含光君

At times, when desire or sentiment overpowers him, Lan Wangji might truly believe himself insatiable for Wei Ying's presence. Thirteen years is a long time, and he mourned for each one of those years, even as the sting inevitably faded with the passage of time. He has not yet known Wei Ying's presence for a time equal to the long loneliness of his death. Who could blame him for greed, for wanting Wei Ying in his bed at every hour or for neglecting every responsibility but those related to tending to and indulging his husband at every turn?

Their responsibility, however, is not only to one another, but to the world. He would not love Wei Ying so ardently if he thought that Wei Ying could settle for a life built only of the two of them, free of duty. So it is that he has his tasks to tend and Wei Ying has his, and so it is that he is gifted again and again with the pleasure of living out Wei Ying's absence, knowing this time and every time that his eventual presence is inevitable.

This afternoon, he sits in their quarters with his head bent over a book of recipes, another prize from the library. He is making studious little notes in tidy brushstrokes off to the side. He is not waiting, specifically, but he is always waiting for Wei Ying.

Hai hour to mao hour. There are exceptions, because Lan Wangji has a husband, and he has duties, and some things in this world are of greater import than routine. Barring those exceptions, however, he sleeps soundly each night: hai hour to mao hour.

Often, when he first unmoors himself from consciousness, he is alone. Wei Ying stays up late reading or drinking or experimenting, and Lan Wangji prefers his solid, living presence in the bed, but after several years of marriage, it is easier to rest assured that his husband will not slip from his grasp. Wei Ying will come to bed, and he will continue to live.

Until then, Lan Wangji stretches out on his back, his hair neatly braided. He shuts his eyes; he sleeps. If he dreams, he dreams rarely. His mind is a well-tended garden. From time to time, it offers him some fantastical scenario, memories of home or particular views of the husband who will inevitably come to his side. He may dream of the years of his seclusion, long shichen stretching out before him with only the walls of the jingshi to keep him company. Perhaps he will dream of the streets of Caiyi, waterways flanked by fishermen and merchants and children laughing, of walking those streets and all the little familiarities that are lost to him now. Or perhaps the people he has learned to love in his absence from Gusu will make their appearances, newer faces that are nonetheless stamping themselves into his heart and mind. Wherever his mind drifts, his body will remain anchored, waiting for Wei Ying.

[continued from this thread]

No instruction is a daunting prospect. Lan Zhan has been offered instruction at every turn, at every part of his life, and he finds it a great comfort much of the time. He knows always what he must do. "What did you learn from weeds?" he asks, a tiny frown creasing his features that are otherwise smooth with childishness.

The first time Lan Wangji wrote a song, it poured out of him, an ewer overturned. He was fifteen and half-convinced he was going mad. It seemed as if he had lost all control over his own mind -- as if every thought would find its slippery and insidious way back to Wei Ying's smile, Wei Ying's ponytail, Wei Ying's laugh. He couldn't tame those thoughts, but he could direct them. He would write that song differently now, perhaps, with more sophistication and restraint, but he loves it as it is. The love song of Lan Zhan and Wei Ying, as Wei Ying once suggested.

This time, he has given himself months. Months of quietly reworking the melody, sitting with his qin and recalling the then-unfamiliar songs that poured out of the record player at the wedding dance. That night is like a shining jewel in his memory, one of the times he has felt the happiest not only here at the mansion, but anywhere. Shortly following his visit with Lan Xichen, he had longed for home with an acute yearning that felt like a blade to the ribs. The dance eased it. He was happy. He felt like a part of something in a way that was a shocking novelty to him. Wei Ying was beautiful, the grooms were happy, and Claudius was pleased with himself. It seemed to solidify the way he had instinctively called the mansion home only a month ago, surprising himself with it.

He sits now in a parlor near the welcome table, one he often occupies when he is willing to entertain the occasional visitor. His qin, gleaming black and seven-stringed, sits across his tidily-crossed legs. Having at last decided himself satisfied with his composition, he is playing it, the qin's quiet, commanding voice a reasonable match for his own. In some respects, it may sound familiar. Portions of the melody are like that of the Song of Clarity, or of that very song he wrote for Wei Ying, if perhaps more complex with the heightening of his skill in the intervening years. In other respects, it may sound differently familiar. A wide array of influences are audible, from some of the more restrained waltzes that played on that record player to ABBA to "Kiss From A Rose." The qin can only be a soft and undemanding instrument, one that compels attention by its beauty rather than its volume, but if anyone happens to stop to listen, he is in a relaxed and, frankly, sentimental mood.

With Claudius married and Aornis at last a permanent memory, the days seem to open up in front of Lan Wangji, like rounding a bend and finding a mountain path opening finally onto a vast and lush valley. He has never struggled to fill his time; there are always topics to pursue in the library, dishes to cook for his husband and for the handful of people he has taken to feeding with regularity, corrections to issue unto Galahad, who listens with the same earnest solemnity as ever. There is a sudden sense of freedom to it all, though, with the end of fear. He told Tally that he had set aside the pursuit of escape in favor of the pursuit of Aornis, and he believed that to be true, but he has yet to pick it up again in her wake. Every day, he yearns for the Cloud Recesses. He misses the quiet, the cleansing mist, and the view of Gusu from atop its walls. He misses the sight of the junior disciples, his brother, anyone but himself sporting the forehead ribbon. He misses Sizhui with the constancy of the waves that now push and pull over and over at the shore of their newfound beach. And yet he is not trying to find his way home.

In the absence of Sizhui, in the troubling void of purpose where once he would have been certain he would never give up the hope of return, he thinks often of Magnus. Their conversation in the kitchen seemed to release something between them, something he had not known to monitor until it was already coming loose. Magnus loves him, and Magnus kept something from him for months, and Lan Wangji is not angry, but he has continued to turn it over and over in his mind, a stone growing smoother and smoother in the relentless current. Magnus trusted someone else with his training. Lan Wangji would be lying to himself if he said he felt no envy at all.

Long familiarity with this place and its people, and his habit of assessing the mansion from overhead, have given Lan Wangji a good idea of Lancelot's routine. Typically, he is at the training yard only to work with Galahad. Today, he returns later on, at a time when he calculates that Lancelot's presence is likely. Bichen is at his side. It always is, naturally, but perhaps if nothing else, the two of them can cross blades. He has wanted to do so again ever since that first and only sparring session between the two of them, before he knew anything about Lancelot at all beyond his skill with a sword.

His promise has been kept. Gideon has seen Aornis' body, and the conclusive nature of her death can't be denied. When Lan Wangji drew back the covering of his own robe, there was nothing, no lingering spirit. There was only a body.

He finds his way to the game room for the third time that day, weary. It has emptied of all its occupants now. The television has been shut off. Lan Wangji suspects that he spots one of SecUnit's drones, but he doesn't have the heart to look more closely. He is not trudging -- not in reality, not when he has his body trained so impeccably to obey him -- but he feels a certain heaviness of limb as he crosses the room's threshold again. His robes are flecked with blood and there are still traces of dried blood on his face, though the glass shard wounds that bled there are scabbing over by now. Memories keep plucking at him with demanding fingers, trying for his attention, and he continues to dismiss them as best he can, with every scrap of discipline that he has.

The room has been emptied, more accurately, of all its occupants but one. Claudius, who waited to meet him just as he asked. Lan Wangji could easily make an excuse for this request -- he and Claudius worked together on this plan for so long, coordinating what felt like a thousand game pieces and meticulously documenting every move and discovery they made. It would be easy to tell himself that he merely wants to bring finality to their efforts by going over the details of the battle, nothing more. It isn't untrue. But he knows that, in fact, most of what he wants is to see his friend. He wants the comfort of his presence and of the fact that they've accomplished what they meant to accomplish, as unclean as it feels now. They're done, and no one else had to die for it.

It has been a strange handful of weeks, but Lan Wangji can accept strange far more easily than he could accept the pain that rippled inexorably outward from Shen Yuan's death, seeming to leave no one untouched. The parade of visitors was unusual, and thought-provoking, but not painful. Lan Wangji enjoyed meeting most of them. Even Galahad, whose empty politeness made him feel hollow in turn -- there was a quiet satisfaction in bringing him to the rabbits and watching his stunned expression at the simple joy of holding something small and vulnerable and trusting.

As for himself, the memories are so abstract as to be incomprehensible. There is something there, enough something to assure him that Aornis had no hand in this specific strangeness. But he can barely grasp at the details. He remembers embracing Magnus, but that signifies nothing out of the ordinary. He remembers sparring with Gideon; he remembers that he needs to ask Sagramore for fresh poetry. He remembers the loss of Wei Ying, newer and crueler than it typically is these days, but when he came back to himself the next morning, Wei Ying was there, his head tucked beneath Lan Wangji's chin and his ankle hooked around Lan Wangji's hip.

The least enjoyable of his encounters, at the least, provided him with something important. He has not removed the locket from his qiankun pouch. He wants to waste no time in bringing it to its intended recipient. He performs the first of his morning routines -- his meditation, his patrol, Wei Ying's breakfast -- and then goes to look for Magnus at the camp.

CW for unreality/some mild psychological horror of the "there is someone at this mansion who can erase memories and knows when her name is spoken" variety.

Lan Wangji should begin investigating immediately. He is a cultivator. This death is far, very far, from the first that has struck him with its violence and senselessness. He has work to do. He should not become distracted. And yet he is reluctant to leave Wei Ying, to peel himself away from the warmth of Wei Ying's body and the comfort of his idle, persistent conversation. When Lan Wangji delivered him the news, his face turned steely, a palimpsest impression of the Yiling Patriarch behind his eyes. He knew without asking what Lan Wangji wanted from him. He has tolerated Lan Wangji kneeling behind him at his workstation, face to the back of his neck, winding his hair ribbon around his fingers and fitting his hands to the shape of his waist. Their time here has been the longest either of them has gone without brushing against death in some form. It might have been inevitable. Lan Wangji can no longer go where the chaos is. The chaos comes to them. Wei Ying talks, speculation about how commerce between Qinghe and Yunmeng might have changed in their absence, meandering nonsense about whether A-Yuan and A-Ling are getting along on their night-hunts, and Lan Wangji leans on him and loves him with every word.

Lan Wangji could make a spirit attraction flag himself; he has before. But when one is wed to the Yiling Patriarch, there is no need to go anywhere but directly to their inventor. It is done in very little time, and Lan Wangji kisses Wei Ying -- because Wei Ying is brilliant, because he trusts Wei Ying to fend for himself but does not trust the mansion itself, because it draws one precious, gasping laugh from Wei Ying when Lan Wangji bites the swell of his lower lip. He will sustain himself on that laugh.

With the freshly-painted flag in hand, he retreats down the hallway until he finds a new parlor, not one he has used before. Whatever energy this flag draws to him, he wants to leave all his familiar places free of that. He won't have the pall of death creeping into the room where Galahad first wonderingly touched the rabbits or where Laertes played him the viol or where Claudius sat and entrusted him with his breath. He plants the flag in an empty vase and draws Wangji from his back, a careful unwinding of its wrappings before he sits, the qin balanced across his lap.

He has to wait no longer than a moment. The presence of the spirit is insistent. Wangji's strings quiver without a single touch of Lan Wangji's qi. There is someone here, and they want badly to communicate. Lan Wangji puts his hands to the strings and begins as he always does: Who are you?

The response is immediate, ringing out with a volume the qin should never attain: Shen Yuan!!!

Lan Wangji lets out a measured breath. Shen Yuan, who has done nothing but aggravate and disappoint him, but whose friendship meant something irreplaceable to Magnus and Galahad and Sagramore. He should not have died. He must be furious that Lan Wangji is the person speaking with him. He was not happy all those months ago when Lan Wangji tried, unwittingly, to lay the child spirit Shen Yuan to rest.

The second question, like the first, is always the same: Who killed you?

Another instant answer plays itself on Wangji's strings. Aornis!!!

Lan Wangji frowns. He doesn't know this name. Perhaps this is a better outcome than discovering that some beloved person or pleasant acquaintance is Shen Yuan's killer, but it sends some jangling discomfiture through him. He packs up his qin again. He slips the spirit attraction flag into his qiankun pouch. He returns to their quarters. "Wei Ying." At the name, his husband looks up at him with a smile. His hair is loose now and he is wearing one of Lan Wangji's robes. "Have you met anyone here named Aornis?"

Wei Ying blinks at him, slow. There is a single syrupy pause. His smile gentles. "Lan Zhan, you look tired." He stands and slips his arms around Lan Wangji's shoulders, tipping his face up for a kiss. "Hanguang-jun has so much to worry about. Can't the dead wait one night?"

Wei Ying is beautiful, and Lan Wangji is weary. He carries Wei Ying to their bed. He will speak with Shen Yuan, such as he is, tomorrow.

--

The following morning, Lan Wangji awakens with fresh determination. Wei Ying's presence always refills him when he is depleted, smoothing his edges. He meditates, but for only a little time. He intends to ask Wei Ying for a spirit attraction flag, but when he reaches into his qiankun pouch, he finds one tucked inside it already, as if waiting for him. He has been tired and homesick recently. Perhaps his memory of the pouch’s contents failed him.

He retreats down the hallway until he finds a new parlor, not one he has used before. He plants the flag in an empty vase and draws Wangji from his back, a careful unwinding of its wrappings before he sits, the qin balanced across his lap.

Who are you?

If a spirit can play the qin with disrespect, this one is managing it: Shen Yuan.

Who killed you?

The answer, Aornis, comes with an air of weariness, the string of his qin plucked with seeming resignation. Lan Wangji has never heard the name before. He packs up his things and strides back down the hall to ask Wei Ying.

He intended to play Inquiry for Shen Yuan this morning, but time has slipped through his fingers. He refuses to be late for his training with Galahad. It will have to come later.

--

Who are you? Who killed you?

The answers come quickly, like Shen Yuan's spirit has been coiled in wait, but the name of his killer is not the name of anyone at this mansion. Wei Ying is clever. Wei Ying might know.

--

Who are you? Who killed you?

It is unlike Lan Wangji to fail at anything he has set himself. Wei Ying is entangled with him, half-sprawled across his lap and nursing a jar of wine, when the realization wrenches him: he has yet to speak with Shen Yuan's spirit. It is one simple task, basic musical cultivation. Why is he putting it off?

"Wei Ying, I need a spirit attraction flag."

Wei Ying pouts at the interruption. "It's unlike you to be so rude, Lan Zhan. Anyway--" Flagrantly rude himself, he reaches into Lan Wangji's qiankun pouch and plucks a spirit attraction flag from its depths. "You mean this spirit attraction flag?"

Lan Wangji is uneasy as he walks down the mansion hallway.

--

Who are you? Who killed you?

Lan Wangji has not forgotten about the lessons he agreed to give Crowley. At the time, Crowley surprised him by agreeing to them; he anticipated that his offer would be rejected in some sideways manner, sideways being the way in which Crowley appears to move through the majority of his interactions. He has, admittedly, been under the presumption that Crowley himself has forgotten, and that he might change his mind if Lan Wangji sought him out and asked to instruct him in the art of calligraphy.

Much of his time these days, when he is not with Wei Ying, is occupied by training Galahad. It's absorbing, to have a student so utterly focused on his every instruction, and a towering responsibility, too. He is grateful for it, and persistently aware of how much care he wants to take with it and with his student.

This afternoon, he is surprised to find himself without any pressing duties. There are always tasks he could complete, but upon a look within, Lan Wangji finds that he would like to sink into something meditative, something relaxing and exacting at once. That desire finds him seated upstairs, not so far from his bedchambers, at the tail end of grinding ink for himself. Mercifully, the mansion has once again begun providing inksticks for his use. He dips his brush and commences writing.

The long-awaited conclusion of Dark has dispelled some of the weighty concerns so persistently dogging Lan Wangji's heels, but not as many as he would have liked. He has no better explanation yet for what happened to Magnus, and although the phantoms of dread walking the halls of the mansion have slipped away, those walking the annals of his own mind have not.

There are, at least, small things to cheer him. He was immensely relieved this morning to make Wei Ying an irresponsibly large breakfast, youtiao and congee and a pile of scallion rolls. Wei Ying laughed, delighted, declared that he had earned this and then some for all of his hunting efforts, and then pulled Lan Wangji in such that the food was half-cold by the time either of them took a single bite.

Additionally, the game Grantaire showed him has a surprisingly, and satisfyingly, meditative quality. Looking to shake some of that tenacious uneasiness, Lan Wangji has placed himself in the game room for perhaps the first time ever when he is not actively seeking someone or making a general sweep of the mansion. As such, there is a white-clad cultivator at the pinball machine, sleeves bound and back straight, utterly intent on his game.