Lan Wangji (蓝忘机) (
lightbearinglord) wrote2024-03-08 08:16 am
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[ open post: Lan Wangji and guests ]
In the wake of his disorienting and unpleasant stint in Gu Xiang's body, Lan Wangji has done his utmost to resume and enjoy all of his usual pursuits. He has, he believes, thoroughly made up for his lapse in his promise to Wei Ying. He has wielded kitchen knives, his ink brush, and Bichen with precision and enthusiasm. He has sunk into long, restorative shichen of meditation. He has, at Claudius' behest, thoroughly perused Emily Post's instructions regarding how to conduct oneself as the best man at a wedding.
There is the matter of his qin, too. The discovery of the spirit in Gideon's sword struck Lan Wangji with greater surprise than he might have expected. Such things were once commonplace for him; he hardly went two weeks, before he came to this place, without finding himself called to some night-hunt. He does not like to believe that he could become complacent, and he has always practiced diligently, but still.
The tableau is a familiar one: a certain parlor near the entryway of the mansion, one that often houses this particular cultivator along with his spiritual instrument. Wangji is balanced on a table at the center of the room, polished black wood gleaming and strings freshly tuned, and Lan Wangji sits cross-legged before it. He is not actually playing it at this precise moment, however, because he currently has guests. A small white rabbit sits next to the qin, munching his way through a piece of lettuce. An equally small brown rabbit is perched in the crook of Lan Wangji's elbow, eyeing his brother with some envy. Ostensibly, the rabbits are in trouble, because they have recently laid waste to Lan Wangji's copy of Emma. It is impossible to tell, because Lan Wangji is petting Danding's head with exactly as much solemn focus as always.
There is the matter of his qin, too. The discovery of the spirit in Gideon's sword struck Lan Wangji with greater surprise than he might have expected. Such things were once commonplace for him; he hardly went two weeks, before he came to this place, without finding himself called to some night-hunt. He does not like to believe that he could become complacent, and he has always practiced diligently, but still.
The tableau is a familiar one: a certain parlor near the entryway of the mansion, one that often houses this particular cultivator along with his spiritual instrument. Wangji is balanced on a table at the center of the room, polished black wood gleaming and strings freshly tuned, and Lan Wangji sits cross-legged before it. He is not actually playing it at this precise moment, however, because he currently has guests. A small white rabbit sits next to the qin, munching his way through a piece of lettuce. An equally small brown rabbit is perched in the crook of Lan Wangji's elbow, eyeing his brother with some envy. Ostensibly, the rabbits are in trouble, because they have recently laid waste to Lan Wangji's copy of Emma. It is impossible to tell, because Lan Wangji is petting Danding's head with exactly as much solemn focus as always.
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"Small friends?"
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1Technically true although he's selling himself short2, at least when it comes to game playing, as needed.
2I know. Shocking.
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"Pinball, I think."
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1Citation needed.
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Now, of course he hardly hesitates to interrupt speech if he feels the need, but there's nothing to rebut or scoff at in music, so he just carefully shifts, mindful of the rabbit still in his arms, and stretches out comfortably on the floor, settling Xiaoxue on his chest and absently stroking his head with his fingertips along to the music.
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With Danding occupied and peaceful on his knee and Xiaoxue tucking himself into equal calm on Grantaire's chest, he plays. He works his way through a few slow but complex melodies of his own composition, meant to be set to words from the Shijing, the work of his youth when he would spend days doing nothing but sitting with the qin and studying its theory.
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He's not a man inclined to nap1 as a rule, but the slow and soothing notes of the qin coupled with the warmth of Xiaoxue on his chest are almost impossible to resist as his breathing evens out and he drifts off.
1Passing out drunk doesn't count.
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He continues to play, unwilling to disturb Grantaire. He is pleased enough to persist with his music as a backdrop for restfulness.
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He hasn't seen Lan Wangji since Enjolras' meeting. He comes in quietly and sits nearby -- at a respectful distance from the table and Lan Wangji -- and flips open his sketchbook. In the last two weeks all his drawings have taken on a blasphemous cast: he keeps adding hagiography to his portraits, lambs and doves, croziers and aspergillum, vestments and symbols (Laertes with a discipline, Gideon in her skull paint with her sword aflame; Tress holding spores in her hand the way St Lucy holds her eyes, Claudius with great angelic wings; all of them haloed). There's something soothing about taking this language that he knows so intimately and using it to write about the people here, knowing God would hate it.
The latest sketch is Lan Wangji. With the rabbits and the qin he already looks like a saint surrounded by his associated objects, the way St Cuthbert is always shown with the otters who warmed his feet while he prayed in the north sea at night.
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For a time, he lets the quiet remain between them. He feeds Danding his own piece of lettuce, and patiently moves Xiaoxue aside as the rabbit makes a move to begin chewing on a qin string. Then, however, he sets Danding beside his brother and turns to face Galahad. Without rising, he arranges himself into an otherwise formal bow. "I owe you my congratulations."
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Half a year ago he can't imagine he would have found comfort in the idea of being like Lan Wangji. Now he's pleased by the symmetry between them.
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He doesn't know how to speak of that. Facing the enormity of his own feelings can still easily threaten to overwhelm him. "You are the same," he says instead, almost gentle, not quite a question.
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"It's uncommon?" he asks Lan Wangji.
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Curious, he holds up a hand, mimicking the gesture that the drawing is making. "What is that?"
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"Sometimes God tests our faith. The book of Job tells how God and His Adversary argued and the Adversary challenged God, saying that His faithful servant Job was only faithful because of the blessings God had heaped upon him. God allowed the Adversary to take those blessings -- to slay his livestock, blight his fields, murder his children, and steal his health, and leave only his life. Job's wife counsels him to renounce God. His friends tell him it must be his own sin that has led to his suffering. But Job tells how he is innocent, and good, and though he longs to confront God and speak on his own behalf, he will not curse God. Finally God speaks to him and tells him that he cannot understand God's reasoning because he is only a man. No man has the ability to know what God knows or discern why He chooses what He does. Job is humble and repents. God is angry with Job's friends for their presumptuous and ignorant counsel, but Job intercedes for them, and God chooses to spare them. He then gives Job back twice as much as he took from him before."
Galahad pauses.
"This story teaches us many things. It teaches that we cannot understand God's choices, and that He may inflict suffering upon us for reasons beyond our knowing. It teaches us that if we remain faithful in the face of suffering, we will be rewarded. And it teaches us that God is not unfeeling; He hears our intercessions and He may choose to be graceful with those for whom we plead.
"It also teaches us that God can be provoked by His enemy," he continues, as quiet and even as always. "He will permit misfortune to befall someone who loves Him if it proves his loyalty. He is easily angered, and changeable."
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He listens, utterly focused. The rabbits are settling, tucking their limbs under themselves, in his lap. They seem to find Galahad a soothing presence, perhaps because they are so used to being with Lan Wangji. The story itself is horrific, another tale of a god who exerts power through dispensation of pain and inscrutable tests. Suffering is necessary, and a part of the ebbing, flowing balance of the universe, but it need not be meted out in this way, as if humans are helpless children who must be cowed and, at once, forces for evil who cannot find their way without punishment.
Lan Wangji's frown has cleared, leaving his own features icy-smooth again, but there is a little hint of how troubling he finds this when he speaks. "Must the universe be ordered by one changeable god? The breath of Heaven is no different from the breath of men."
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1This is specifically the Gia-Fu Feng and Jane English translation of the Tao Te Ching.
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"How is it honored?" he asks.
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Then came his cleverness, his generosity to others, his wit and his insatiable curiosity. Lan Wangji must have known he had sealed his own demise the first time he sat down at his qin, able to think of nothing but Wei Ying flirting with the women of Gusu and effortlessly outsmarting water spirits, and began to compose a song with no spiritual trappings but those of his overburdened adolescent heart.
"Once I recognized him," he says, "it no longer mattered."
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He's quiet, hands light at the rabbits' backs, waiting in the event that Galahad has further questions.
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He's also still trying to be more present in this place. When he sees the open door, he pokes his head in.
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1Genuinely sorry to Kade about the cornucopia of Chinese flutes.
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“Not that I haven’t had some false starts with people,” she confides. She thinks of Claudius — and Galahad too.
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He gives Nina a gently prompting look. She doesn't need to tell him about those false starts, but she may if she is comfortable doing so.
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“I was under cover before I came here. For my country and my King. I suppose I looked too Ravkan because they made me more Fjerdan to blend in — but when I arrived, the changes were gone.”
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1Some may say she eventually does rediscover "her world" and discover that staying in her Fjerdan form is worth it, but that's an alternate universe now.
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"Good morning."
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It is less a performance, this time, as compared to playing for Claudius and Crowley. Sagramore did not ask this of him, and it is only the two of them, a moment shared with a friend. Still, there is no melody his hands know better than this one.
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Lan Wangji lets the silence creep in afterward, his own attention now on the happily-snacking rabbits.
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"In Camelot, I had a friend who played the rebec and wrote songs. His name is Dinadan. He's one of the only people I wish was here."
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"Hello Hanguang-jun and friends," he said warmly. "Am I interrupting?"
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1Darling.
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"I did," he said, looking up with a smile. "Would this be a good time?"
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It is easiest to answer by shaking back his sleeves, setting his hands to the strings, and beginning to play.
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He forcibly wrenched his attention back to the present moment, not wanting to dwell on the moment that had changed his path and that of Ravka's.
Once the song was done, he smiled warmly and applauded softly. "That was lovely."
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And if Danding's fur was wet and he had to turn his head to discreetly wipe away tears once the song was done, then that could be considered progress towards the change he was trying to make.
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