Thread by @sangchengist

#sangcheng modern au — in which huaisang looks at a painting and finds himself 500 years in the past

for as long as he can remember, nie huaisang has been enchanted by history. it doesn’t really fit his character, unwilling to study as he is, but something about it comes easy to him. dates and places, people and events- he remembers them all, anywhere and anytime.

sometimes his brother-in-law will look at him and joke: “my, huaisang, it’s almost like you’re not from this time!” nie huaisang always laughs along with him, resolutely ignoring the painful clench of his chest.

there’s one time in particular that sticks with him- the era of the falling sun. the time before and after the sunshot campaign, a time filled with war and uncertainty- but also change and hope. most people these days write off the tales of cultivators with a critical shrug-

not nie huaisang.

it makes no sense, perhaps, to believe in almost godly powers granted by the concept of a “golden core”. but nie huaisang hears of the nie sect and their sabers and feels his breath hitch. he reads about the yiling laozu and hears the haunting tune of a dizi.

it’s not something he mentions often, but when jin guangyao makes an off handed comment about an upcoming exhibition in the museum, he hastily notes the date down in his calendar.

———

when he enters the museum a few days later, the exhibition is just starting to take off. there aren’t many visitors yet and nie huaisang is secretly grateful for the solitude.

he hates being rushed- hates the feeling of people judging him for taking too long in front of the art

he doesn’t understand how people can glance at a piece and move on- hundreds of years of history, alive once again just for them, and they disregard it just like that.

history is life that has been lived and life that he, the observer, gets to make alive again.

it needs to be taken in, to be observed- turned over in one’s head again and again, contemplating the stories behind it, the individual fates and fortunes.

so nie huaisang happily takes his time. he reads every info tablet, fascinated more and more as he goes along.

there’s long discarded weapons in conditions from pristine to well used- handles that real people had gripped, ages ago. bloodstains left behind by the warrior that gave his life holding this blade. signs of wear from a heirloom sword. it’s fascinating.

nie huaisang stares at a nie saber dated a few decades before the sunshot campaign (517 years old, more or less) and feels a tug. he is so transfixed by the blade that he doesn’t notice his breath speeding up, his hand slowly raising- until he bumps into the glass and startles.

unsettled, nie huaisang turns from the display with one last glance at the weapon. for a second, just a second, he imagines it moving- hears a whisper in his ear- and then it’s gone. just a flighty fancy of a windswept mind.

he hurries to the next room without another look back

the next room contains written documents. census of the towns, recipes, cultivation manuals, letters- many of them delightfully preserved.

curious, he strays towards a case showcasing calligraphy pieces, eyes fully taking in every graceful stroke.

nie huaisang looks at the tiny tablet of information next to it, reading: “calligraphy of a young lan sect leader, lan xichen” and thinks “ah, that’s right, i remember er-ge showing this to me when-“

he halts.

he /remembers/?!

nie huaisang turns his wide eyed gaze back to the display, taking the strokes in anew. in his mind, an image takes shape- lan xichen, pale blue robes, laughing cheerfully as he glides his brush across the sheet. nie huaisang watching, then demanding: “er-ge!! you must teach me!!”

his stomach turns. he shakes his head and… just like that, the image is gone. all that’s left is fading lettering on an old paper.

nie huaisang lets out a slightly hysterical laugh and turns his back, walking to the opposite wall.

no- no no no. nope. that. did not happen.

the other side of the room holds pieces of decorated fans, and nie huaisang sighs in relief.

okay- fans. that he can work with. he’s got some of them, himself, to go along with his traditional clothing- also because they’re practical! very useful, especially in summer.

he looks over the designs with a critical eye and finds the excitement once again growing in himself. the sceneries are very beautiful, indeed.

sprawling piers. lofty mountains. gilded halls. sunlit plains. and-

(unclean realms. an impenetrable fortress. sacred halls, the resting place of hundreds of ancestors. his home. his prison. the place where he was born, the place where he lost da-ge, the place where he-)

died. the place where he died, nie huaisang thinks and groans against the

splitting pain in his head. he sinks to the ground, clutching his head in his hands and comes eye to eye with the sign corresponding to the signs.

“hand painted fans, circa 500 years ago. assumed to be personal property of sect leader nie, nie huaisang.”

nie huaisang retches, and worried hands grip his shoulders. a staff from the museum asks: “sir, are you okay? do we need to get a doctor?” but nie huaisang waves them off

“i- i- some fresh air would be great.” he presses out between thin lips and is escorted to the closest door.

moaning in pain, he takes a seat on the curb, a steadying hand against his back. he glances at the staff and finds wide, worried eyes looking back.

“ouyang zizhen,” the name tag reads and nie huaisang is again hit by a wave of dizziness before the world comes back in focus.

“are you sure i shouldn’t call a doctor?” the young man asks and is immediately rebuffed again.

“nooo, no don’t bother yourself,” nie huaisang desperately reassures. he’s not sure why, but he doesn’t want to leave- can’t leave just yet. “it’s the fumes,” he fumbles for an

explanation, unusually taciturn, “i’m allergic to those restoration paints.”

ouyang zhizhen looks doubtful, but doesn’t bother calling him out on his obvious bluff. still, he refuses to leave his side until some color returns to his cheeks.

hesitantly, the boy suggests: “perhaps you shouldn’t go back inside?”

“no!” nie huaisang exclaims and startles himself with the force of his rejection. “no,” he tries again, “i would like to continue today. thank you very much.”

he should’ve listened to the advice, probably. he was lying earlier about the allergy, but considering those… hallucinations..perhaps he wasn’t completely dishonest.

after all, what a joke. how would he remember the legendary zewu-jun- how would he know what the unclean realms

look like-

still, nie huaisang is going to finish this. today. it feels imperative that he does.

and so, he weathers on. he fights against another wave of nausea when he comes across documents and contraptions from the yiling laozu- the name “wei wuxian” echoing in his head like a haunting choir.

he ignores the paintings of hanguang-jun and his “sworn brother” (he scoffs internally. YEAH, right.), walks past sword tassels and jewelry produced by the lanling jin.

finally, finally, he reaches the last room: center piece of the exhibition, dedicated entirely to the yunmeng jiang who had once occupied this area.

a tug in his gut moves him in the direction of a stack of letters- all by madame jiang yanli, addressed to her brother “a-cheng”

he greedily absorbs them, eyes glued to the lines, searching and scanning for something he doesn’t know.

“a-cheng, it’s very beautiful here-“
“-he planted me a lotus pond! don’t worry-“
“- chose jin ling as his name, the courtesy name is to be decided by-“

it isn’t until one of the last letters that jiang yanli finally addresses her brother by his actual name, and as soon as nie huaisang’s eyes meet the elegant characters, his world comes to a halt.

“i’m so proud. my brother, my a-cheng- the glorious sect leader jiang wanyin.”

a-cheng. jiang cheng. jiang wanyin. jiang-xiong. jiang cheng, jiang wanyin, a-cheng, wanyin, jiang-xiong, wanyin wanyin wanyin-

his heart pounds, his breath accelerates. his eyes spin around the room searching for- for-

/zidian/. a lifeless piece of fabric pinned against a wall, not-

swirling purple, crackling ozone, the smell of thunder, the sound of lightning, twirling and dancing around its owner, always in motion always in action always dancing to the tune of-

jiang wanyin.

(“jiang-xiong, hurry! do you want wei-xiong to win?!”

“jiang cheng, you HAVE to help me! i’m going to FAIL!”

“a-cheng, won’t you write more often? what am i,a scorned mistress?”

“wanyin. wanyin,beloved. come back to bed,please.”

“jiang wanyin. congrats on your ascension.”)

the portrait against the right wall is so large, he doesn’t know how he missed it before. for the first time since he spotted the letters- since he entered the room- since he found the exhibition- since he took his /very first breath/, something in nie huaisang’s chest settles

the steps he takes towards the painting are careful, measured. unhurried. he has waited far longer for this moment than anyone could ever imagine.

finally, he comes to a halt in front of the carefully preserved art piece.

it’s beautiful. (“it doesn’t do him justice”)

jiang wanyin is beautiful.

sitting upon a purple throne surrounded by lotus, jiang wanyin looks exactly like the powerful master he is.

nie huaisang’s eyes scan around the picture, taking in all the tiny, minute details.

the well maintained seat he remembers standing behind, the clan emblem carved out of dark wood. the clarity bell hanging from jiang wanyin’s belt, ready to sing an enchanting song anytime. zidians ring wrapping around one slender finger. sandu resting against the throne.

jiang wanyin’s face. impassive, clear from all emotions, yet full of the life he always exhibited.

nie huaisang softens. even caught in a painting, his eyes are alight with passion, soft around the edges, a storm grey. just like his fathers.

high cheekbones, sharp jawline and nose, just like his mother. silken black hair braided into a high ponytail, elegantly draping around his face.

what a pain it was, to get those braids in and out every day, nie huaisang fondly thinks.

the sect leader hair piece in his hair glints and shines- attesting to the hours spent polishing it. a symbol of his burden. a symbol of his status.

finally, his posture- relaxed but undoubtedly strong. a predator in wait, a warrior in peaceful times, a lover on his guard.

nie huaisang remembers this posture all too well- remembers trying to drain the tension out of jiang wanyin. remembers admiring the way his muscles flexed at cultivation conferences. remembers gently taking one calloused hand in his own soft ones.

/oh/, he remembers.

how could he not- when loving jiang wanyin had filled his entire life, from beginning to end?

nie huaisang never lived before meeting jiang wanyin. not in his first life, not in this one. so it is with calm certainty that he turns to the only other visitor in the room, the one he’d barely noticed in his haste before.

he looks different now, nie huaisang muses, but so does he. so does da-ge, and er-ge and san-ge. despite the changes, it is still undoubtedly jiang wanyin.

that subtle frown, the elegant slope of his nose, the straight military posture- nie huaisang’s heart sings.

slowly, unwilling to ruin the moment, he calls out: “jiang wanyin?”

he cradles the name in his mouth the way he used to cradle his beloveds body- like a precious, precarious thing. afraid to cause harm, afraid to break him apart.

jiang wanyin turns to him with a suspicious look in his eyes.

even this is familiar, nie huaisang thinks and has to stifle a laugh.

“do i know you?” jiang wanyin asks. straightforward and slightly brash, the same as always.

nie huaisang smiles, gently, and glances at the way jiang wanyin has already turned his entire body towards him, the way his hands subconsciously reach for him.

“no,” he responds, quietly, happily, “but i think you might want to.”

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