[ open post: Lan Wangji and guests ]

[lightbearinglord]

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.

Comments

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad is used to finding Lan Wangji here, and indeed was planning on finding him here today. He has his sketchbook as usual, and he's wearing the cloud-soft, sky-blue sweater Magnus picked for him; he has to roll the sleeves up over his hands or they're too long, but there's something pleasing about the sensation.

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.

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji takes in the sight of Galahad with a nearly imperceptible softening of his features. When he comes to care for someone, there is almost a single moment, sharp and sudden like a needle pricking one's finger, at which a fierce protective impulse comes into focus. He remembers it a little shamefully with Wei Ying, who knelt in punishment after his fight with Jin Zixuan, sharper still years later with Chenqing twirling in his hands. He remembers it with A-Yuan, wide-eyed and heeding a Cloud Recesses rule at a restaurant in Yiling. With Claudius, it must have been watching as he held Shen Yuan's gaze, by far the most vulnerable man in a room with two cultivators, and met Shen Yuan's disregard for his life with bravery and wit. That moment was impossible to miss as he sat beside Galahad in the café and watched his careful breathing.

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."

[onthewillowsthere]

He looks up. He's noticed that Lan Wangji rarely changes his expression, and so he's given himself permission not to try to figure out what he should do with his own face when they speak; as a result, he doesn't smile, and his voice is as grave as ever, when he says, "Thank you." Still, Lan Wangji is a perceptive man, so perhaps he can tell how happy Galahad is.

[lightbearinglord]

Even if he could not detect that subtle but unmistakable joy, Lan Wangji would know. He knows the way that Claudius speaks of Galahad; he knows the way that Galahad looks at Claudius across a room, as if everything has gone dark but one shining beacon of a man. It is the most familiar thing in the world to him. "I wish you a hundred years of happiness." It's a rote recitation of words he was taught by his uncle, but he means it.

[onthewillowsthere]

It has the feeling of a benediction, and he crosses himself reflexively. "He said you'd be his best man."

[lightbearinglord]

That, too, is an unexpected joy, particularly after reading the words of Emily Post and realizing what a valuable responsibility has been handed to him. "Mn. Along with Crowley," Lan Wangji adds, because he feels beholden to truthfulness.

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad nods; he knew this, but, even more, he expected it. Lan Wangji and Crowley are Claudius' best friends.

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji waits, then, patiently, to see if Galahad would like to continue speaking or if he would prefer to sit quietly for the time being. In the meantime, to prevent further trouble and danger to his qin, he scoops both rabbits neatly into his lap.

[onthewillowsthere]

After a few moments, he asks, "Do you love only Wei Wuxian?"

[lightbearinglord]

Arguably, the answer is no. Lan Wangji loves his brother, his uncle, Lan Sizhui, and an increasing number of people he has met at this mansion. He understands Galahad's meaning, however, and will not attempt to play games. "Nearly all my life," he answers, easy but very serious.

[onthewillowsthere]

He nods again. It's reassuring to think that, if it's strange of him to be in love with Claudius alone, it's a strangeness he shares with Lan Wangji. He glances back down at his drawing, where Lan Wangji holds Xiaoxue in the crook of one arm and lifts the other in a Christogram.

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.

[lightbearinglord]

Even a few months prior, Lan Wangji would have had no context for this question whatsoever. He understands now that things here do not work the way he is accustomed to them working, but he can no more imagine wanting anyone but Wei Ying than he can imagine Luo Binghe suffering a sudden change of heart and begging for forgiveness. Before Wei Ying returned to him, he had presumed he might live hundreds of years and never again touch anyone with the desire that consumed him at Phoenix Mountain.

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.

[onthewillowsthere]

"Yes."

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji has never before met someone so like himself. He is at once unsettled and comforted, as if discovering a door at the back of the jingshi that he had never noticed and sliding it open to find only his most familiar belongings. "Mn." He pets one rabbit with each hand, gentle still.

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad looks at his drawing. Only Adam was made in the likeness of God, and only mankind may ascend to heaven and know life with the Most Holy Trinity: there is no place for rabbits in fellowship with Christ. He begins sketching a small halo around Xiaoxue's head.

"It's uncommon?" he asks Lan Wangji.

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji watches the movements of Galahad's sketching with subdued interest. He is also uncertain how to answer this question. It may well be that most are like Laertes and Sagramore, free with their affections and open with others about that fact. That scenario is more palatable than a world of crude, grasping men like Jin Guangshan. He thinks of his own father. No one could accuse Qingheng-jun of lacking devotion. "If it is," he says, "then I am uncommon."

[onthewillowsthere]

It's a satisfying enough answer. Lan Wangji is uncommon, and so is Galahad. He shades the halo in.

[lightbearinglord]

For a moment or two longer, Lan Wangji continues to observe silently as Galahad works. He recognizes his own likeness, even upside-down, and allows himself to indulge in the memory of a fifteen-year-old Wei Ying presenting him with a drawing of himself, a flower behind his ear.

Curious, he holds up a hand, mimicking the gesture that the drawing is making. "What is that?"

[onthewillowsthere]

Galahad copies it as well, reflexively. "It's the name of Christ. Saints make it in pictures."

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji considers this as he tucks his hand away, setting it at Danding's back. "It is like a mudra." He looks again at Galahad's sketch, noting the halo around Xiaoxue's head. Uncle would not like this. Lan Wangji should not, either, but he thinks he does.

[onthewillowsthere]

"This is blasphemous," he says, touching the page very lightly. "God would be disappointed."

[lightbearinglord]

At that, Lan Wangji looks up, his gaze settling on Galahad's face instead of his art. "This is the god who punished humankind for acquiring knowledge of good and evil."

[onthewillowsthere]

"Yes. Because we ate of the fruit."

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji's brows draw together, a minute but distinct frown. "And this god has power enough to punish all of humanity?"

[onthewillowsthere]

"He is all-powerful."