lightbearinglord: (painted hgj)
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.
lightbearinglord: (quietly happy)
The morning after the dance1 sees Lan Wangji in one of the better moods that has visited him in quite some time. Wei Ying was happy last night: truly happy, the kind of happiness that chases all the ghosts out of his head. It is so much better to see than the false smile that graced his face for several days following their confrontation with Jiang Wanyin.

Lan Wangji, content and light of heart for once, has found a small parlor not far off the entryway of the mansion, and he is sitting cross-legged on a floor cushion, hair down, with his qin laid out on a low table before him as he strums a few thoughtful chords. It has been some time since Lan Wangji composed something, but there was so much unfamiliar music the night prior. It has made him want to begin again.

Now, surely nothing could possibly improve his mood even more at a time like this. And surely everyone in the mansion had an equally romantic and enjoyable evening.

1Time is a flat circle. No further questions.
lightbearinglord: (flower)
It is clear enough that, indeed, something truly is toying with the people of this mansion. Lan Wangji cannot begin to guess at its motive. His visit with his brother brought him melancholy happiness; his meeting with Queen Gertrude brought him quiet, wrenching joy; the disastrous encounter with Jiang Wanyin brought him cold fury sharper than Bichen's edge, and crumpled Wei Ying's typically-unassailable resolve. What is the purpose of any of that? Is Wei Ying not allowed his peace after years of tumult and even more years of death? Lan Wangji still cannot regret his choice to stay, but he finds himself burdened more heavily with thoughts on the nature of this tiny world.

The visitors, such as they were, have dispersed. Lan Wangji did not meet all of them, but he caught wind of most, he believes. He will write to Lan Xichen later, but with Jiang Wanyin mercifully gone, there is nothing left that can be solved with Bichen's qi or Wangji's strings. He stayed for several reasons, many of them living under this roof right now. Their pains, their losses, their grief -- all of it matters.

Expressing care does not come naturally to him. Learning to be gentle was the work of many years. His mother was kind in a way that must have masked hidden ferocity, and then she died. He never knew his father, although only a single wall, two at most, separated them most days. His uncle loves him, but to describe Lan Qiren as gentle would be laughable. Lan Xichen's temperament is a marvel with all of that considered. Lan Wangji is thinking of his brother, and of Wei Ying's shijie and her lotus root and pork rib soup, as he sets to work in the kitchen this afternoon. Most of the time, he does this particular task in a tucked-away kitchen, stocked with all of the implements and ingredients of his liking, but he knows that this one sees a much greater volume of traffic. His own temperament prevents him from intruding on those whose wellbeing drives his concern, but he can hope that luck will be on his side.1

All that is to say, Lan Wangji is cooking. His sleeves are bound up with strips of blue silk and his hair, along with the ends of his forehead ribbon, is braided neatly, courtesy of a sleepy-eyed but quick-fingered Wei Ying. A pot of seaweed and egg drop soup simmers on one burner; the other, not yet alight, houses a sizeable pan that awaits slices of pork, chilies, and tea tree mushrooms. The mushrooms in question are soaking and Lan Wangji is occupied at present with neatly mincing several cloves of garlic.

1Despite that he was betrayed by the promises of the burn book and that Jiang Wanyin's luck appeared only as poor as it usually is.

[ This post can be a bit time-flexible and will remain open for the foreseeable future! Lan Wangji cooks for Wei Wuxian almost every day anyway, he's just moving his base of operations and cooking in larger quantities right now, so stop by anytime. ]
lightbearinglord: (quiet time)
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).

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Lan Wangji (蓝忘机)

April 2025

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