[ The problem, solidified at Wei Ying's door, reduces itself — lets the weight of the way burden his shoulders down, nudging him to melt and sit by the door, back to hard wood, legs crossing.
Meditation strikes him as a perversion — to take it now, uncleansed, might violate the spirit of the exercise. Still, better to temper himself, each breath decelerating, until he feels the flow of the world coursing through his lungs.
Then, softer: ]
Take your time.
[ Sixteen years on, he has perfected nothing if not waiting. ]
[That gives him pause. Everyone would say that the great Lan Wangji was a just and patient man. But Wei Wuxian felt that he was quick to judge and demand, and then storm off instead. So being told to take his time felt... off.
He was curious.
He turned over to look towards the door, was Lan Wangji fuming outside hoping he would come out? Was he planning to break in? Probably not.
He crawled over to the door and placed his ear against it, trying to hear what might be going on. Maybe if he opened it a crack to try and see....]
[ ...the draft, before the creak, the imbalance against his back, the glimpse of a different dark, in the sliver of bed quarter that reveals itself.
It chills him, where the sweat of a day's wander cascaded down the steps of his spine. Begs him to shift, even before instinct consumes him, to stab the tip of Bichen, unsheathed, behind him without turning — slipping it at the lowest point of the door's opening, angled widely to pierce inside without striking Wei Ying's legs.
The rest of him stays as still as the moments before found him: waiting, back to the door, even as his sword secures it can't close on him again. ]
Sit with me.
[ On the floor, like peasants and children and men without care for status, dignity and form. ]
[Wei Wuxian could not hold back an indignant gasp. How dare Lan Wangji metaphorically stick his foot in to keep his door open! That was something he would do!
With a grumbling sigh he gave up and opened the door fully to come out and sit next to the other properly.]
[ Wei Ying sits like he speaks, relaxed in ways that beg Wangji to retaliate with rigid form and posture, compensating towards balance. Late in the day, it nearly costs him strain to remember to reshape himself around that principle — but then, they fit beside each other again, the bodily geometry of their peace brokered without ado.
He waits, until he feels Wei Ying settled, to close his eyes and let the peace that precedes meditation draw upon him again. ]
Good evening. [ This, to start; he was, earlier, scolded for his manners. ] Apologies. Wei Ying expected me earlier.
[ ...with a door not doubt shut even tighter then, rejection reinforced by Wei Ying's stubborn pride. No matter. The hour was named, the rendez-vous pledged. Of the two, Lan Wangji failed in his duties. ]
[It wasn't as if he had been waiting around or anything and lived in the same building. Missing each other and coming back later was easy enough. He hadn't even been in at the time Lan Wangji had indicated.]
[ They sit, he thinks, too closely to spare room for deceit between them. Wei Ying means to have of him more than is Lan Wangji's to give — questions of Zewu-Jun's fate, the truth of the nuances of brother's health in the wake of seclusion. A fractured state, on Wangji's kindest assessment.
He feels, on the first (second, third) swipe of the tongue, the cracks of his lips, the unpleasant ache of his joints after a day's dig. Means to have little less than conversation, and yet, here they are.
He turns, grudgingly, to open his eyes to half-mast and gaze blearily at Wei Ying, like a spoiled house cat. ]
I cannot deny words to a life-long confidant.
[ True, sixteen years ago, when Wei Ying spoke it first. True now, despite the upset of a misused blood flower. If Lan Wangji can trust any man with honesty, it is his accomplice. ]
[He was not specifically asking of Zewu Jun, just if what he spoke of could be true. Could he be from over ten years in the future? Did more than just him and the Wen siblings know about his golden core?
It bothered him.
And now, another strange thing was spoken. And he turned to look towards Lan Wangji in true confusion.]
Who?
[Were they so close? When? Lan Wangji always ran away when he wanted him to stay. He would call them friends, but such a thing, is that not more intimate than what they have right now?]
[ ...another man, of the same likeness. This much, Wei Ying makes certain, from the tired shape of his gasping mouth to the blankness of his gaze, the strain of his jaw.
Perhaps words spoken in the heat of adversity should go forgotten as quickly as Wei Ying's mind expels them. It shames Lan Wangji more to make a nuisance of himself with the reminder, than it does Wei Ying to gently reinstate order. His head inclines, the bend gentle. ]
I overstep.
[ The day's sickness, making house and home in the wraith of Wangji's body. No matter. All the same, no matter. ]
[Again things mentioned he lacks context for, a strange reaction, and no answers.
But, he didn't feel like fighting, he didn't feel like being difficult either. He just felt tired and overwhelmed. So, he stood up, but paused a moment first.]
Lan Zhan, what are you keeping to yourself? What do you know about me?
[If he too knew about....
He turned to go back into the room, retrieving the precious flower then tossing it at Lan Wangji.]
Here, have your memento. She is a kind and lovely girl.
[ The flower, soft and frail, landing sweetly. He catches it in both hands, fingers slow to rise and fortress it, protecting the dying carcass of its form. Like a true flower, burned at the tips by the start of wilting.
He looks up, nods once more. Ignores Wei Ying's earlier question for the exotic undercurrent of his words after.
The girl, in truth, barely remembered. Green eyes, a strange configuration, evoking her vines. Wei Ying, as ever, seems to have befriended the women of the world more closely than Lan Wangji had so far entertained. Kind and lovely.
...was she? ]
Because she is beautiful?
[ Wei Ying's traditional weakness: a gracious smile, a trembling voice, a victim to salvage. Looks are not virtue, but an accident of birthright — trust Wei Ying to neglect that point. ]
[ Pretty and witty and kind. Delightful. May the heavens, in their merciful wisdom, spare Lan Wangji the talents that only crones, gossips and Yiling Patriarchs seem to develop towards ill-timed matchmaking. Perhaps it's Lan Wangji who should reconsider — after all, the girl, green-eyed stranger, is the most that can apparently be hoped for his pairing: alive (for the time) and physically present.
He should only be so fortunate to win her hand, most ambitiously, before it rots away with tangles of vine from her body. He can but hope.
Or perhaps he should direct Wei Ying's efforts towards the plain, the obvious and the practical — the flower Wangji inspects a moment more, before lifting it on high in one hand to return to Wei Ying's tentative reach. ]
Whistle.
[ Catnip for strays, Wei Ying for spirits. To each wrong in this world, its lure. ]
[He gestured towards Chenqing at his waist. But since this wasn’t the first time a strange request was made he just went ahead with it. He wasn’t really sure what to play, since he wasn’t really trying to do anything in particular. He was relatively in a good mood so he tried to think of a calm melody.
He twirled the flower in his fingers as he went, wondering for a moment if he should preserve this flower or not. He had no real interest other than Lan Wangji had wanted it back so badly, but now he felt like perhaps he would want to keep it for a while.]
[ Trust Wei Ying, given the nature of the day and of the feast feeding to look upon the flower and think, ah, but they must play. Surely, now is the hour, the courteous occasion, the primed opportunity. Lan Wangji's teeth may grit and grind more in Wei Ying's presence than do miller's stones.
Still, despite everything, Wei Ying touches. Tastes and liaises, in that cautious, careful tongue Wangji has learned to observe between this man and his death-struck creatures — their secret, kept delicately, until power can no longer be contained.
Qi mimics the effects, but the language will likely summon a hundred voices in pained echo, if he were to play out the notes of his questions here, in the haunted site. Wei Ying's sorcery is somehow more reliably targeted, despite the risks of his strange humour. ]
It poisoned her skin like curse craft. [ Perhaps, if they knew more of the caster, they could find a thousand mirrored silhouettes of blossom on his person. ] Concentrate. [ A pause. ] There will be wine. [ And there. ] You sense spirits?
[He almost sounded like he had just heard the dumbest question ever. But, tried to refrain.]
No. I said before, they have to be pulled out from the root. One by one, healed one by one. She said not to worry though, she could heal herself later, and get someone to help her....
[Maybe he should not have taken that at face value.]
[ No spirits, then. Acceptable. And the instruction Wei Ying learned, little different than the one transmitted to Lan Wangji — though the source is one and same. They will want more further accounts, will need to keep records.
If this is sorcery, they must learn to reason and replicate it, before they can think to cure it, if ever it is thrust upon them again. And yet, some part of him had thought he knew the nature of the sickness, before Wei Ying need disclose it: ]
...the dying wish of the slaughtered?
[ Children, pained to the last moment, slaughtered without sedative or an executioner's axe, ready to cull in instants. Would they have known what awaited their flesh, beyond its cutting? Would they have been told? Whispered their last blessing unto those who partook of their misery? ]
[His expression turned dark and he couldn't help but look away. The cries still haunted him, but not particularly worse than all the other things that haunted him.]
[ Too much, too soon. And Wei Ying, too feeble to be thrust in the eye of a tumult even Lan Wangji shudders to face.
He stills, for a moment, paralysed by fear that his next instinct will only prevail to deepen Wei Ying's hurts. Silence has been so long dormant between them that he hears now the start of draft as a breeze, the echoing clamour of footsteps in the distance. Other... guests of the castle's keep. Other living, breathing creatures, devoid of the death that buries its way under Wei Ying's skin in borrowed memory.
He leans in, gently, to collect the flower — to break its token bridge to the culling of the day before. ]
Wei Ying. [ Soft, calm, easy. ] We will put them to rest. They will have rites.
[And here he had decided to preserve it! Lan Wangji, always taking back what he offers.]
I'm sure their souls have already gone on.
[He had already learned that rites mean little. Only those wronged by lack of them and linger gain anything from them. But, perhaps the gesture will be appreciated somewhere.]
[ No interest in the rites, no merit in revenge. If Lan Wangji wishes to put wrongs to a right, Wei Ying fails to arm or direct him, to set him on his proper course. What options persist before them?
Go back. Unwind the coils of tension that corset Wei Ying's mind. Start there, with one man's hurt, with Lan Wangji settling down again to tap the mosaic of coarse stone and bid Wei Ying by him. Cat-like again. Let him find peace where there is warmth. ]
What do you require? [ Drink, if antecedent is to be believe, though Lan Wangji questions the long-term draws of poison. Song, but not clarity. Words of kindness, though Lan Wangji's diplomacy seems too often egregious or misplaced. ] You. On your behalf. Alone.
[ You drink to excess. And Lan Wangji ennobles and enables the habit, supplies to surpass the demand. Finds himself rising even now, creak of the door staggered behind him, when the pressure of his back is relieved of it.
Quantity he can guarantee more than quality, for all he's short even the volumes. There is no... system of attendance in the castle, no natural hierarchy that will entitle Lan Wangji to a servant's attention. The wine isn't his to commandeer, but the kitchens won't miss all of their supplies. No thievery, if he asks permission or offers trade in kind.
And what can a society gentleman achieve in the kitchens? Glare the rice down to simmer, perhaps. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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You can wait!
He rolled over to turn away as if ignoring it would make the problem go away.]
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Meditation strikes him as a perversion — to take it now, uncleansed, might violate the spirit of the exercise. Still, better to temper himself, each breath decelerating, until he feels the flow of the world coursing through his lungs.
Then, softer: ]
Take your time.
[ Sixteen years on, he has perfected nothing if not waiting. ]
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He was curious.
He turned over to look towards the door, was Lan Wangji fuming outside hoping he would come out? Was he planning to break in? Probably not.
He crawled over to the door and placed his ear against it, trying to hear what might be going on. Maybe if he opened it a crack to try and see....]
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It chills him, where the sweat of a day's wander cascaded down the steps of his spine. Begs him to shift, even before instinct consumes him, to stab the tip of Bichen, unsheathed, behind him without turning — slipping it at the lowest point of the door's opening, angled widely to pierce inside without striking Wei Ying's legs.
The rest of him stays as still as the moments before found him: waiting, back to the door, even as his sword secures it can't close on him again. ]
Sit with me.
[ On the floor, like peasants and children and men without care for status, dignity and form. ]
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With a grumbling sigh he gave up and opened the door fully to come out and sit next to the other properly.]
Fine.
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He waits, until he feels Wei Ying settled, to close his eyes and let the peace that precedes meditation draw upon him again. ]
Good evening. [ This, to start; he was, earlier, scolded for his manners. ] Apologies. Wei Ying expected me earlier.
[ ...with a door not doubt shut even tighter then, rejection reinforced by Wei Ying's stubborn pride. No matter. The hour was named, the rendez-vous pledged. Of the two, Lan Wangji failed in his duties. ]
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[It wasn't as if he had been waiting around or anything and lived in the same building. Missing each other and coming back later was easy enough. He hadn't even been in at the time Lan Wangji had indicated.]
Will you talk to me properly?
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He feels, on the first (second, third) swipe of the tongue, the cracks of his lips, the unpleasant ache of his joints after a day's dig. Means to have little less than conversation, and yet, here they are.
He turns, grudgingly, to open his eyes to half-mast and gaze blearily at Wei Ying, like a spoiled house cat. ]
I cannot deny words to a life-long confidant.
[ True, sixteen years ago, when Wei Ying spoke it first. True now, despite the upset of a misused blood flower. If Lan Wangji can trust any man with honesty, it is his accomplice. ]
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It bothered him.
And now, another strange thing was spoken. And he turned to look towards Lan Wangji in true confusion.]
Who?
[Were they so close? When? Lan Wangji always ran away when he wanted him to stay. He would call them friends, but such a thing, is that not more intimate than what they have right now?]
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Perhaps words spoken in the heat of adversity should go forgotten as quickly as Wei Ying's mind expels them. It shames Lan Wangji more to make a nuisance of himself with the reminder, than it does Wei Ying to gently reinstate order. His head inclines, the bend gentle. ]
I overstep.
[ The day's sickness, making house and home in the wraith of Wangji's body. No matter. All the same, no matter. ]
The flower. May I have it?
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But, he didn't feel like fighting, he didn't feel like being difficult either. He just felt tired and overwhelmed. So, he stood up, but paused a moment first.]
Lan Zhan, what are you keeping to yourself? What do you know about me?
[If he too knew about....
He turned to go back into the room, retrieving the precious flower then tossing it at Lan Wangji.]
Here, have your memento. She is a kind and lovely girl.
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He looks up, nods once more. Ignores Wei Ying's earlier question for the exotic undercurrent of his words after.
The girl, in truth, barely remembered. Green eyes, a strange configuration, evoking her vines. Wei Ying, as ever, seems to have befriended the women of the world more closely than Lan Wangji had so far entertained. Kind and lovely.
...was she? ]
Because she is beautiful?
[ Wei Ying's traditional weakness: a gracious smile, a trembling voice, a victim to salvage. Looks are not virtue, but an accident of birthright — trust Wei Ying to neglect that point. ]
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She is kind, we spoke together. She was more concerned with others than her own plight.
You would make a good match, and she seems to have patience to give so perhaps she won't run from that cold stoneness of you.
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He should only be so fortunate to win her hand, most ambitiously, before it rots away with tangles of vine from her body. He can but hope.
Or perhaps he should direct Wei Ying's efforts towards the plain, the obvious and the practical — the flower Wangji inspects a moment more, before lifting it on high in one hand to return to Wei Ying's tentative reach. ]
Whistle.
[ Catnip for strays, Wei Ying for spirits. To each wrong in this world, its lure. ]
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[He gestured towards Chenqing at his waist. But since this wasn’t the first time a strange request was made he just went ahead with it. He wasn’t really sure what to play, since he wasn’t really trying to do anything in particular. He was relatively in a good mood so he tried to think of a calm melody.
He twirled the flower in his fingers as he went, wondering for a moment if he should preserve this flower or not. He had no real interest other than Lan Wangji had wanted it back so badly, but now he felt like perhaps he would want to keep it for a while.]
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Still, despite everything, Wei Ying touches. Tastes and liaises, in that cautious, careful tongue Wangji has learned to observe between this man and his death-struck creatures — their secret, kept delicately, until power can no longer be contained.
Qi mimics the effects, but the language will likely summon a hundred voices in pained echo, if he were to play out the notes of his questions here, in the haunted site. Wei Ying's sorcery is somehow more reliably targeted, despite the risks of his strange humour. ]
It poisoned her skin like curse craft. [ Perhaps, if they knew more of the caster, they could find a thousand mirrored silhouettes of blossom on his person. ] Concentrate. [ A pause. ] There will be wine. [ And there. ] You sense spirits?
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[He almost sounded like he had just heard the dumbest question ever. But, tried to refrain.]
No. I said before, they have to be pulled out from the root. One by one, healed one by one. She said not to worry though, she could heal herself later, and get someone to help her....
[Maybe he should not have taken that at face value.]
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[ No spirits, then. Acceptable. And the instruction Wei Ying learned, little different than the one transmitted to Lan Wangji — though the source is one and same. They will want more further accounts, will need to keep records.
If this is sorcery, they must learn to reason and replicate it, before they can think to cure it, if ever it is thrust upon them again. And yet, some part of him had thought he knew the nature of the sickness, before Wei Ying need disclose it: ]
...the dying wish of the slaughtered?
[ Children, pained to the last moment, slaughtered without sedative or an executioner's axe, ready to cull in instants. Would they have known what awaited their flesh, beyond its cutting? Would they have been told? Whispered their last blessing unto those who partook of their misery? ]
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I don't know... it was just too much pain....
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He stills, for a moment, paralysed by fear that his next instinct will only prevail to deepen Wei Ying's hurts. Silence has been so long dormant between them that he hears now the start of draft as a breeze, the echoing clamour of footsteps in the distance. Other... guests of the castle's keep. Other living, breathing creatures, devoid of the death that buries its way under Wei Ying's skin in borrowed memory.
He leans in, gently, to collect the flower — to break its token bridge to the culling of the day before. ]
Wei Ying. [ Soft, calm, easy. ] We will put them to rest. They will have rites.
[ And the scant peace that can deliver them. ]
I pledge.
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I'm sure their souls have already gone on.
[He had already learned that rites mean little. Only those wronged by lack of them and linger gain anything from them. But, perhaps the gesture will be appreciated somewhere.]
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Go back. Unwind the coils of tension that corset Wei Ying's mind. Start there, with one man's hurt, with Lan Wangji settling down again to tap the mosaic of coarse stone and bid Wei Ying by him. Cat-like again. Let him find peace where there is warmth. ]
What do you require? [ Drink, if antecedent is to be believe, though Lan Wangji questions the long-term draws of poison. Song, but not clarity. Words of kindness, though Lan Wangji's diplomacy seems too often egregious or misplaced. ] You. On your behalf. Alone.
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Instead, he thought about the question. What did he require? Nothing he could really think about....]
A good wine would be nice.
[Of course that was the first thing he said.]
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Quantity he can guarantee more than quality, for all he's short even the volumes. There is no... system of attendance in the castle, no natural hierarchy that will entitle Lan Wangji to a servant's attention. The wine isn't his to commandeer, but the kitchens won't miss all of their supplies. No thievery, if he asks permission or offers trade in kind.
And what can a society gentleman achieve in the kitchens? Glare the rice down to simmer, perhaps. ]
You will have it.
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Lan Zhan, are you well?
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