To Lie Divine

A Touch of Spring

The world had quieted.

The skies no longer burned with signs, the ground no longer trembled with celestial judgment. The weight that had once hung over Wei Wuxian’s shoulders, heavy as iron chains, was gone. It was spring now, and every breeze carried laughter, every tree was pregnant with blossoms, every village sounded of children’s chatter and women’s songs.

Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji walked side by side along a dirt path lined with cherry trees. Their robes were plain, their hair tied back in simple knots. To the world, they were nothing more than wandering scholars traveling in search of stories and ink.

Wei Wuxian loved the anonymity of it.
Every smile they received from strangers felt brighter because no one knew who he was—no one whispered oracle or cursed child.
They only saw a cheerful man with quick hands and quicker jokes, and the quiet, steadfast companion at his side.

He glanced sideways at Lan Zhan. The falling petals clung stubbornly to his hair, pale pink against strands of silver and black. Lan Wangji didn’t brush them away, only kept walking with his serene, unbothered expression, as though the blossoms belonged to him.

Wei Wuxian chuckled.
“You know, Lan Zhan,” he said, tilting his head with a mischievous grin, “you’re too perfect. Even trees are trying to decorate you.”

Lan Wangji turned his gaze on him, calm but slightly questioning.
“…Mn.”

Wei Wuxian laughed outright at the non-answer. “That’s it? Just mn? If it were me, I’d say—‘Yes, Wei Ying, I am nature’s chosen masterpiece. The blossoms cannot resist me.’”

Lan Wangji blinked once, then said, very seriously:
“Yes.”

Wei Wuxian nearly tripped. “…Wait—did you just—?!” His laughter doubled, loud and warm, bouncing through the trees.

“Lan Zhan, you’ve changed. Who taught you to tease back? Was it me? It must be me! No—No, not me!”

Lan Wangji’s lips softened, the faintest ghost of a smile passing over them before fading like morning dew. But Wei Wuxian had seen it, and the sight filled him with an odd, trembling joy.

---

They stayed the night in a roadside inn, the kind with uneven floors and paper lanterns that glowed warm against the dark. The keeper didn’t ask questions.

Two quiet scholars, one talkative, one silent—such travelers were ordinary.

Wei Wuxian loved it. He sprawled across the mat after dinner, stomach full, humming tunelessly while Lan Wangji carefully arranged his scrolls and ink. The other man’s focus was sharp, his brush strokes steady as mountain ridges.

“What are you writing now?” Wei Wuxian asked, leaning sideways to peek, a jar of fresh plum blossom wine he had held in his hand.

Lan Wangji didn’t lift his brush. “History.”

Wei Wuxian tilted his head. “Of?”

“Oracles.”

Wei Wuxian blinked. His heart squeezed faintly. “…Lan Zhan.”

The brush paused, just for a moment, before moving again.
“Their burden. Their grace. Their truth.”

Wei Wuxian went silent, watching him work. He had thought, perhaps, that the story of oracles would die with the collapse of the imperial court, that no one would dare record such things again.
But here Lan Wangji was, patient and deliberate, preserving every fragment of memory so the world would know.

It was an act of devotion disguised as scholarship.

Wei Wuxian swallowed against the tightness in his throat. He smiled instead, because that was easier.
“You really are the best husband, Lan Zhan. Already planning my legacy. Will there be illustrations of me looking very handsome?”