#meanly

He walks into view with a steady, purposeful stride, dressed in the elegant purple and blue robes of the Jiang Sect Leader. His hand holds Chenqing in a white-knuckled grip as he surveys the whimpering bodies littering the ground, the flute feeding off their terror; off their shattered bones ground beneath the weight of resentful energy. He grabs the nearest of them by the hair and yanks up the man's tearstained face.

"Where is he?"

"The house by the river," the man whimpers, and Wei Wuxian snaps his neck.

It is the kindest death that happens, that day.

The house by the river is barred from the outside. A well-worn path leads to it from the main camp, and it takes all of Wei Wuxian's frayed self-control to not just destroy the door. He lifts the bar instead, setting it aside and carefully making his way into the small building.

There is very little there.

A large wooden tub, filled with water. A chamberpot in the corner. A waist-high table that holds washcloths and vials of oil.

A bed, on which a too-slim figure lays curled up naked and shivering. There is a collar around his throat, secured by chains to the bedframe, and something inside of Wei Wuxian breaks at the sight.

"Jiang Cheng," he rasps.

He takes a step forward--and then halts, fury and horror choking his breath away, as deadened brown eyes open.

His baby brother looks at him. He blinks, slowly. His gaze scans Wei Wuxian's body, taking in the ornate robes, the elaborate headpiece, the bell at his waist. Something that looks appallingly like satisfaction crosses his face.

And then he rolls over in the bed, presenting Wei Wuxian with his scarred, welt-lined back.

"Jiang Cheng--"

Wei Wuxian rushes forward, dropping to his knees at the side of the bed. He reaches out but he doesn't know where he can touch, bruises and welts everywhere, handprints and finger-shaped bruises littering pale skin.

In the end, he opts for placing a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder, pulling carefully until Jiang Cheng rolls back over.

His eyes are still terrifyingly empty.

"Jiang Cheng," Wei Wuxian whispers again. He strokes his fingers through matted black hair, hands shaking. "I'm here. I'm going to-- I'm going to get you out of here, okay? I'm going to get you somewhere safe."

Jiang Cheng makes no indication that he's heard and Wei Wuxian doesn't wait for acknowledgement any longer, pulling off his outer robe of fine purple cloth and wrapping it around his battered body. A jagged slash of resentful energy cuts through the chains keeping him tethered and it is easy--so easy, too easy--to lift him in his arms. Even with Mo Xuanyu's slight stature, it's terrifyingly effortless to lift his little brother's tall, gaunt form.

When he strides back through the camp, precious bundle cradled carefully against his chest, the cultivators call out for mercy. They plead for leniency from the ground, unable to move their broken bones, begging audaciously for forgiveness even in the face of his rage. He does not reply, does not look at them, but he whistles a few short, sharp notes.

He leaves.