Lan Wangji (蓝忘机) (
lightbearinglord) wrote2024-04-25 06:51 am
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With Dark behind them, most of Lan Wangji's routine has managed to reassert itself. He awakens at mao hour and disentangles himself from his clinging cultivation partner, who tends to sprout several additional limbs in the night. He dresses and slips away for his morning meditation. He takes Bichen to the air, circles the grounds of the mansion and checks the woods for any changes beyond the known quantities of Ragnelle's nest and Magnus' camp, and runs through his sword forms. He stops in the kitchen and makes breakfast for his husband. By that point, his day can branch in several ways: he can, upon bringing the breakfast to Wei Ying, also opt to return to his bed, a perpetually tempting option. He can find Magnus and indulge in listening to him talking about whatever strikes his fancy. He can practice his qin, work on his calligraphy, retreat to the library for the endless project of educating himself, or embark on some more ambitious culinary endeavor.
Recently, however, Lan Wangji was reminded of a promise he made to someone important. Where possible, he prefers to keep his promises. So this morning, after he has sufficiently fed Wei Ying, made his apologies in the form of several lingering love-bites along his neck and shoulders, and changed his boots for house slippers, he approaches Claudius and Galahad's room. This route is one of the few persistently familiar paths that seem to exist in the ever-changing mansion.
It is early, but not so early. And Claudius did ask him for this, not once but twice. He lifts a hand and knocks crisply at the door.
Recently, however, Lan Wangji was reminded of a promise he made to someone important. Where possible, he prefers to keep his promises. So this morning, after he has sufficiently fed Wei Ying, made his apologies in the form of several lingering love-bites along his neck and shoulders, and changed his boots for house slippers, he approaches Claudius and Galahad's room. This route is one of the few persistently familiar paths that seem to exist in the ever-changing mansion.
It is early, but not so early. And Claudius did ask him for this, not once but twice. He lifts a hand and knocks crisply at the door.
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"You may do any of those things with me," he says, as plain as he can be. "It may be difficult. Releasing your thoughts requires facing them first. But it will not be impossible, and I will be with you."
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"The reverse is true, too, I'm sure you know,” he says, after a moment fighting his self-consciousness. “I’m with you. We’re equals.”
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"You would like Nie Huaisang," he says, after that moment, "and I suspect he would like you, but that he would be unable to resist trying to use you for his own ends. He is known as the Headshaker1 for his ability to pretend at useless ignorance."
1This is a pretty loose translation of Nie Huaisang's title, 一问三不知, which more literally means "one question, three I-don't-knows."
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1The specific word used here pre-translator is chang/裳, a pleated skirt to go beneath that aforementioned middle layer. Also, as usual, MDZS is an ahistorical melange of whatever, so we're partly going on vibes here as to what cultivators actually wear.
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But that's a conversational layer. He starts navigating layers of actual fabric, removing his dressing gown to clothe himself in the zhongyi, unselfconscious as he does so. He also reveals a lot of marks left by Galahad, the rows of roses and peonies planted along his neck and chest.
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"Mn." He's temporarily silent as he arranges Claudius' robe for him, smoothing it down neatly and then pulling it around him. He's efficient and practiced, but gentle, and moving more slowly than he otherwise might so that Claudius can observe. It puts him in mind of Lan Xichen, showing him all these same motions when he was still much smaller than his brother, tying his forehead ribbon into his hair for him. "It must be folded left over right," he says, demonstrating as he tucks the collar into place and then continuing, while he unwinds the sash, as if there had been no interruption to the previous topic. "I would think it of him. I first bit Wei Ying years before kissing him." The connection there, which he assumes Claudius will easily ascertain, is that he sees himself in Galahad.
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A glance at the jacket Claudius has chosen reveals that his sleeves are not going to fit without intervention, and so Lan Wangji reaches into the wardrobe one final time to produce two long strips of silk, like the ones he uses himself but in a dark grey. He catches Claudius by one wrist, then the other, to brace him as he binds up his sleeves for him. Once that is finished, he retrieves the jacket for Claudius and gives him a mutedly expectant look: What do you think?
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While speaking, he straightens the cuffs of his sleeves, and does a testing half-twirl to see how the fabric flows around him. He rather likes it. "But apples aren't the only plant to have evolved for fruits. So have thy loquats. So have tomatoes, which came from the Americas with Mexican cuisine, and are not even a tree, but a vine. In parts of the world separated by vast oceans -- indeed, in thy world and mine -- fruits have evolved independently. All because, as a fashion of seed dispersal, fruits tend to succeed. There's an example of convergent evolution." Idly flexing his hand, showing off his wrist and the fit of the jacket, he says, "The same must be true of style. Some styles are invented, of course, but others evolve -- and naturally some evolve alike2."
1 Some men will say would you like to hear about convergent evolution and not wait for an answer, or they will wait for the slightest inquisitive look. Between Lan Wangji and Galahad, Claudius is used to this.
2 You heard it here, first: sleeve garters are like biological fitness.
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"Humans do not differ so much, even across oceans," he says, watching with satisfaction as Claudius enjoys himself in his new clothing. "Every fruit and every scrap of clothing flows from the same source." And, at last, now that Claudius is dressed: "Are you ready?"
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Once they are inside, his first order of business is to cross to the corner in order to light a stick of sandalwood incense. A gentle touch with a flicker of qi is all it takes, and then he sits. Telling Claudius to do the same would amount to wasted words.
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"Place a hand over your lower dantian," he begins, demonstrating with a hand flat to his abdomen, "and the other over your middle dantian." His own free hand flattens over his chest. "Breathe, and fill them with that breath. When you release it, do so slowly. If it will help you, match your breathing to mine."
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It feels too long, at first. He's too used to shallow breaths, like a rabbit made to run, who hasn't yet lost sight of a predator. So he listens for Lan Wangi's breath, and lets that soft sound guide him.
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"Shut your eyes. Continue to breathe, slowly, with me, and drop your hands when you are ready." For a collection of breaths, he is silent, his own breathing deep and even. He listens in turn, to be sure that Claudius is with him. "Think only of each breath. When other thoughts come, release them without fighting them. In this room, you need to do nothing but nourish your body with breath and nourish your spirit with qi. Where there is one, the other follows."
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He breathes out, slow, and tries just to think of the air passing through his lips, his chest falling. He's tilling the earth. He pulls up the weeds, then tries to let them go. There's no use in dwelling, in planting them again.
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With some, he might remain silent from here. Claudius worried about doing this, though, in the flippant way he has that means he cares very much. His thoughts will want to creep back in and fill his lungs and mind. So Lan Wangji continues speaking, low and measured, carving a gentle path for Claudius to follow. "You share this breath with every other thing in this universe. You share it with me, with Danding and Xiaoxue, and with the trees outside as they wait for spring. Like the fruit, like those scraps of clothing, it all springs from the same source, differing only in name. Breathe and feel that sameness."
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There's plenty to think about. Wryly, Claudius realizes that's another ancillary thought -- thinking about thinking, typical -- but he breathes in, sharing that air, the same air that brings Wangji's voice to him.
Voices, too, are breath. He lets Wangji's words fill his lungs, and become a part of him. Perhaps he'll form some fruit from it.
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There are countless ways to meditate. Lan Wangji could be icy and remote in the cold spring. He could be holding brush-straight handstands with Lan Xichen. He could be flowing from one sword form to the next, Bichen alight in his hand. This morning, he is here, caught between worlds and glad for it.
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Cotton seeds, drifting. One touches down, and becomes two, the last seed of the old plant and the first seed of the new. Two becomes three. Generation after generation, season after season, the three becomes ten thousand. Floating on the air, carrying yin, embracing yang.
He could be anywhere, doing anything. Doing something more productive — no. The cotton plant is still, and still produces ten thousand things. It doesn’t rush. He resists the urge to rise and pace, recites Wangji’s mantra in his head. The one produces the two. The two produces the three …
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"The ten thousand things rise and fall while the self watches their return. They grow and flourish and then return to the source. Returning to the source is stillness, which is the way of nature." He slips into silence then, to see if Claudius can endure it.
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So perhaps he's putting the burden down. With the next, sigh-like breath, he wills his shoulders to sink. He lets them rest. He listens to the silence, and recognizes there's still sound in it. Their breaths still stir the shared air. It's a kind of touch, Claudius recalls from diagrams. Sound moves on waves, and like fingers strumming harp strings, it brushes by something in the outer ear.
The ten thousand things carry yin and embrace yang. Carrying like a sound, like cotton seeds on the wind.
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Lan Wangji can sit this way for days. He did so at intervals when he was younger, when the silence was all that he wanted. Causing noise is prohibited. Do not use words frivolously. He has more worldly attachments now and finds himself unable to regret them. He would not want this all the time, not anymore -- and he will not ask so much of Claudius, not during his first morning meditation.
He waits until the stick of incense burns low and then goes out. He opens his eyes. "Claudius."
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He returns to his seat, sleeves trailing as he crosses his legs again. This story is like a dozen strands of hair knotted together. The only way to unravel it is to pick one strand and begin there. "Qinghe Nie was founded by a butcher. Its cultivators do not cultivate with swords as I do. They cultivate with sabers1 and the resentful energy of beasts. It is a dangerous path. Nie cultivators live short lives and often die of qi deviations." He knows someone else who died of a spiritual backlash, but he keeps a calm demeanor as he speaks. "Xiongzhang was always close with Nie Mingjue, who became the sect leader of Qinghe Nie as an adolescent. He hoped I would become similarly close with Nie Huaisang." He pauses again, an evocative enough pause to say, clearly, that he and Nie Huaisang did not become close. Plainly put, they could have not have had any less interest in one another.
1Dao, or 刀.
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"And yet the philandering of their father, which produced two bastards, was easily forgiven," he remarks, with a wry roll of eyes. "What a difference power can make. What happened to Mo Xuanyu?"
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"Before I could speak with Mo Xuanyu, he fled. The next time I saw him, he barely let me thank him. The third time, he had a bamboo flute in hand, and he played a song only one person could have known."
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It's a beat too long before he gathers himself, looking at Claudius with a hint of sheepishness. He trusts Claudius to understand his lapse into distraction, at least. "Mo Xuanyu was gone by then. He had sacrificed himself with an old, forbidden ritual. He intended to summon the Yiling Patriarch to take revenge on his cruel family on his behalf."
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"When Wei Ying awoke in his new body, his arm bore four wounds, one for each member of the Mo family upon whom Mo Xuanyu wanted revenge. In the process of taming the severed arm, as Mo Xuanyu's tormentors died, the wounds healed. If Wei Ying had not fulfilled that portion of the sacrificing ritual, his soul would have been destroyed."
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"No," Claudius says with shock. "Not Nie Mingjue?"
1 Heh.
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1 Edmund. He's thinking about Edmund FromKingLear.
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"After the war, my brother, Nie Mingjue, and Jin Guangyao entered a sworn brotherhood, the Venerated Triad. Nie Mingjue was reluctant, but agreed. Xiongzhang knew he wanted to monitor Jin Guangyao."
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"Yes," he says, simple enough and equally sincere. There is a story to resume. "Xiongzhang, Wei Ying, and I determined that we would investigate further at a Lanling Jin discussion conference the following month. Jin Guangyao had been the sect leader for years by then, following Jin Guangshan's death."
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1 Claudius. Claudius. Who told Crowley to be subtle? I'm your typist, and I won't let you get away with that.
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Lan Wangji loved Wei Wuxian, and trusted him. He loved and trusted his brother, but his brother was wrong. Loving both, he had to act, and the next move was uncertain. That uncertainty must have been agony.
"Ah," he says, and lets it say all of that. He touches Lan Wangji's hand.
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"Wei Ying awoke four days later," he continues, and his voice remains calm. "He understood why my brother could not trust the Yiling Patriarch. He had seen Nie Mingjue's memories, and knew that during the years leading up to his death, he had been struggling more and more to soothe his qi as a result of his saber cultivation. Jin Guangyao would play the qin for him. Xiongzhang had taught him a musical cultivation technique, Cleansing. This technique calms the mind and spirit. On his bamboo flute, Wei Ying played the melody he had heard within Empathy. It was not Cleansing."
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1 It's just something Claudius might considering doing if he had a vengeful young man in front of him and a problem to solve, that's all. Perhaps not the whole self-sacrificial ritual. (It's incidental that the duel at the end of Hamlet turned into a sort of self-sacrificial ritual for revenge.)
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With a final scoff, he says, "And to think this man slandered Mo Xuanyu for being a cut-sleeve."
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1Another burn book guest star.
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But (Claudius thinks) a mystery always ends with some sort of parlor scene, where the detective explains everything that's happened. That's why Claudius asks, "So how did Wei Wuxian discover Nie Huaisang was behind it?" He has a fair guess it was Wei Wuxian.
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Sounds like they've been plotting for a long time, Nie Huaisang had said, casually. "Wei Ying also pointed out that Nie Mingjue's body had last been left with him in Qinghe," Lan Wangji continues, "and that when we met Nie Huaisang in Qinghe, he behaved as if he had never seen Mo Xuanyu, whom he would certainly have met at Carp Tower. He was probing to ascertain whether it was truly Mo Xuanyu or if Wei Ying had returned." He lapses into silence, just a moment of it. "There was not enough proof to corner him."
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