Wei Wuxian (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
acrookedpath) wrote2020-09-02 08:36 am
acrookedpath) wrote2020-09-02 08:36 am
[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.
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.
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Let me remember this tonight, he thinks. Let me forget the rest.
"You will fall asleep sitting upright again, Lan Zhan," he warns, lightly.
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Wei Ying is ... probably not wrong, he realizes.
Lan Wangji lies down on his back, pillow neatly positioned under his head, and folds his hands over his middle dantian in his usual sleeping position.
"Good night, Wei Ying."
Habit overtakes him, and he is asleep in mere moments.
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As Lan Zhan's breathing shifts to that of deep sleep, swiftly as ever, Wei Wuxian's smile fades. He props himself on his elbow to study the other man.
Carefully, after a few moments, he swings his feet out of bed to set them on the floor. When Lan Zhan still doesn't stir, he sighs, barely audible, and pads over to the low table to resume his work.
He marks the hour by the arc of the moon; he may not know how long he sits at the table, crafting talisman after talisman, but after what must be several hours, the moon has risen far enough that it no longer shines enough light into his room. He stifles a yawn against the back of his hand, blinking heavily at the latest stack of papers he created. A little longer, he thinks. Just a little longer.
Sketching a line of characters in the air, he conjures a tiny orb of red light, dim enough not to disturb Lan Zhan, bright enough to let him finish another talisman or three. He makes it halfway through the second talisman before realizing his brushwork has become too sloppy from exhaustion; with a sigh, he crumples up the ruined talismans, extinguishes the light, and shuffles back to bed in defeat.
He watches the ceiling. He counts Lan Zhan's breaths. He tries, as hard as he can, to stay awake just a little longer.
But eventually, the exhaustion wraps its arms around him to pull him under, and he is too weak to fight back.
Two hours later, his eyes snap open.
His whole body is rigid, locked in place. He tries to twitch his fingers and can't. His eyes dart back and forth; frantically, he sucks in a rasping breath, struggling to fill his lungs.
Help, he tries to say, but all that comes out is a weak wheeze. Help me.
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As the faint sound of Wei Ying's desperate, strangled breath drifts through the air, a slight frown draws a tiny line between his eyebrows, but Lan Wangji does not otherwise stir.
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"Help," he manages to croak, and then all at once, the lock on his muscles breaks.
He rolls from the bed and lands on his hands and knees. Frantically, he scrabbles at the back of his neck -- but he can't find the needle anywhere, where is it, where is it, please --
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The tiny, miserable cry jerks him from sleep to wakefulness in an instant. As he rolls to his side, trying to see what's happening, Wei Ying falls to the floor and Lan Wangji discovers that he can, in fact, move faster than he ever thought possible.
He scrambles from the bed and drops to his knees beside Wei Ying, throwing an arm around him for support.
"Wei Ying. Wake up. Wake up."
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His voice cracks into a sob. He heaves more air into his chest as he keeps clawing at the back of his neck, a curtain of hair half obscuring his face.
"I can't find it -- pull it out, please, pull it out, I have to -- "
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He has no idea what he is looking for, but that does not stop him. He slides his hand up Wei Ying's back to his neck, under his hair, and gently probes with his fingers, carefully searching along the nape of his neck, the sides of his throat, the base of his skull.
While he does, he reaches across in front of Wei Ying to put his other hand on his shoulder. With a light pull, Lan Wangji tries to get Wei Ying to turn and look at him.
"I am here, Wei Ying. I will help."
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Even if he's half-paralyzed, he can move enough to follow where Lan Zhan guides him. There's no coherence to the gaze Wei Wuxian turns on him; his eyes are too wide, brimming with tears, and each breath moves his chest like a bellows.
Lan Zhan is here, he thinks. He doesn't know why he's here, how he made it to the Burial Mounds or why he wants to help, but he will. He will. He's...
...not wearing his forehead ribbon?
Wei Wuxian's brow knots in confusion.
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I have to stop them-- They're going to--
The first dim inkling of what this dream may have been starts to seep into his awareness.
His fingers still, leaving his hand gently cupped around the back of Wei Ying's neck as he searches the other man's face, worry visible on his own.
"Wei Ying."
He says it as gently as he can.
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Lan Zhan is not wearing his forehead ribbon, and they are in a room, not a cave, with two beds side by side, and a towel draped over the privacy screen that is nothing like the finely-woven cloth of home -- because this isn't home. It's the inn.
They're at the inn.
His face crumples, loosing the tears down his face, as he leans into Lan Zhan.
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After a moment or two, it's clear that this storm will take some time to pass. He shifts them both slightly, enough that he can slip one arm under Wei Ying's knees, and then uses his core's strength for support as he heaves himself upward, carrying Wei Ying.
Lan Wangji sits down on his bed, Wei Ying on his lap, puts both arms back around him, and holds him close while he cries.
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Behind his eyelids, bodies sway above the gates of Nightless City.
"She wouldn't let me," he tries to explain, but it's too clogged with tears to be understandable.
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For now, he keeps him secure in his arms and draws slow, soothing circles over the middle of Wei Ying's back with one hand.
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And yet, somehow, he does. Somehow the sobs turn into hiccups that hurt his chest just as much; somehow the vise in his throat lessens enough for him to swallow more of the tears back. Somehow, he is still here in Lan Zhan's arms, and for all he feels as if he will shatter like the most fragile of glass, Lan Zhan does not let go.
I'm sorry. He isn't sure if he says it aloud to Lan Zhan, or silently to the faces of the dead he could not save. I'm sorry.
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He does not loosen his arms, though, nor does he stop the steady, comforting movement of his hand against Wei Ying's back.
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When he feels Lan Zhan move, he tightens his hold a little, unconsciously.
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Lan Wangji pulls him a little closer and lowers his face into Wei Ying's hair. He takes a small, careful breath, and hums quietly, wordless and reassuring.
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"I woke you again."
An exhausted whisper against Lan Zhan's robes.
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His breath is warm against Wei Ying's hair.
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"I don't know what happened," he mumbles. "I couldn't move. I thought -- "
His voice twists anew.
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Then--
"Thought what?"
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"Wen Qing," he whispers, bleak. "She stopped me from following them. One of her needles."
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So much is explained, now. He had never understood how the Wens could have been taken by the Jin sect in the first place, how Wen Qing and Wen Ning could have surrendered themselves without Wei Ying stopping them. Because he would have, surely he would have, unless he was badly injured in the attack at Qiongqi Way, or worse--
When Xichen had sent word of what had happened, Lan Wangji had broken Shufu's decree restricting him to the Cloud Recesses save for official sect business, part of his punishment for going to Yiling before, and had traveled as fast as he could to the Burial Mounds, terrified at what he might find.
Wei Ying had not been there. Instead, he had found only A-Yuan, alone and feverish. Frantic with worry, he had nevertheless taken the time to bring the child to a doctor in Yiling, leaving him there with a promise to return, before he sped to Nightless City, only to arrive too late.
Too late.
"I knew something must have," he manages, each word half-choked by the tightness in his throat.
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He's crying freely again, one hand fisted in the collar of Lan Zhan's robes.
"I tried to break through it. I couldn't move fast enough. How could they? There were old women, children -- "
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