Words drift effortlessly between Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue.
It feels like they have all day, forever, that time does not exist.
Xichen and the Monster
Jin Guangyao returns, but not quite as he was. Lan Xichen tries anyway.
10-part dark fairytale, collab with @chat-noir-chocolat
>>PDF DOWNLOAD<<
Paper
Lan disciples enter the Cloud Recesses when they are eleven.
They begin boisterous and curious as children are, full of faces and giggles behind Lan Qiren’s back. Lan Sizhui is delighted to be surrounded by so many his own age after a lifetime of adults. He leads them around the pavilions and shows them all the secret places he’s kept to himself. For a little while, it’s paradise.
“Niang made me these, aren’t they pretty?” one of the girls says as she shows off a pair of snow white shoes.
“My big sister can also make shoes!” a boy exclaims proudly as he crosses his arms.
“You’re all so lucky,” a boy named Lan Jingyi pouts, “Grandma sent me shoes too, but my family are all bad with their hands. My shoe has a hole, and this is the first time I’ve worn them!” He flashes a grin right after and points to his right foot.
The group breaks out in laughter.
Lan Sizhui laughs too. He stares at his perfect shoes from the seamstress and begins to feel the first bubbles of boiling anger. Niang, sister, grandma. He has none of these. No one threads a needle to sew fine knots for him.
Every year, young masters Lan and Nie venture to the northern deserts to cultivate. The sun rises early and lights their way.
writing the words to wangxian
Time
When A-Yuan turns nine, he becomes an endless fountain of questions. Lan Wangji finds it an intriguing trait, but the sheer volume is bewildering. Such questions are natural to have, Lan Xichen assures him, it’s good to be curious about the world. Still, Lan Wangji feels a bit overwhelmed by this phase of chatty childhood.
At first, the questions were simple.
(Why is ink black? It is made from a black stone.)
Then they grew more complex.
(Where are my parents? They loved you but passed on. There was a war, many people died...)
They grew so complicated that he was at a loss of how to answer.
(Why are we here? … )
Lan Wangji takes each question in great seriousness and composes long papers he then later reads to A-Yuan. We are here because someone wanted us so much that they broke open the wheel of life with their desire and pulled us to this place, this time. It’s hard to say if there’s a reason for anyone to be or do accomplish in their life. Here is an arbitrary concept. We are just here…
He scratches out the beginning and redrafts his thoughts again. The question is simply too lofty. Pages later, he feels satisfied and goes to find A-Yuan. There’s pride in his answer, but also in the boy for asking it. He reads his paper with a steady voice, which feels more like an academic speech than an answer to a nine-year-old’s question. It takes almost an entire incense stick’s time to finish.
When he’s done, he looks to the boy expectantly as if to ask “has this answered it for you?”
A-Yuan yawns and gives him a smile. “Ok. Thanks.”
Lan Wangji can’t help but feel a bit underwhelmed by the response. “Is there nothing else?”
The boy looks at him intently and immediately asks, “What is time?”
Time? Lan Wangji can’t help but sigh, “Maybe you can ask Zewu-jun.” Looking a bit dejected, A-Yuan mumbles and walks away.
Snow in the mountains
Years later, after everything ends, Lan Xichen begins to hear a whispering voice. It starts a feeling more than a sound but soon grows in intensity. The voice sings his name and calls for his presence. It follows him around corners, beckoning him down the mountain. After a while, it is too invasive to ignore, and he leaves seclusion to investigate.
He follows the sound to a lake at the outskirts of Caiyi. At first he sees nothing unusual, only the expected rustle of lily pads and sporadic ripples from lively fish. Then, from the murky waters, a pair of eyes. The eyes float closer until a face appears, framed by long unkempt hair.
A face of someone he used to know.
The creature emerges and reaches for his hand. Lan Xichen is so surprised he can only bend down and let himself be caught despite the obvious demonic aura. It’s uncanny how it resembles Jin Guangyao: his sharp eyes, haughty cheekbones, the vermilion mark he coveted so much in life. Even the way it grasps his hand feels familiar.
“Who are you?”
The creatures is silent and studies the movement of his lips. It opens its mouth and tries to speak but no sound emerges. It tries again and manages a hoarse whisper, “I don’t remember.”
It runs long fingers along his palm and adds softly, “er ge.”
The endearment plants a seed in his heart that begins to sprout wildly. Still clutching Lan Xichen’s hand tightly, the creature pulls itself out of the water. It’s completely bare, a perfect image in alabaster skin. Against his better judgement, he carefully dresses the doppelganger in his outer robes and guides it back to Cloud Recesses in the dark of night.
This creature is not human. It does not breathe. It is not warm. It prefers to sleep submerged in a bath of icy water. But it looks at him with the same admiration and delight A-Yao did. He can’t help but wonder if this is his sworn brother returned to him so he may do better this time.
Wangxian for @mdzsseasonszine
Thanks for having me!
Burning of cloud recesses
In the mountains is Wei Ying’s favorite scenery, a village straight from a painting.
He shares such secrets for Lan Zhan’s birthday.
Happy new year, Lan Zhan
Revive
:: sequel to Knowing
It takes three springs for Lan Wangji to feel well enough to pick up Bichen again. The way his fingertips trace the hilt’s carved clouds is hesitant, pulled between anxiety and nostalgia. Lan Xichen encourages him but his words barely take root. His brother’s grief is an ever-expanding beast. The tiniest item bears the same burden as any hoarder’s yield.
He’s seen survivors of tragedy be of two kinds: those who do not die and those who come back to life. Lan Xichen is afraid his brother is of the former rather than the latter.
“Wangji, shall we practice sword forms together?”
Lan Wangji drags his fingertips over the scabbard but does no more. Once again, he answers with a head shake.
They walk through the gardens instead, pausing in the pavilion on the lake to dodge the rays of the midday sun. Wangji’s face is pristine as ever, but the way he carries his hands betrays his unease.
“It’s beautiful this time of year, isn’t it?”
“Mn.”
The brothers stand in silence, feeling the warm breeze and watching fish school in lazy circles. It’s not awkward. They’re long used to this type of stop and go. Lan Xichen studies his face and follows his golden gaze. It takes him to a boy on the other side of the zigzag bridge. The boy is lost in an imaginary world, waving and thrusting a stick in his right hand as though it were a forged sword.
“You should teach Sizhui to wield a sword.” It is the perfect way to get him to pick up his own blade again.
Lan Wangji ruminates on the thought before declaring, “He is too young.”
“You weren’t much older yourself...”
Furrowing his brow, he replies, “I would not be a good teacher. Brother would be better.”
Lan Xichen sighs and rolls his eyes. These excuses… “Wangji, he wants so badly to be like you, but he is a child. He knows not how to ask.”
Another silence, but this time, there is something else in Lan Wangji’s eyes. He is lost in his mind, contemplating in circles like unraveling a web. The turn from pupil to teacher, it feels like the marker of an end: that he has seen all there is to see, has met those who would ever be important in his life, has felt the extremes of all there is to feel.
“I...I don’t know how.”
His brother merely smiles and says, “Don’t worry, the sword is itself a language to know the world.”
One cannot be fearful and vigilant and feel their sword; their heart must be open. There are uncompromising strangeness and power in its form. His light eyes point toward the boy and his pretend blade. There’s something unexpected in the child’s untrained movements, a poetry beckoning him to learn its joyful secrets.
Lan Wangji nods and summons his sword.
Knowing
Lan Xichen watches Lan Yuan play from the shaded courtyard corner.
The boy pokes at a bush and laughs in glee when its yellowed leaves fall. It’s been ages since there has been a child in this part of Cloud Recesses. Structures long-dormant breathe into life from his youthful presence. Even the tall parasol trees seem to lean down toward him, branches heavy with gathered longing.
When Lan Yuan notices his gaze, he makes a surprised face and slaps both hands over his forehead in an exaggerated sweep.
“Zewu-jun…” the boy murmurs.
“Why are you covering your ribbon, Sizhui?” He tries his best to sound gentle when he notices a hint of fear in the child’s eyes. Like he is caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“I…can't tie it right,” he stammers, “don’t tell Hanguang-jun.”
“Why not?”
Lan Yuan casts his doe-like eyes down toward his feet. “He already showed me and…I don’t think he likes me.”
Lan Xichen kneels to be more at eye level. He slowly peels tiny hands away and lifts the tangled ribbon from his head. “Of course he likes you. Sizhui is his favorite.”