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(no subject)
WHO: Lan Wangji, a triad of misfits, perhaps everyone ever — OPEN FOR BUSINESS payments cash upfront
WHEN: first half of July
WHERE: canyons, mountain roads, encampment
WHAT: in which stone is struck (badly), ghosts are drawn into conversation (worse), and small children cry (inevitably)
WARNINGS: blood rains, talk of harpies, Lan Wangji
NOTE: happy to put up a starter for you, if you want to join in on this dubious fun, or feel free to bring your own! Lan Wangji is... drifting... between phantoms, investigations, watches and the stone canyon.
(day of) sizhui's disappearance → archeval
On the brittle, narrow, trembled road, the spokes of their carts chatter like a mouth of aching teeth, and rubble bruises snakes who scuttle, startled in their flight, and Lan Wangji feels yoked and fettered by the silent, molten lull of the convoy, crawling as one. This is not his heartbeat, his pace.
Better now — freed of his mount, his obligations. Only the pale morning sun haunting a motley of warmth on his unbent back, and the canyon beautiful in spattered light, in waking grandeur. Silence booms before the first birds wake, riotous. He has called Archeval to walk beside him and hunt the faded scent of his son, and as he brings Bichen down on hard rock, splintering under the force of the blade and the wrath of his thrust, and, slack-mouthed, he watches the unravelling viscera of splintered stone, and as he waits, and he waits, and he waits, and he hits in tempo, he supposes —
He has done nothing here, only blunted carvings, dulled stone, butchered statues in the nebulous vicinity of Sizhui’s last whereabouts. Only exerted himself, silks stitching to skin, and beads of sweat tripped on his temples, his hair, cold and growing colder, and the white, hot sound of nothingness consuming his body.
His son, behind these walls. His son, waiting. His son alone, his son captive. Earlier, when Sizhui manipulated the contraption to reveal his life — his precious, pretty life< and Lan Wangji would wear a hundred hurts and killing curses, to procure Sizhui only an hour’s time more — earlier, Wangji had expected the deed simple, if crude. Come to the canyons. Avail himself of every pretence of decorum, wash away rank, cleanse off composure, bring a killer at his side, an animal — and Archeval, so eager, so waiting, so prone — and reap carnage.
Shatter stone. Evacuate Sizhui, between frequent, desperate checks of the boy’s circumstances on the quartz stone Lan Wangji has begrudged at every turn for giving Wei Ying the advantage of conversation — the same token he clutches now with greedy hands, between tattered whispers to broker his boy close.
Prayer might suit him better. Trade. He turns to Archeval only when thin, serpentine rivulets of bloom stream Bichen’s blade, where Lan Wangji's palm’s caught on the hilt’s hard protrusion, grip stalwart. He breathes the failure of the past hour, the burn of his own lungs, breathes and wipes red on his forehead, side of the hand collecting, then exiling hair.
"It will not yield."
He knows, they both know. He is not yet so given to madness to neglect a truth plain. Stone does not speak, mountains do not break.
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"Yes, no kidding," he sighs out with his usual drawl, but manages to keep his sarcasm to those three words given Wangji's very obvious distress. It's a bit startling to look at, coming from someone who usually seems so unshakably collected, and Arche is more than a little surprised he's being allowed to see it--
"...Hold a moment. If he's supposed to be right on the other side of here--..."
Just briefly, he closes his eyes. Always trickier finding someone he doesn't know, of course, but if he can just search for a sense of presence on the other side of this mess of rock-- if it is just rock, anyway--
His mind snags on the sensation of life in the very near distance, standing out brightly from the death the rest of these mountain paths are drowning in. It's indistinct, something coming between his power and the minds on the other side, but still absolutely there-- He breathes a sigh of relief as he steps closer to the cliff face.
"I can feel a presence... presences?... on the other side of this stone. He lives," Arche declares quietly.
As he speaks he starts to feel along the stone in the dark where Wangji has been pounding at it, wondering if there's some hidden mechanism they might stumble on, the off chance this is all less supernatural and more some ancient civilization's idea of security. Hm, they need more light--...
"Not impossible to cut through this with my lightsaber, I think, or yank something free. But it will depend on the thickness. Far easier if we could figure out exactly how it is he ended up inside and simply reverse it. I don't suppose you'd let me have a look at your hand...? Would likely make this whole process go faster."
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It was so simple, once. A blink, and the slip of flimsy footing, and Wei Ying thrust unto the greedy mouth of yawning disaster. But Archeval speaks the word, and Lan Wangji is fool enough, weak enough, ached enough between one harsh-rasped breath and the next to believe him. Let it be so.
"My hand." For all the hate of errant touch, he does not hesitate, bloodied palm crawling, half-swatting, stripped of coordination — striking Archeval's wrist arm first, then his wrist, then the palm, before fingers claw in a thin grip. He is here. For his son, for making the process go faster, he surrenders all ease. "Take what you require."
Life and strength and blood and warmth and whatever else is Wangji's to give, let it go shared. Sorcery is this — he knows, saw the boy-king kill, when Unhalad fell. The covenant be so.
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He holds the hand steady, drawing his other one lightly down the flesh in front of him, across the wrist and over the palm. It's a matter of moments -- a small thing like this requires little effort, less thought; he's been knitting up his own training scrapes since the very day Zash taught him his first life-preserving ritual, and this is barely worse than those. Besides which, he has plenty of fuel to work with. Those fresh dark smears dissolve and vanish into nothing, and his heart pounds a little more in sympathy for the safety of this son than he'd like to admit, and a second later Lan Wangji's palm is whole again. The pain should be mostly gone, but undoubtedly Wangji will still notice a subtle queasy feeling of wrongness. Or then again, at the moment perhaps he won't notice it at all, considering just how wrong everything around him currently seems to be.
Arche catches his eye insistently for a moment as he lets the other's hand go again.
"Focus," he says firmly.
"Can't examine this wall with a ripped-up bleeding hand, and can't get things done if you don't even stop to breathe. Help me check the walls. There might be a mechanism to open them from this side, and if not--"
He shakes a last drop or two of stray blood off dirtied fingers to pitter-pat against the ground, then a moment later his lightsaber buzzes to life, violet glow sweeping across inches from the stone to better see by.
"Then I'll start carving."
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On feeling. Invasion. His hand. His hand, subject to Archeval's ministrations. A great, surreptitious intrusion that overcomes his body without cascading through his meridians. No deluge of qi, wave or spuming, no violence of crude healing. Only — the phantom texture of withered flowers grazing his fingertips, death and decay and the taste of displaced, cloying oud. Foreign sorcery reeks of this to him, ever has.
After, Lan Wangji recalls manners: recalls his hand and awards the nod, soft gratitude. His hatred of assistance in minding his body is no fault of the man unwarned. And then his hand drifts, a natural, no longer ached extension, touches the wall where it's sturdy, and the carvings that Lan Wangji has not yet reduced to dust, and he supposes, there is advantage in this, in healing. Advantage in all things.
"Sizhui pledged to shine fire light brightly." Talismans, if no moss or wood available. "I have seen no flame."
Buried beneath, the ache of it: no fire perceived, and no puncture wounds of hole in the walls also, and how do they breathe within their cage, how long until they suffocate?
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"Can't believe I'm saying this, but if we have no better ideas, I suppose I'm about to start hacking away at a solid damned rock wall. If there's anything around listening that doesn't want your nice carvings torn up this way, just for the record, this is entirely your own damn fault and you should just spit out the boy so you can avoid this fate--"
He sets his saber's tip to the edge of the stone and begins to slowly push his way forward. In theory, this shouldn't be that different from carving through some particularly thick starship doors, but it's not like he's ever done this before--
"This can throw up sparks, so watch your clothes," he informs a little absently, concentrating on holding the blade steady as he begins. "Let me know if you think you can start to see anything from the other side..."
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Belatedly, it strikes Lan Wangji he owes words arid in his mouth, gratitude that excuses himself. Only couples his hands before him in a thin, twisting bow and presents his token thusly, once and the deed done. He rights himself after, merciless when he casts a ward of modest protection around them — anemic, versus Wei Ying's performances, but a competent variation to see the chips and rubble strike and echo off their persons, without landing the blow.
"The guqin could — " But his breath staggers, and he knows the deceitful doubt that houses itself in his heart, knows the folly of his proposition. What is not dead yet might still die, if Lan Wangji unseats the pillars that hold the skies of the room of captivity. His weapon excels at crude offensives, unsubtle hostilities, carnage.
Only talismans still serve him in this, and he launches three more, splayed in tight and thin-skinned triad around Archeval's sword work, to secure his prey. He dares not speak his truth, until an exhalation cuts and dissects his lungs, and he releases it, carefully.
"If we encounter corpses within, flee the premise." One body, above others. Let Archeval the price of bearing witness.
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"Very well, if you insist--..." he sighs, teeth gritted as he bends to his task; it's very possible that in a few minutes he's not going to be in a state to argue the point.
Of course, there's always one potent card he has yet to play. The whole reason he began drawing spirits to himself in the first place was for times of extremity like this, and part of him instinctively wants to reach out, to try to add Unhalad's power to his own, but -- the temptation is there and he forces himself to step back from it, to properly concentrate on the moment again. He can do this, even if it's slower going than he'd like. He's only barely begun to get a grasp on Unhalad's nature at all, not even managed to communicate yet; unleashing so much extra power unprepared, no idea what he's dealing with, could well end in a horrific blunder. Lan Wangji won't thank him for accidentally bringing down a whole cavern roof on top of his son's head, so better to stay the course for now--
Between the two of them, somehow, painstakingly, they manage to knock a hole through just large enough to admit a human being. Arche staggers and reaches out a hand to catch himself against the carved wall after flinging the last chunk of rock to one side, breathing hard as his saber beam vanishes into the darkness. The Force makes all things possible, but that certainly doesn't mean they're always easy.
"I need... need just a second... I'll follow you in," he pants out. "And for stars' sake don't go too far alone."
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Does not. Bolts past Archeval like white light in summer storm, clawing at the last of the rock between him and the open pathway, nail biting in, red at corners, wrenching stone, weed, gutting out the remains. He thrusts himself in, knees yielding, balance broken and nearly knelt by the time he's spanned half his distance — a supplicant, forehead bowed and the empty line of his gaze diffuse and distorted, and the bloodied hand of the lady sweeping his mouth.
Stone, still. Statue. Cloth and linens and wards each way, calligraphy stale and smeared, greyed out. He parts his lips and takes silent anointment, each breath confession and communion, and breathe what rock and earth did, exhales.
"He..." This, face tight and crumbled. One finger trailed through dirt, as he takes the knee. This is the toll of Sizhui's absence. "He is not here." No. Again. "There are not here."
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The words are still a little breathless as Archeval follows behind at last, ducking through the gap he's made to stare around with increasingly alarmed confusion. They've certainly gotten somewhere, though. It's dark, but he raises his saber to stare around again some more -- the purple glow reveals some kind of ornate statue, detailed carvings on the walls, some sort of... tags, cloth and paper and wood, hung on cords around the room. It would be a fascinating if unsettling find under better circumstances, but local archaeology is hardly the reason they're in here right now.
"...but I felt them. This makes no sense. They're still--"
He tiredly reaches out to prod with his senses, the Force still coming easily enough for such a small thing, and -- yes, it's still there. That feeling of nearby life, diffuse and hard to pin down, but still absolutely present.
"...I'd swear I feel perfectly normal sentient life. There's... certainly something about it that's off -- harder to perceive than normal, but someone absolutely should be here--"
His gaze turns toward the dimly-lit statue, the dusty and tattered and unfamiliar-looking strings of tags. The presence of life isn't the only thing he can feel in this little room, of course -- the sense of something being held at bay here is ominously tangible.
He's wary of intruding too much in a place like this, but they can hardly just give up and wander off again with Lan Wangji's son still misplaced; so he glances down with a furrowed brow at Wangji for a moment before turning away to start examining -- very carefully, watching where he steps and where he touches -- the four walls of the area. The glow of the saber marks his passage as he moves through the dim chamber.
"...this sort of phenomena isn't exactly my field. But we certainly can't just quit now," his voice filters back through the dark to Wangji's ears.
"Any ideas...?"
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And yet, they are not. Absent, for the eye to see, both Sizhui and — the girl. Dread makes hollow home in Lan Wangji's bones, paralysing him with damp, growing stickiness. The mould of his heartache simmers. He reaches in, clumsy-handed, for another try of the quartz stone, willing his son's answer, releasing a great sigh no lesser than a world's exhalation, when Sizhui deigns to respond.
Soon, he means to scream, but rage ever absents itself, when he's shattered on his knees, Soon, one day, you will learn the misgivings of a father, you will learn to answer the heartbeat your name is called, you will live with terror of empty silence. But not yet so.
Around and about him, Archeval paces like an animal caged, storm current without outlet. The red skin of bruised stone, rusted from where copper must reveal itself in sharp percentage, gives under Lan Wangji's hand. He raises himself, one knee, then the next, and he is upright — learning. First, his words, then the pace of his blinks, then his composure.
Until, finally, "They live. Elsewhere."
Here is only the anchor under his hand — through happenstance, the hand of the lady, as if a saving grace determined to raise him. He walks the soft lines of her hand, grasps the intricacies of her likeness. Strange, but not unexpected.
"The statue is a tribute." No. He aligns With it, flow of its energies dead and wakeful and alive in his bloodstream. No. "An omen. I believe it intends us no harm."
...or assistance. But then, his gaze chases the room, its litter of wards, and he thinks, before Archeval might commit the error, to pass the warning. "Do not touch wards. Often active, howver long the passing of time."
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"Ah. These items on the cords, I presume. Very well. As a rule I do try not to trifle with anything in a strange ancient ruin when I'm not entirely sure whether it's there to kill me or not." The words are a low drawl, slowly growing more properly audible, as he and the glow of that saber move in Wangji's direction again.
"...an omen," he repeats to himself softly when his feet come to a stop next to Wangji, giving the stone sculpture before them a solemn stare. He sees the life-size image of a young, beautiful woman, staring ahead with an equally heavy expression -- hands held before her, seemingly stained with something dark. That bit at least feels familiar. He's certainly borne witness to his fair share of old sacrificial altars in his time, though who can truly tell if that's what he's looking at right now--
"Whatever happened in this pass, it certainly feels as though this little room was -- very connected somehow." His voice holds a faint hush.
"Those carvings on the walls -- very specific. I noted an entire army, depicted in detail. And some of -- perhaps what they call sorcerers around here, if I had to guess. A few beings making ritual gestures, and... fire raining down on the army. Fire and flood, or some kind of wave, at least."
Archeval pauses for a second before giving a deep sigh.
"...but no doors, and no clues about where your son is. I didn't even notice that so much as the dust on the floor of this place had been disturbed." His lips purse, expression turning grim as he continues to watch the silent, solemn gaze of the stone woman, staring back all impassive to their current plight.
"Has he made any progress himself, wherever he's at right now...?"
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And yet she holds his gaze, stone unflinching, ribs unrisen, the base, immutable wealth of her inflexibility a hard constant. Behind him, Archeval prowls and meanders, dragging the heat of his sword, the quiet fire of his impatience. As if his son waits — and more fool Lan Wangji, withholding his truths, the scant, scattered gravel of revelation permitted to him. To them. Lan Wangji has drawn Archeval into this matter, like lace spooled back to hand.
"They walk down a steep path. Abyssal." And softer, "He claims he will not fall."
And there is dread in Lan Wangji that fuels the sudden, inexplicable calm of him, a sea before ice, waiting the freeze. Nothing will come of his search, but he complies, setting to search the room, each wall — scratching skin and joint and palm, examining for weight and pressure points between rock cuttings. Hunting.
"Entrance points may withhold themselves."
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They probably should have brought torches or the like, but Wangji had been too frantic to slow down for that earlier, and now they're already here; at intervals Arche makes do with tossing his saber up into the air to keep it hovering there, casting an eerie purple glow over large swathes of the room. His black-core crystal makes a poor substitute for real lighting, but as Arche makes another circuit around squinting at nooks and crannies and carefully feeling for the sorts of mechanisms that hide in such ancient structures, he's increasingly starting to feel that going back for oil and torch and lantern would be a waste of time anyway. Much as it rankles to admit defeat--
"...I'm not sure this is something you and I are going to be able to solve," he sighs out at last, disgruntledly, about the time their mutual search of each half of the room has brought them standing close together again.
"There absolutely should be beings here, by all my senses and instincts, and yet there are not. If I had a better knowledge of the supernatural properties of this place, of this world in general... perhaps. But at this point I can only think something is going on here that we don't fully understand."
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He says nothing, unto no one. Retreats, and only finally remembers — vengeance, then. Let him lead with that, as Wei Ying's powers have woven before, wrenched from nothingness into being. Let him use, as he summons his zither with the pass of a hand and whispers it alive, the first ring of his music rousing a turbulence of sound in the small confinement. He must play with caution here, where waves of strength can fracture walls, where rock holds itself too brittle.
No matter. Play he will. And with the music, force and compelling spirits to answer, the hundreds of voices that fragmented off living bodies once, to combine in one voice here, whole. Qi language, rightfully exerted.
Eye-slanted and jaw stiff, it occurs to him, after a few exchanges, to translate for Archeval's pleasure:
"My son and his companion are unharmed. Not in this room." And without sparing a glance away from the state, hands drifting over the zither string. "The spirits here. If you have questions, name them."
...after, he might wish to explain just how Lan Inquiry performs its duties.
after sizhui's return → winnie (first watch)
Harpies, others of the convoy named them, but Lan Wangji collars his wonder. More than bone, sinew or scale, more than the hasty glimmer of claw or the fluid contortion of their smoke-wisped bodies, he sees and feels, dripped down on fingertips — the tar that thickens, warm and indiscreet. Rains of red, membrane and molten basalt from the harpies’ flight. The skies love them little.
...the encampment, less so. He is not for crowds, not for crowding. The ghosts of Lord Arha do not breathe, and yet the air of Lan Wangji's lungs depletes itself, each inhalation an effort of scratches. By fire-side, watching the puppet play of midnight shadows and phantasms that remember themselves suddenly appeared, he has been... inconvenienced enough on this night.
Bear hardship with dignity. The wall of Cloud Recesses, replete with learnings Lan Wangji presumes to think, perhaps, cruelly indisposed to the realities of persistent and neighbourly hauntings who do not yield to exorcism. The ghosts chatter, roam, clutter. Think themselves men yet of this world, pleading against the blood that spills down, and recalling at the last moment to raise ripped tent skins stabbed on misshapen pillars and construct Winnifred a palanquin.
In virtue of accident and company, Lan Wangji profits, sets his jaw tight and his grip of Bichen smooth, and does not thank the dead — who misuse their scant power already, to raise the living protective infrastructure — their clandestine benefaction.
Perhaps he should. Perhaps he should forgive himself fragments of indulgence. (Does not.)
If a battalion of phantoms puts its menace at their disposal in misguided courtship of a pretty, pale and dainty girl, who is Lan Wangji to deny them? ]
What have you learned of them?
[ Whispered, to the side, where Winnifred is the midnight sun and another ghost has only just departed after sharing tales of his great, heroic youth. This, then. This is what accompanying Sizhui to matchmakers will prove like.
...surely, Wei Ying did not vanquish death to skip that particular parenting shift, when the time comes. Who would Lan Wangji be to refuse him? (The girl smiles for the dead too readily.) ]
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Except perhaps her grumpy companion, whom she's actually a little surprised speaks up to her as she waves goodbye to the latest spirit.]
Hm? Oh, quite a bit! There was one that had a daughter and assures me she's grown up very well. Another had a lover he had to leave behind and unfortunately she didn't wait for him at all, poor thing.
[She pouts a little, looking sympathetic, and then smiles brightly at him] They really are quite sweet. And a bit lonely, I think. They're all quite eager to tell their stories. I'm thinking perhaps I should start writing them all down if I get the chance... That seems like the right thing to do, doesn't it?
[Let their stories get told, or something. It sounds like it should be right.] But I'm happy to talk to them. They make me think of home, a little.
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Pursed lips, head bowed, patience kindling once more like fire wisps from embers. She is as Lan Wangji first knew her, a flighty, precious thing, butterfly invading what should not yet be her natural environment but still bends and breaks to receive her. It should not awe or aggrieve him, Bichen spreading flat and fair where he's crossed her over his folded knees.
They are holding court over the dead, and he guards a queen. Drip and drip and red rain falls, and he thinks, there are worse duties to perform than this, and his silks sit-sprawl dry. ]
Record nothing until you know no curse. [ Caution, above all things. Above the curious mischief of a girl who has secured herself fresh playthings. ] They trust you in confidence.
[ Somehow, for whatever the reason, Lan Wangji the absent and neglected steward, tolerated for the privilege of each ghost — and there, another three crowd, seeming to stare through them, until their gaze catches on Winnifred — sharing his burden. ]
Their lord has not approached.
[ Shine brighter. Do better. ]
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[She nods to herself, as if this was a thing they've come to agreement on and she smiles at him lightly.] I'm glad they trust me. I can't say I really know why, but it's... nice. I hope this helps them in some way. It must get a little lonely.
[Winnie's attention turns, eyeing the ghosts.] Did you want him to? I suppose he'd be loneliest of all... Or is there something specific you'd like to learn for him? [A flash of pearly teeth, half-playful, half-knowing.] I'll get what information you want, if you'd like.
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[ He knows her, suddenly: there's an air to her of misplaced longing, of stale, polite court manners that linger like pale dust even once the kingdom's felled. Gossip is wisdom, wisdom currency. The work of women and Lanling Jin is the artless evisceration of men through words' fortune. Winnifred only turns her weapon, shows it sharp.
Who is Lan Wangji, obstinately coarse and splintered in diplomacy, to reproach her? ]
They seek to rescue a woman.
[ A lover, yet beloved. And still, the possibility litters Lan Wangji's mouth like fine ashes. Is this, then, the way of it, when a house and a clan support a love's bid? Doubtful.
Blood pours down the thin skin of the stretched tent mantle, translucent where it hangs tight. Distracted, he catches himself, hand on their covering, pinching the wet through textile. Ah. A child's play.
He stalls before quieting down. ]
An army for one woman. Some would name it excess.
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[She says it so casually, so breezily. It didn't matter that they all stayed close out of necessity for survival or by force. Closeness bred familiarity, after all.
She falls quiet then, watching the red with a curious eye, not as disgusted as she maybe should’ve been at the blood-like rain. He didn’t seem bothered, so why should she pretend to be?
When he speaks again she makes a soft ‘oh‘ of wonder and something like understanding, smiling again.]
That sounds romantic. Wars have been fought over less. Do you know the story of Helen of Troy?
[She glances to him, but doesn’t suspect he will, so she continues.] There was a goddess who liked to cause trouble. She placed a golden apple out during a wedding banquet with a note that said it was for the most beautiful goddess, which sparked a bit of a fight.
Three of the goddesses decided to get a mortal man, a prince of a certain country, to decide for them. Each one promised him something grand if he chose her, but it was Aphrodite, the goddess of love, whose boon he wanted more beyond riches or battle victories. She promised him marriage to the most beautiful mortal woman in the world, so he chose Aphrodite.
The problem was that the most beautiful mortal woman in the world was already married to the king of another country. But the man kidnapped her from her kingdom and it sparked a huge war between the man’s country and that one.
[Winnie grins, leaning in conspiratorially] Perhaps they’re searching for their own Helen of Troy!
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He listens, and he shivers for the ache of her tale, but he denies the instinct to recoil. A man persuaded to his beastly instincts by the game of three, at the provocation of a fourth. The stink of blood and flesh torn raw and the fat of human meat, gravel and gristle, for the win of a woman's hand, at the urging of an... apple. ]
The man stole a wife from her home.
[ Who might have been a mother, she, who might have held a true, soft babe. Might have cradled him to chest and shoulder and given him blessings and a name, the hundredth day after, if only she were not wrested and stolen, if she were not — ]
Imprisoned, dishonoured, perhaps defiled her. [ White of his eyes an animal, sharpened thing. 'Romantic.' ] This is your romance?
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Hmm... [She trails off, looking suddenly thoughtful] Well. I suppose you could also look at it as him being angry that his property was stolen. It might nt have been about love at all, but pride.
[She shrugs and smiles sadly.] Where I'm from, most women don't get any choice or say. The very act of being able to read can label them a threat if it's the wrong kind of reading. They might start to get ideas. A dreadful thing.
[She looks away, expression distant and thoughtful, a little sad.] I think it'd be nice if they were going to battle to save a kidnapped woman. It's nice to think someone would care about someone else so much as to tear the world asunder for them. Is that not romance?
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At his deepest-aggrieved, Uncle would say thusly: punish he who persists in blasphemy against heavens, who closes eyes hard and willing against the serpentine turns of the righteous path, who corrupts peers and thrives in cowardice and deceit and obscenity —
Past the second slight. The third. All children learn, all men stray the once. Flesh is not flayed, nor bones come crippled for the first whisper of insurrection against the tired, blank and fissured granite of the discipline wall. These women, 'threats' only for the act of literacy.
And what of her, then? She carries herself in the manner of an empress, or a courtesan, both scholars of their craft. And yet, rose petal to bruise lips and skin, jade to stretch it — women hide their hurts, their weaknesses. He reaches out, nearly to touch the ends of her lace and call her to attention, but withdraws before the touch can land. ]
Mistress. [ And a slow, careful, considered swallow. ] Can you read?
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Winnie, of course, is not a normal person. So while she widens her eyes a little, she just as quickly averts them, looking down at her lap where the picks at stray threads on her skirts]
I... a little. I was taught to speak a few languages, but... Charming and smart enough to learn languages, but can't seem too smart. [She trails off, shrugging as if to say 'what can you do?'] Society just wanted me to get married, but now according to them, I'm too old for it. I was too... Too bright. Too cheerful, too outgoing. I smile too much and I talk too much. Men don't really like a girl who's like that. So much time wasted for nothing...
[Winnie smiles sadly before she chews on her bottom lip, turning towards Wangji anxiously hopeful.] But I could read here, couldn't I? No one's going to stop me from doing more. You seem well-read, would you help me? Even if it's just a book or two?
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A little, and a spattering of the languages, the studies permitted of a woman — a hostess, the learned recipient of elevated attention. Teeth pearled, smile learned. She must not disgrace herself with scant answers.
Past that, she claims ignorance. And could she read? Here? Absent her fetters? Under the battered pace of rusting rain, he feels himself alien, stripped of the ceremonial, scholarly duties of Hanguang-Jun, shrivelled to impatience. On tip of his tongue, the rejection.
And instead: ]
I know no language of the land. [ Sighed, on its footsteps: ] But my own.
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Could you teach me a little of yourss' then? Or maybe just tell me some stories from your world? Poems, or tales...? I can share some of mine in exchange.
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They all yearn for a better world, where heroes rise, bones unyielding, where villains wear the likeness of scales and claws and monsters — where ambiguity and corruption are alien and plainly recognised, spat in the face. ]
Tales for children.
[ He concedes slowly, in the way every father's learned, Just one more and these eyes will close. Sons are bred to lie, shamelessly.
And this girl — ]
You read enough to know poems.
[ ...this girl is not so far removed from the habit. ]
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I'm not illiterate. I can read a little. Just... not very well. And what I was allowed to read was monitored closely... Simple poems and the like were considered acceptable for a noblewoman like myself to learn, and I had a governess-- a teacher--who would read all sorts of things to me.
I have a very good memory. It's one of the few useful traits I have!
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He does not flinch. To credit a life's learning in weapons and posture, back straight as Bichen's unyielding hilt, while blood gallops down on the parapet. It strikes him, not for the first time, that war has won him immunity to the visceral scent of flesh and its waters — that he watches the ground drink red, and feels no compulsion to cleanse it. ]
Where lies your mother?
[ Extracted, perhaps, from the conversation of the girl's rearing, if a teacher presided over her schooling instead. If not perished to indifference, or a sickness of the body. ]
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She died, unfortunately, during the birth. My father was beside himself for quite some time... He was more overprotective than most, maybe, but a good man, truly. I was quite sickly until my teen years; I almost never left our estate.
That might be why I enjoyed poems and stories so much. I could leave my home through them.
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A father, deserting his daughter to the prejudices of a time, a place, a community. Bereft of foresight, perhaps. Of the inclination to unearth it.
Between the trailing pitter-patter of rains, he feels entranced, captive and traveller of another's journey. Cause, effect. He sees the course of Winnifred's life, and supposes it known, like stars dictating sea flows through passive influence. ]
You are of age to liberate yourself. [ A woman grown, even absent the care of a husband, the burden of a child at her breast. ] Need not choose to return.
[ They journey home, and yet, she need not take this step. ]
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...That's true enough. I could stay here, do what I want, with no one to hold me back... [She shakes her head]
But I can't. I have to goo back and... I know I can't change things all by myself, but after everything I've been able to see and experience here... How can I not try? I have to try and change things, I have to fight for it.
[She says it with a certain conviction, a determination set in the way her fingers curl into her palm, fists tight against her skirts and she stares fiercely at the sky.] So as much as I can enjoy this place, I simply have to learn as much as I can to take it back with me.
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Who can yet fault a woman for seeking to improve her station? Blood will win what kindness did not, loosen the stronghold of convictions. She may hardly yet read, begs his pittance. A tragedy, to be born of beauty, crafted in the regard of the heavens. ]
To champion the liberation of women?
[ There are worse feats on this world, more wretched. She asks little. ]
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Is it naïve? [She laughs under her breath and smiles at him, a little sad, a little soft.] But it doesn't matter. I may not win at all, and likely I won't see change in my lifetime, but even if I don't... Even if I fail, even if I end up dying for it... Maybe I can still inspire others in the future.
If I can inspire future movements, future improvements, then I won't consider it a failure at all.
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[ He corrects, and this time, the gentle exhilaration of rain waters cascading down around and beside them, as they breathe untouched, infuses him with a dangerous, syrupy arrogance. He feels himself protected, alive. In this moment, invulnerable, a judge of truths he hardly mastered —
And yet, he doles them out, hands bare where they spread silent on his knees, palms facing upward — in telltale, daring invitation for the skies to pour down their assessment of him in turn. To punish and find him wanting. ]
Visionaries perish easily. [ Ash in his mouth, known, remembered; he swallows, and sees Wei Ying fall. ] You die, others pay price of your legacy.
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She watches him, quiet, with an air of that childlike curiosity.] So I just have to try very hard not to die. [She grins at him and then reaches out to pat consolingly at his arm]
Worry not, dear friend! I won't fall any time soon! That's not the way this story is going to end, I'll see to that. But if I don't do it, who will? Any other rebellions are so small, they can be brushed off so easily... But I have a very loud voice and the power to use it. I don't see why I shouldn't just because the outcome might be unfavorable.
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Frail.
Frail, not in the way of women painted weak for the cut of their robes or the spread of their backs. Frail for her vagaries, her weakened voice, the glimpses of her translucent conviction. For being an age by which Lan Wangji had born the trials of war, but only now discovering her convictions.
It must tire, to be so fresh a friend to her own revelations. ]
...sleep. Spare strength for your battles. [ Countless, as they come, hastened. Some for the winning, many sketched out to cripple a man. ] I shall hold the watch.
also after sizhui's return, we like this man sane → lee chang
There settles a sullen, quiet ache of routine over the caravan, like a widespread, fading bruise. Normalcy, written in (another’s) blood calligraphy: the ghosts that wake to greet them, too often unknowing of the day that’s barely passed. The convoy travellers, grim-soaked and battling the petty hardships of sleep on gravelly ground, limbs lolling, backs a mellow, constant bend. The winged crea — harpies, spearing the skies, ravaging the caravan at night with tosses of lone bone. The red rains, soaking Lan Wangji throughout his watch, whatever the hour, wet slick of persistent horror seeping into sunrise. The canyons, stealing his son, stone a folly.
...and days such as this, when they walk unguarded, onwards and upwards, and the children of travellers encounter their favourite haven, the laced, pale spread of Lan Wangji’s robes, and, Oh — but it’s a girl this once, pretty and sweet and her arms coiled like a fledgling snake, rounding Wangji's knee.Sweets? No, he is without, though last he spoke so, he persuaded the old man Mazyar to spare the quarter of a pear, and the half-bare mouth of a toddler, still growing its teeth, savaged the moist flesh, pleased. Trinkets? At times, scraps of paper stolen from Wei Ying’s nest of the evening, folded in figures of rabbits or dragons or butterflies — absent, on this day.
Fool of a man, but he’s fought this before, triumphed in the face of Sizhui’s charms. He remembers his weapon then, and searches it now, but with Wei Ying lost to the crowds (traitor) and the girl all grin and pleading in her two-year-old glory, Lan Wangji must... make do.
"Do not think to flee."
And he must certainly call out the familiar back of master Lee Chang, who must think himself subtle, slinking away in Lan Wangji’s one hour of need.
Presumptuous, when a little girl now requests play, and Wangji expects they are past due, are they not? A time for questioning their fellow caravan travellers.
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He can't quite ignore a - demand? plea? - such as this.
He turns, eyebrows raised, and steps over to the two of them.
"Do you require assistance, Master Lan?"
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Paper unfolded, the girl barely spans an arm's length, collected from rain of dust and rubble and debris in Lan Wangji's steady embrace, to balance on his hip. He has raised a child before, awash with glory and privilege — Hanguang-Jun, spared the misery of a toddler's rearing by three years of seclusion, attended by a legion of sect nursemaids and tutors after — but this much he knows: how to comfort, hold, balance. How to avail himself of the logistics.
"And we, a mother's wisdom." His eyes drift, white of his knuckles tight when his grip lifts. At the far side of the road, where caravan travellers negotiate an end to their encampment, breaking branches and tent poles and collecting their wares, casting stone over the remains of fire. And between them, tangled like wisps of weed, the ghosts, mutinously silent — ever watchful, ever following. "We walk among too many men."
These men, who will not learn their fates without gloriously bastardising the silence spell.
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He's learned a little, in his time since he left the palace. But this... This is something he has never learned.
The only child in a palace full of attendants - what does he know of child rearing? His memories of his father are mostly clouded by warnings, dark words etched again and again until they were carved into Lee Chang's very spine. Survive. You must survive.
He is fairly certain his father never pictured this for him. Place, or people. He let out a breath.
"I have no wisdom to offer," he said slowly. He glanced around, eyes seeking Ylsa - but the wolf that she was had caught scent of the child and scattered far more quickly than he had. She was up ahead, catching up to Karsa to speak in hushed whispered. He sighed.
"Or attendants to offer it."
However, he did step up closer, slipping hands into his clothes to find anything tucked away that could be of use.
"Who's is she?"
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...him. Them, Lan Wangji decides, glance measuring and absent when it traverses Lee Chang again to find him altogether suitable. There are those who sell themselves too quickly to a soft-hearted cause among them, and those only wedded and bedded with the sword, and those too — two, at a choice count — who only suit massacre and madness. And then, steely and brazen, there is Jiang Wanyin.
But Lee Chang is half oil of good manners, half waters of impulse. Together, his inclinations might combine into a person of passably righteous example, whole.
"She offers no name," he clarifies, before Lee Chang need ask. But there are women beyond them, rushing with the day's linen to take advantage of the waters purified beyond. One, or an overwhelmed father, shoulders narrow and eyes blind with the morning's fatigue after a night's watch, may have lost a charge.
"We will go." There, where Lan Wangji tips his head to nod in direction. "You may ask them. Ask what they know of our — companions, also."