[ ...ah. There he is, a villain as fiendish as fresh legends afford him, the Yiling Patriarch in his mourning glow. Not for the first time, the second, the third — as per the pattern of their liaison, Wangji finds teeth gritting, hands clenching, his back sharp-straight.
Not enemy, not threat, but... discomfort. No, challenge. Not an obstacle, but a step on the staircase of improvement.
Wei Ying.
What a name his parents gave him, too sweet for murder. What fools they all were, and Wangji crowns them now, still nodding his greeting — still like the flower rows that bend knee and stems beside him under a perennial breeze.
The gardens, to seek out calm and whispers of spirits before the sundown. Even here, Wei Wuxian is welcome. ]
Jiang Cheng stayed his hand.
[ No duel, no war, no conflict. Their matter done. ]
[not done. never done, not until what lives between them has settled, whatever form it may take. wei ying has no hopes here, no illusions or delusions.
there's a reason he hasn't said anything until the matter ran from his hands, not all of them selfish.
he walks up to lan zhan, taking a respectable distance before he falls to his knees in a graceful bow. lan qiren's voice yowls in his ears, imagined: bow low to the earth, beg for penance, honor those who have come before you. there is no bitterness in wei ying's body, and truthfully there is no shame either. he spoke true, first to jiang cheng, then to lan zhan; if he has offended, then he has offended wholeheartedly, and he accepts his role in his own dishonor.
he kneels for yunmeng jiang.]
Wei Wuxian asks for Lan Wangji's forgiveness. All fault is mine, and Yunmeng Jiang bears no blame for acting as its honor accords.
[ He kneels. Now, with no fault to claim, no words spoken in anger, no bitterness, no butchery. Not before, when he'd stirred from sleep of the dead, after traversing to the netherworld on his lonesome. Not when he betrayed the cultivation world without excuse or reason. Not when he perverted the ancient core of sorcery for perceived whim and honest desperation.
Now.
Wangji's eyes lid tight, iron shackled. He laughs.
Instinct: Only brother can accept the protocols of another sect.
Courtesy: No fault to speak of.
Awe: Raise yourself.
And then, the truth of the matter, as it presents itself: prostration becomes the penitent, and Wei Wuxian never learned the way of humble sorrow. No kin of Yunmeng Jiang did. No blood of their blood, for all most spilled the day the Wens sought rampage.
Let him learn, then. One leg, then the other. Wangji eases down, kneeling as fluid as walk, more organic than laughter. It becomes any man who has learned at the feet of Lan Qiren. It becomes Wangji above all. ]
The world only needs a target. [ His grip lands on each of Wei Wuxian's wrists, nudging gently apart to break the bow. ] Do not give them one again.
[of the things yet to come to pass, wei wuxian regrets only a few: his own hope for a reconciled future with his brother and sister, his elation at jin ling's birth, his naivete in thinking he could protect anyone at all. soon. in time. wei wuxian will learn these things, far far worse and more, and he'll carve himself only one path in which everyone else can survive.
that man, that reviled yiling patriarch, will regret very little.
it doesn't mean he won't suffer his choices.
so let him have this youthful conceit for now. let wei ying kneel a little longer, let his alarmed confusion play out on his face like the dawning of morning, let him hold gaze and wonder how lan zhan became the one thing that made perfect sense.
they could disappear at any moment. zewu-jun had told him this, asked him this, and wei ying had answered as honestly as he could. lan zhan deserves so much more than this, and yet. and yet. wei ying leans forward, lips taking lan zhan's own, a far gentler, sweeter kiss than their first, and wei ying lingers, stealing one more while he still has his courage.]
[ The second try, then: softer than before, less hastened. A calculated intrusion, pale where the first kiss was a feat of violence, a savage and raw indiscretion. This is — sophisticated in restraint, a gesture Wangji's mouth reconstructs, seconds in aftermath, through absence — pulses of warmth, here then gone, velvety texture and dry ridges that withdraw themselves.
No tongue. No teeth. Only the glimmers of treacherous 'moonlacing', accepting fresh reserves in Wangji's body that braces for strange replenishment, overwhelmed.
Absently, He did more poorly before.
He does not ask where Wei Ying might have learned the merits of the matter since, who mentored or who thieved him. Does not flinch. Beyond Wangji, there is a cup of experience that Wei Wuxian should drink with the temerity of one who lives borrowed hours gladly, only for worldly gain. Let him have his fill of others, of Wangji, of whatever he wishes. Shameless, but it is Wei Wuxian's due.
It ends like waves crashing near shore, with a murmur. Wangji's eyes open to the face he'd expected but abruptly recast, focus redrawn: there, more known now. Minutely but objectively familiar.
Under his fingertips, Wangji chases the edge of his own mouth, as if there might be enough of the transgression left there in physical incrimination. At the last moment, he catches himself in the practice, startled by his own stupor — and turns that hand out to Wei Wuxian instead, starting to ease himself up. ]
Wei Ying. [ Take the hand, you fool. ] Come up.
[ This, here, trial and tiding: the deed is done. Not to be spoken of, not to be writ, not to be considered. Within sight of many, out of the minds of most. ]
White stains.
[ White never suited the disciples of fellow clans, dressed them for consternation they never experienced, for spartan rigour they failed to understand. White cloth is fibre woven to exclude joy, hardship or rancour; it waits on the first sign of sea water, blood, dirt, all readied to sign themselves in permanence. Even snow, drenching fine white silk, can tint it with time.
Grass and leaves beneath them, as they linger, will take no pity. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
[and so wei ying finds lan zhan in the open garden space, standing like a specter in all white.]
Lan Zhan.
no subject
Not enemy, not threat, but... discomfort. No, challenge. Not an obstacle, but a step on the staircase of improvement.
Wei Ying.
What a name his parents gave him, too sweet for murder. What fools they all were, and Wangji crowns them now, still nodding his greeting — still like the flower rows that bend knee and stems beside him under a perennial breeze.
The gardens, to seek out calm and whispers of spirits before the sundown. Even here, Wei Wuxian is welcome. ]
Jiang Cheng stayed his hand.
[ No duel, no war, no conflict. Their matter done. ]
no subject
there's a reason he hasn't said anything until the matter ran from his hands, not all of them selfish.
he walks up to lan zhan, taking a respectable distance before he falls to his knees in a graceful bow. lan qiren's voice yowls in his ears, imagined: bow low to the earth, beg for penance, honor those who have come before you. there is no bitterness in wei ying's body, and truthfully there is no shame either. he spoke true, first to jiang cheng, then to lan zhan; if he has offended, then he has offended wholeheartedly, and he accepts his role in his own dishonor.
he kneels for yunmeng jiang.]
Wei Wuxian asks for Lan Wangji's forgiveness. All fault is mine, and Yunmeng Jiang bears no blame for acting as its honor accords.
no subject
Now.
Wangji's eyes lid tight, iron shackled. He laughs.
Instinct: Only brother can accept the protocols of another sect.
Courtesy: No fault to speak of.
Awe: Raise yourself.
And then, the truth of the matter, as it presents itself: prostration becomes the penitent, and Wei Wuxian never learned the way of humble sorrow. No kin of Yunmeng Jiang did. No blood of their blood, for all most spilled the day the Wens sought rampage.
Let him learn, then. One leg, then the other. Wangji eases down, kneeling as fluid as walk, more organic than laughter. It becomes any man who has learned at the feet of Lan Qiren. It becomes Wangji above all. ]
The world only needs a target. [ His grip lands on each of Wei Wuxian's wrists, nudging gently apart to break the bow. ] Do not give them one again.
no subject
that man, that reviled yiling patriarch, will regret very little.
it doesn't mean he won't suffer his choices.
so let him have this youthful conceit for now. let wei ying kneel a little longer, let his alarmed confusion play out on his face like the dawning of morning, let him hold gaze and wonder how lan zhan became the one thing that made perfect sense.
they could disappear at any moment. zewu-jun had told him this, asked him this, and wei ying had answered as honestly as he could. lan zhan deserves so much more than this, and yet. and yet. wei ying leans forward, lips taking lan zhan's own, a far gentler, sweeter kiss than their first, and wei ying lingers, stealing one more while he still has his courage.]
no subject
No tongue. No teeth. Only the glimmers of treacherous 'moonlacing', accepting fresh reserves in Wangji's body that braces for strange replenishment, overwhelmed.
Absently, He did more poorly before.
He does not ask where Wei Ying might have learned the merits of the matter since, who mentored or who thieved him. Does not flinch. Beyond Wangji, there is a cup of experience that Wei Wuxian should drink with the temerity of one who lives borrowed hours gladly, only for worldly gain. Let him have his fill of others, of Wangji, of whatever he wishes. Shameless, but it is Wei Wuxian's due.
It ends like waves crashing near shore, with a murmur. Wangji's eyes open to the face he'd expected but abruptly recast, focus redrawn: there, more known now. Minutely but objectively familiar.
Under his fingertips, Wangji chases the edge of his own mouth, as if there might be enough of the transgression left there in physical incrimination. At the last moment, he catches himself in the practice, startled by his own stupor — and turns that hand out to Wei Wuxian instead, starting to ease himself up. ]
Wei Ying. [ Take the hand, you fool. ] Come up.
[ This, here, trial and tiding: the deed is done. Not to be spoken of, not to be writ, not to be considered. Within sight of many, out of the minds of most. ]
White stains.
[ White never suited the disciples of fellow clans, dressed them for consternation they never experienced, for spartan rigour they failed to understand. White cloth is fibre woven to exclude joy, hardship or rancour; it waits on the first sign of sea water, blood, dirt, all readied to sign themselves in permanence. Even snow, drenching fine white silk, can tint it with time.
Grass and leaves beneath them, as they linger, will take no pity. ]