.
He withdraws his fingers, folds them into a grip, forming a fist that he hides within his sleeves.
Turn around, he chants in his head. Please turn around.
Look at me, please look at me.
See me, please see me.
His father never does.
And so he withers, day after day, under the sun of his father's indifferent neglect.
He is crying, screaming, begging for his parents to return. Parents who had never shown him affection, any hints of it so deeply hidden it may have well never existed at all, but they were his parents all the same, loved and hated by him in equal measure.
He wants them back.
He wants them-
He wants-
Searing, agonizing pain, eclipsed by the realization that he still breathes, but that he is nothing.
A useless husk, a gutted shell with his most important thing burned into invisible ashes.
Why wasn't he left to die? He'd rather be dead, he should be dead.
What good was he now, to anyone? A hindrance, completely worthless. (In the end, that is all he is. All he ever was).
He screams in wild fury, but his futile rage only comes out as a whisper as he begs, Why won't you let me die?
His sister, wonderful and gentle, the only one of his blood who selflessly cared for him, granting him unconditional love. She is the mother and father of his heart, guarding him carefully in place of parents who never could, who never would.
She lies on the ground, that same blood staining her mouth, still smiling so sweetly. Red fans out beneath her, like the fluttering robes she wore on that day.
She, who should have had everything she wanted, she for whom he would have, without question, sought, captured, and given the stars, the moon, and the sun, if only she asked-
He can't breathe.
He can't breathe.
He can't-
His brother is a flame, so bright and beautiful, drawing everyone closer to him, like moths circling, himself included.
Is it his jealousy that makes him want to snuff out that flame? Is it hate?
He's drowning, so he drowns his brother along with him.
If he is crying, he can't tell; tears, if any, mingle with the dirty water that envelops him.
On and on come the fragments of his bitter history, an onslaught relentless and cruel. They mercilessly dig at each partially-healed scab, carve again each scar marring his soul, rip out with ruthless precision all the insecurities and vulnerabilities that decades have not managed to diminish.
And each fragment carries the same lesson:
Gone, gone, gone.
They are all gone.
And you.
You are all alone.
There were happy memories somewhere inside of him, he is certain, but they have vanished into mist. Why is it only suffering and despair that come to mind? Why is he trapped in this maelstrom of anguish and torment?
He tries to cry out, but the waters of desolation and loss flood his throat, choking off his voice. His movements are sluggish; lacking the strength and will to struggle further, he grows slack, allowing the currents of grief and hate to drag him down further into their realm, where only darkness lies.
A realm where, after all, he truly belongs.
"Wanyin, you aren't alone."
A voice, like sunlight on a winter morning. Why is it calling to him?
"You saved me again. You always so recklessly protect others, without concern for yourself. This time, let us save you."
No one can save him.
"Regret and self-hatred. You've carried these for so long. You told me to let them go. Isn't it time for you to do the same?"
But they have been his only constants, his only companions, the ones who have never once abandoned him when everyone else has gone. Without them, what does he have left?
"There are people who love you."
He doesn't believe it, but he wants to. To be loved - is that too much to ask for? Is it too much to wish for?
"Your nephew. Your brother. Your sect. And me."
Something stirs within him. Recollections are forming, now, of those people; people who exist to him in the present, in a world beyond this dark, hopeless place.
"You are so important to us. Wake up. Please, you need to wake up."
The voice is patient and gentle. Pure as snow, clear as ice, it speaks guilelessly, no hint of lies or deceit.
And it is familiar. It belongs to someone who always looks at him gently, without judgment, who speaks only the truth, even when truth has not always been kind to him.
The person whom he trusts above all others.
"Come back to us."
Not knowing why, he follows that voice, somehow finds the strength to swim up towards it, towards that last thread of sanity, of hope, of light.
Through the surface of the water, a hand breaks, reaching out to him, and without thinking, without hesitation, only blind faith, he takes it.
The first person he sees is Jin Ling, a crying, sobbing mess. On the brink of adulthood, but still a child, the boy-man clings to him and won't let go.
The second person is his brother, face drawn and tired with a concerned expression he hasn't seen in over a decade, one that morphs into relief and joy upon seeing him wake.
Last is a pair of dark golden eyes, gentle, warm, and intimate. As Jin Ling and Wei Wuxian fuss over him, both of them in tears, those eyes never leave his.
The creature they fought, three nights ago, fed on negative emotions, its poison able to stimulate memories. Those who succumb never awaken from their endless nightmares. Having passed that critical stage, he will soon recover.
Exhausted and raw, he listens to their explanations with half an ear. He feels as though he's been crying for a very long time, but somehow, he no longer feels as empty.
At the urging of the healer, his brother escorts their red-eyed nephew out of the room, casting a glance at the remaining visitor.
Lan Xichen approaches him, standing by his bedside silently.
He does not know what to say, though there is so much he knows that he should. Thank you. Thank you for lighting the way. Thank you for caring.
And other feelings he cannot yet put into words, but which exist all the same.
Before the man, too, departs, he manages to say, "Don't go," voice breaking.
"I won't. I will stay right here." A hand tenderly smooths away the lines on his forehead. "Rest now. I will be here when you wake."
He covers the hand with his own; it does not pull away, instead it turns over to grasp his hand more firmly.
He is soothed by the touch, a sense of peace drifting over him. The soft, comforting scent of frost, of orchids blooming in winter, gently lulls him into a dreamless sleep.