[ open post: Lan Wangji, training ]

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji is upside-down.

This is not unusual for him, although he is more used to practicing this in the company of students, his brother, or his husband.¹ Recently, however, his mind has come up against more turmoil than he would prefer, and turmoil of a variety that is unusual for him. It can't go amiss to return himself to the basics of his training.

He is in a small enough room, largely bare aside from the stick of sandalwood incense² he has set burning on a side table. Its scent drifts into the hallway, and anyone who follows it to the source may see a white-clad cultivator standing on his hands.

Well: standing on his hand. Lan Wangji needs one only to keep himself aloft, his body straight as an arrow. His hair is pulled into a ponytail so that it may pool off to one side over his neck and onto the floor rather than spilling in all directions, the long ends of his forehead ribbon tucked into the same tie and falling in the same way. He is in trousers and an undershirt of a decent heft, in deference to the fact that he is arguably in public.³

With the hand that is not currently holding him up, Lan Wangji is holding an ink brush. He is copying, from memory, the lines of a sutra.

¹Wei Ying is not good at it. Particularly not in his second body.
²This may explain it to anyone who has been wondering why he always smells faintly of sandalwood himself.
³If he does this in their quarters, Wei Ying insists it must be done with nothing on his torso at all. Lan Wangji invariably becomes distracted. Now anyone else is welcome to distract him (in a different way, ideally).

Comments

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji continues playing by virtue only of how well his hands know the shape of this piece. His eyebrows and mouth twitch with amusement and incredulity. "I have faced down many ghosts," he says calmly, "but none invented by the demon Crowley, to my knowledge."

[timebethine]

"He said that in the story of my homeland--the story that I and Claudius share--there is a ghost," says Laertes. "Since the old King Hamlet had died ere I came here, I presume his is the ghost. But here we come to the tale: some time ago, I heard a voice calling 'Hamlet is here!' Until I spoke with Crowley about it, I knew not who voice it was. But the more we spoke, the more I began to recognize his voice, and I confess, I needled him sorely for it. He was too proud to admit it was he."

[lightbearinglord]

The old King Hamlet. That can only be Claudius' brother, the cruel man who created a trembling shadow of a younger brother. The man Claudius killed. Lan Wangji says nothing about that, naturally¹.

"If King Hamlet died in a manner conducive to the fomentation of resentful energy, a ghost or a fierce corpse may arise. I could suppress it." He pauses, then, and allows himself to succumb to the entertainment value of the story. "Crowley needles others at length. He has earned a needle or more in his own back."

¹He has not been updated on the fact that Claudius burst out of the murder closet on laudanum and left the door wide open behind him.

[timebethine]

"If he's Claudius's bosom-friend, then he must have made his peace with needles," says Laertes, grinning, relieved that Lan Wangji could appreciate the absurdity of his story. "But if I should find a ghost here, I'll seek thee out. Is thy song a spell that any can work? Or is it also part of thy cultivation?"

[lightbearinglord]

At that first statement, Lan Wangji flicks a blankly curious glance toward Laertes. He has not found close friendship with Claudius to be fraught with needles at all. But again, there is no reason to mention that.

"This is musical cultivation." He flattens a hand gently on Wangji's strings to still them for the moment. "The Gusu Lan techniques."

[timebethine]

So, not something Laertes can practice on his viol. "It's a fine thing," he says. "Were I thy disciple, I would account such gifts worth any punishment."

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji is silent, at length. He couldn't say what it is that stops his tongue at all the times when he feels things the most sharply. He has always been quiet, and his mother teased him for it, and so he would break free of the shell of his silence, on occasion, for the sake of making her laugh and pinch his cheeks. And then she died. With Wei Ying, he need not speak at all: Wei Ying can read the whole of his heart in the curl of one small smile.

There is no harm in speaking of the juniors to a kind and curious young man. The memory of their sweet faces and childish laughter is tucked close, beneath all his layers, and he is instinctively protective of everything that lies so close to the vulnerable parts of himself.

"I have a student," Lan Wangji says. "Lan Jingyi. Younger than you. You remind me of him."

[timebethine]

"Wouldst thou tell me of him?" Laertes asks.

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji has to hope that you remind me of one of my most unruly students will be taken in the manner in which it was intended.

Allowing the faintest fondness into his voice, he says, "Jingyi is honest and opinionated. Hot-tempered and quick to speak out. He is overly fond of stories and excessively romantic as a result."

[timebethine]

"I like him already," Laertes declares with a laugh. "Hast thou other disciples? What are they like?"

[lightbearinglord]

"All are bright, promising young cultivators. Lan Sizhui is the brightest, and Wei Ying's favorite." This is a slightly roundabout way to put it; it's true, but Sizhui is indisputably Lan Wangji's own favorite, too.

[timebethine]

"A patient, quiet boy, like thyself?" Laertes asks (just slightly teasing; just testing whether he is permitted to tease). "Or wild-hearted and stubborn, like Wei Ying?"

[lightbearinglord]

There's a dull ache to it, speaking of Sizhui to someone who doesn't know him. There's a sort of joy in it, too, though. Wei Ying died and it was not for nothing. One Wen lived, and he thrives.

"Sizhui is patient and kind-hearted," he says, watching the still strings of his qin as he speaks. "He is brave and perceptive and an attentive student."

[timebethine]

"The best of both of thee," says Laertes. "And one day, perhaps, the best of men."

[lightbearinglord]

Lan Wangji doesn't look up, caught in his own infinite net for this moment, a thousand little memories that refract off of one another. He nods, though, crisply: Sizhui is the best of what his world has to offer. He will be a peerless cultivator when he reaches his prime.

His qin may speak for him when he cannot. He returns his hands to the strings. This time, Lan Wangji does not play one of the Lan musical cultivation pieces; instead, he begins Three Stanzas on Plum Blossoms.

[timebethine]

Laertes takes his meaning--this song, at once both bright and solemn, speaks to the shining boy whom Lan Wangji loves and misses. He sits back, his hands on his thighs, and listens until the last note fades.

[lightbearinglord]

Still in his own silence, Lan Wangji lets that final note ring out until it has finished and the strings settle on their own. He can't allow himself to believe that he will never again see Sizhui, but it becomes increasingly difficult to imagine how he might feel if he left this place, too.

"The instrument you found for yourself. Which is it?"

[timebethine]

"A viol," says Laertes, after a moment's quiet. "Six strings; it's bowed, and not plucked like a lute or a qin. Sir Jasin the bard was kind enough to show me to a room full of instruments."

[lightbearinglord]

"Mn." Lan Wangji is familiar with this room, although he has not explored it to its full extent. He rests his hands on Wangji's strings, just lightly, and looks at Laertes with some curiosity. This is intended as an invitation for Laertes to show him if he'd like to, but without pushing him on it.

[timebethine]

Laertes wants to demur--he's not very good with a viol; he wouldn't want to take up Lan Wangji's time--but at the same time, he recognizes what a gift it is to be invited to share music. How closely such things touch Lan Wangji's heart (which, Laertes is beginning to suspect, is tenderer than he could have guessed). Just to confirm that he's read Lan Wangji's look correctly, he asks, "Wouldst have me play for thee?"

[lightbearinglord]

"If you will," Lan Wangji answers, calmly. He has lapsed into sentiment and Laertes has indulged him with kindness. He would like to offer an indulgence of his own.

[timebethine]

Then Laertes heaves himself up and jogs off to grab the viol from his room. He soon returns with the instrument and a sheet of music that he's been practicing--an eerie little English tune called 'Scarborough Fair.' Then, laying out the sheet before him and taking a moment to settle and breathe, Laertes launches into the melody.

[lightbearinglord]

In deference to Laertes, Lan Wangji returns Wangji to its case and, with just a small application of qi, sets the instrument to leaning against the corner where that incense has nearly burned down to nothing. He sits, hands on his knees, and listens dutifully.

It's clear that Laertes is a beginner, but it's also clear how he has thrown himself into this study, just as he threw himself into it when Lan Wangji talked him through a meditation. The piece, too, is not like what is familiar to Lan Wangji, and he would like to hear it again once Laertes has perfected his technique.

[timebethine]

And perhaps Lan Wangji will be able to sense, as well, that this is an older passion--one to which Laertes has returned in fits and starts over a decade, never truly believing that he would be permitted to attain mastery. Laertes has been a beginner on the viol for a very long time, and only now is that long-wintered branch beginning to bud again.

[lightbearinglord]

Once the song has concluded, then, Lan Wangji says, "The instrument is beautiful." He pauses, unable to tell an outright lie, and adds, "You will improve quickly."