acrookedpath | [pfsb]

[pfsb]

The latest idea that struck Wei Wuxian mid-lunch: if he combined one of the theoretical energy talismans with a paper doll, would that allow him to search the grounds for resentful energy without having to blanket the whole inn with talismans?

It seems like a sound idea! It won't replace the planned night hunt with Lan Zhan -- nor would he want it to -- but if he succeeds, it will be a fun experiment.

First, though: combining a paper doll with a simpler talisman. Which brings us to Wei Wuxian at a table underneath the Observation Window, not an inch left uncovered by his notes, scribbling onto a tiny cutout with a ballpoint pen Bar gave him. (What an invention!) He completes the last character with a flourish and waves his hand over the doll; it springs to its "feet," and, grinning, he directs it toward the empty cup perched precariously on a corner of the table.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

"She wanted to know. About cultivation with the guqin. And later, when she was ... upset."

The wariness in the way both Wei Ying and the talisman are looking at him presses down on him like a weight.

"Wei Ying. I did not -- "

He still has some food, and hasn't even touched his tea yet; Wei Wuxian picks up his cup, as if he could gather his thoughts in the same action, and drinks deep.

(He should have asked Lan Zhan for some wine instead.)

"Not even after -- " He stops. He will need to tread carefully, he thinks, and meets Lan Zhan's eye. "What did you see, when you played for her?"

He knows what Wei Ying means, what he must mean.

"No. Not then, not later. I did not."

She is like me. Doesn't that bother you?

He holds the other man's gaze with his own.

"The resentful energy she carries. She asked, too, if I saw it. And told me to ask you why. To say that she gave you permission."

He closes his eyes; his shoulders sag, a little, and the paper doll leans against the teapot.

For a moment, all Wei Wuxian can do is toy with the edge of a paper stack near his dinner. He runs his thumbnail up and down, fanning his notes, letting them settle back into place. Repeats this a few more times.

He said he would not hurt her, he reminds himself, and he does not lie.

"However it happened," he says, low, "it was not her fault. It was done to her, Lan Zhan. Before she was born."

Another scrape of his thumbnail over the paper stack.

"There are two hundred resentful souls at her heart. Like a core. A massacre done by her parents, that made her a necromancer."

He stares at Wei Ying in utter shock.

"They--"

Two hundred souls. A massacre, to give Harrow her power, a path forced on her before her birth.

"... I did not see that," he manages, finally. "Only the energy. Not what caused it."

He forces himself to stop scraping at his notes and look up at Lan Zhan.

"I'm not sure I would have seen it either," he says. "But the first time we met, I was playing the flute outside -- trying to seek out resentful energy. And then..."

He opens his hand, like a flower unfolding. There's no humor to his smile.

"I could sense all of them, as she walked by. All at once."

He shakes his head, still almost disbelieving. Except, of course, that he cannot disbelieve it; no wonder she could not bring herself to confess it. As horrifying as it is, someone did this, Harrow's parents did this, and she--

You may not wish to share your gifts with a black nun once you know what I am.

He closes his eyes, then shakes his head again and opens his eyes to look back at Wei Ying.

"It does not matter," he says. "It does not ... change things."

Wei Wuxian nods, very serious, eyes very dark.

"I did not know she kept it secret," he says, quietly, "and I blurted it aloud to her, very rudely. Do not talk about it with her unless she asks, Lan Zhan. And do not tell anyone else."

"I will not."

Without hesitation.

"Good."

He's silent, for a moment -- and then the darkness lifts, the seriousness banished by another quick, teasing grin.

"I am glad it will not change anything between you and Harrow!"

He feels his jaw tighten.

Wei Ying is teasing him. He knows this. And yet--

You like Mianmian?

Why am I even talking to you about this.

"Ridiculous," he grits out, between clenched teeth.

He laughs. "Ah, Lan Zhan, I am only teasing," he says, and reaches across the table to poke him with the butt of his chopsticks. "I'm glad you two are getting along!"

Truly, he is. It's what he hoped for when Lan Zhan first told him he'd spoken to the Ninth. Which, oddly, does nothing to release the queasy knot in his chest; if anything, it seems to be pulling tighter.

Maybe more food will help: he digs back into his dinner and tries to banish the thoughts from his mind.

Lan Wangji slants a suspicious look at him.

"Mn."

But it seems that the teasing has stopped, at least for now, and he can feel his tension relax. It is one thing for Wei Ying to tease him, and something entirely different for him to tease on this subject.

You should not flirt unless you mean it.

But that, of course, is not something he can explain.

Instead, he reaches for the teapot and refills Wei Ying's tea.

He murmurs a cheerful thank you, takes a sip, then dives back into his food.

In the window above, the sky explodes in a silent, dazzling array, like millions of lanterns flaring brighter and guttering out in an instant. In the window looking over the lake, the sun draws lower to the horizon, darkening the grass and painting the water in streaks of orange.

"Do you still wish to explore the forest with me?" asks Wei Wuxian once he's polished off his last bite. "I can return my notes to my room before we go."

He himself had finished his meal a bit before, and has been absently watching and listening to the passage of people through the room as he drinks the last of his tea.

It is comfortable, spending time with Wei Ying like this.

"Yes."

As if there were no other answer to give - and as far as he is concerned, there isn't.

He beams. "Then let me just -- "

It's rather an endeavor, gathering all his notes. They totter half a meter high in his arms by the time he scoops them all together, with the little paper doll riding on top, arm raised to shade its nonexistent eyes as if sighting the horizon. Wei Wuxian seems to have gained some skill in hauling so much paper around, however: he maneuvers along with no trouble as he rises from the table to head upstairs.

He watches this with increasingly fond amusement before he shakes his head and gets to his feet as well.

"Careful," he says. "Let me lead."

He moves to go ahead of Wei Ying, so that he can make sure the path across the room is clear of any obstacles that might trip him.

He can't help but laugh a little. "Thank you, Lan Zhan," he says, only a bit sheepish.

Fortunately, no waitrats dive across their path, and no one else tries to squeeze past them on the stairs. When they reach Wei Wuxian's door, he nods to Lan Zhan to open it. His hands are full, after all!

He does so, and as promised, the talisman recognizes him and releases the seal.

Lan Wangji cannot help but feel a small, pleased thrill at that.

He pushes the door open and holds it, so that Wei Ying can carry his work inside.

And Wei Wuxian sweeps inside to dump all his papers on the low table with a grunt. He shuffles the half-completed talismans out of their stacks to pin them up; they cover a third of the wall by now, loosely grouped by category, broken up by the occasional suppression talismans to make sure nothing inadvertently goes off in the middle of the night. It gives the whole place the same harried, disorganized sense as the table he'd commandeered for most of the day.

And speaking of the middle of the night: as promised, there is now a second bed alongside Wei Wuxuian's.

He grabs his flute off a low shelf and spins it between his fingers, aiming another cheery grin at Lan Zhan. "Shall we?"

He nods, and calls Bichen forth, holding it with comfortable ease at his side.

"Let us go."

By the time they step outside, only a small thumbnail of sun hangs above the horizon. It slips away into darkness as they walk across the grounds, leaving bands of deep red and purple to underline the black of the sky. Out of habit, Wei Wuxian looks up to check their bearing by the stars -- but of course the stars look nothing like home.

Crickets sing all around them. Water laps the shoreline. Somewhere, distant and indistinct, comes the low voices of a few other patrons.

And as they approach the forest, Wei Wuxian raises his flute to his lips, and begins to play.

The music rises, twisting through the night around them and reaching through the trees, seeking, calling--

Lan Wangji walks beside Wei Ying, scanning the area around them and the woods ahead. Moonlight gleams from the white of his robes and glints from Bichen's edge.

All is quiet around them as they step into the trees. Even the demon bunnies seem to be elsewhere, for the moment. There are a few different paths to follow, if one were to so choose, as well as ample space between the trees. Some trails lead toward the lake, while some lead deeper into the forest. Not all of them show the marks of horses' hooves or people's feet.

Deeper in the forest, something stirs. Not all places here at the ends of worlds are as civilized or controlled as the inn itself, and there, at the edges of the Dreaming, wildness gathers.

It has been several years, now, since a young woman named Ava called demons from her world into this one at the lake's shore, bringing them there for a young man named Sam to practice their control and destruction.

Not all of them died.

It is the same as before: nothing seems to answer his call. Not at first. He would grit his teeth in frustration, but that would interrupt the song.

He steps further down one of the paths that bears no footprints. The eerie, haunting music weaves ahead of them, seeking any restless spirits that may walk the grounds. It gathers them close: come, it whispers, come.

And then, suddenly, shooting back to him along the reaching thread of the music --

A tiny spark flares inside him for the first time in a month.

Wei Wuxian inhales sharply, the music stuttering to a stop as his eyes fly wide. Don't, he orders himself, keep playing, and immediately he shuts his eyes and picks up the tune again, fingers flying faster, the sound rising.

The moonlight shines bright enough that it's impossible to miss: like ink dropped in water, black energy begins to curl and rise from the flute.

It has been three years. Three years, since he has seen resentful energy stir and coil like that around Wei Ying.

Three years, and then--

He forces the memory away and raises Bichen between them and whatever threat lies ahead, prepared to defend should something strike.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject