Work Text:
They were old now. They were old before, they are old still.
They have a feeling, they will continue being old for a long time to come.
Such was the curse of an immortal. To exist outside of the natural order, to exist outside of time itself.
It was almost laughably easy to sink into the flow of living again, almost too easy.
They had expected to be found out at any time.
But they had somehow found a job, despite lacking credentials. They had somehow found a house, despite lacking an identity.
Not that they did not have credentials, not that they didn’t have a name. But when one is an immortal cultivator that has seen the centuries pass, that has seen civilisations rise and fall within a blink of an eye… these were not exactly the type of things one talks about, ever.
In fact, never talk about it. At all. They were still banned from several different towns and possibly to be arrested on sight in others.
They have to admit though, having sunk into the modern world, with all its shortcuts and gadgets; it was both frustrating and entertaining at the same time. Gone were the days where one would survive as long as they are willing to put in efforts. Now, you needed pieces of paper supposedly singing your capabilities in order to succeed in life. Gone were the humble, honest days of mastering one’s trade. Now, you can flit from skill to skill, without once settling, and it was fine.
Things moved too quickly for their taste, but it seemed prudent to come down from their mountain, now that it has become part of a popular tourist attraction. They can play it off as being an eccentric hermit living in a hut far from civilisation, but one encounter too many would send people asking questions they did not want to answer.
Time might have moved on, but the core of humanity remained much the same.
(They destroy what they do not understand.)
It was one pleasant winter’s night that they sat down, a hot cup of tea in one hand and an old, weathered portrait in another. It has been years, centuries even. Long enough that a normal piece of paper would have scattered to the wind. But they were not exactly normal, and the wares they create doubly so.
There was an itch in the back of their minds, a desire to create. Often, they just shelve it, keeping it out of sight and mind by busying themselves with modern technology.
But it felt right, at this moment, it felt… fine, to finally take pen to paper, to finally write down a story that had been dearest to their heart.
It felt right, to finally honour their most precious daughter, and her most precocious son, the many tumultuous adventures that had occurred yet still stung as clear as yesterday, when they received news of their daughter’s death, of their grandson’s disappearance.
(Of his spiral down a path that brought damnation, even if they knew his heart was pure.)
It hurt still, but more than that, they finally felt ready to breathe life once again to these shadows of the past, and immortalise them in the only other way they knew how.
Baoshan Sanren smiled, soft and wistful. And upon the paper, and many more, it began:
“Rejoice! Wei WuXian has died!”