Christmas in LA doesn’t really feel like Christmas. It’s 68 degrees outside. Most of LA has started wearing UGG boots and sweaters to pretend it feels like winter, but to Clarke, the holidays haven’t felt like the holidays in a long time.
In stark contrast to the balmy Los Angeles weather, the Buy More has decorated itself to look like a winter wonderland. There’s a giant Christmas tree in the front, a token menorah in the front window, and enough lights, fake reindeer, and fake snow to fill a small island. Raven has taken to rearranging the reindeer into compromising positions to make Clarke laugh, and to force their annoying manager to constantly patrol the store to rearrange them to more innocent positions.
Clarke giggles at the Sisyphean task of mounting and then fixing reindeer that her best friend and boss have been playing all day.
Raven has just returned from hiding a reindeer in the display dryer to scare potential customers and says, “Hey, it ensures that he has something that is as much of a pain in the ass as we do. Holiday shoppers are the literal worst. Besides, Christmas is in two days. If you haven’t gotten your people a gift yet, you suck.”
“Subtle, and yes, Raven, I already got your gift.” Clarke rolls her eyes.
“Good,” Raven replies.
Lincoln walks into the store wearing a red flannel and jeans. He spots Clarke and Raven, and immediately heads toward them.
“Hey what are you doing here on Christmas Eve?”
“Just some last minute gift shopping for O”
“Was the rock the size of a raisin not enough of a gift?” Raven jokes
“She got a rock, and I get her, so I win that competition. I have to make up for it somehow.”
“That’s disgusting,” Raven retches.
Clarke shoves her. “I think it’s sweet.”
“Oh my god, you’re so loved up with Lexa that you can’t see how gross all of you are.”
Clarke turns to Lincoln and asks, “Can I help you find something specific or are you just browsing?”
“I’m just looking for little fun gags,” Lincoln says, as he begins eyeing the store. “Besides, looks like you’ll be busy with your girl anyway,” he adds, pointing at Lexa who just walked through the front doors.
Lincoln has disappeared through the aisles with Raven by the time Lexa has caught up to Clarke. They are mid-greeting when they hear gunshots coming from the front entrance.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
New chapter of the soulmates role reversal AU is up!
Or read it below the cut (~5k). Thanks, as always, to my wonderful betas, @morphia-writes and @miyuki4s!
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 |
*
Lan Wangji’s sleep is fitful, even moreso than the snatches of rest he’d achieved those first few nights in this new body. Twice he wakes fully, disoriented: once with the certain conviction he is once again trapped in that blood-soaked prison, and once, even more unsettling, with the image of his brother holding the discipline whip stamped into his mind.
His room is clean and the door unlocked. He can leave at any time.
His brother has never held the discipline whip in his life. He certainly had not carried out Lan Wangji’s punishment. There are no wounds on his back.
He times his breaths, counting slowly, and sleeps again.
The slow seep of dawn brings no answers. The wounds on his hand are less livid, and his spiritual power flows, sluggish, through his meridians, but his morning meditations offer no new solutions to questions of his core or the curse. It is difficult to complete a full qi cycle, to stabilize the flow; somewhere in his body there is something that slows the process to a trickle. He moves to the training yard and attempts to put his questions from his mind entirely, but they linger in every movement, haunting his footsteps: What would drive a Lan disciple to such lengths? What are Jin Guangyao’s crimes, if they exist, and what does Lan Xichen know of them? Who is responsible for the confinement of beings both living and dead, and the compound’s subsequent destruction?
Frustration creeps over him, causing his movements to falter, his strikes too forceful and his steps too eager, overbalanced. He had thought his path would be clear at Wei Ying’s side. New and precarious, perhaps, but not like this. Even a single log bridge is not always beset by fog and darkness, secrets concealed on every side. At some point, the haze should burn away.
Wen Qing finds him just as he’s beginning to search out the archery range and whatever peace a bow might bring him. She sweeps him back to her study for a light breakfast and another exam. She holds his wrist as he practices breathing exercises and qi circulation, and then checks his meridians’ reactions to acupuncture once more.
“The placement of the curse mark is part of your problem,” she says as she draws the last of the needles out again. “It crosses all three of the principal meridians in your arm. The initial damage over your middle dantian will be easier to address if we can limit the curse’s influence.”
She fetches a new handful of talismans from her desk.
“Wei Wuxian delivered these last night. A temporary solution while we work on something more permanent.”
“Where is he now?” Lan Wangji asks, trying to distract himself from the unsettling drain of power as the old talisman is removed.
“At the Mass Graves, with A-Ning.” She examines the wound for a moment and reaches for a pot of ointment. “The spring floods damaged some of the walls and wards there.” She smooths the new talisman into place and secures it with a small seal. “I’ll get Sizhui to escort you.”
“No need,” Lan Wangji assures her.
Wen Qing pins him with a stern look.
“Is that, ‘no need, I will wait until he returns’ or ‘no need, I found him in a tiny village he wasn’t even supposed to be visiting and I can find him again’?”
Lan Wangji meets her gaze, but doesn’t answer. Wen Qing sighs.
“If you try to go alone, you won’t be able to get back through the gate without him. And while I don’t doubt your skills, your current level of spiritual power may not be enough to overcome the misdirection wards.”
“Misdirection wards,” he repeats.
Thinking of himself as subject to such things—usually intended to stop common villagers and traveling merchants from interrupting major workings or places where a night hunt is planned—causes unpleasant twists in his center. They are also a clumsy measure he would not have expected of Wei Ying.
“There are people who think—well, so many of us lived there for so long, and Wei Wuxian has made no secret of the source of his cultivation path. We still drag people out of there a few times a year, despite every precaution and wall Wei-zongzhu constructs. It is a well of resentment.” Her hands wave, dismissive, even as her lips tighten with displeasure. “It doesn’t wish to be tamed or confined.”
“But he is trying.” Lan Wangji knows he must be. Wei Ying had said he still used the Demon Summoning Cave as a workshop. Such a space could not exist without some attempt at controlling the restless dead that inhabit the earth there.
“Stubborn.” Wen Qing looks away, gathering her tools onto a tray. “You have that in common, at least. I’ll call for Sizhui.”
*
The Mass Graves feel different from his last visit. The seeping resentment is still there of course—even Wei Ying, for all his genius, could not change that—but it is distant. Muted. Perhaps even weakened. As he follows Wen Sizhui’s sure-footed steps through the scrubby underbrush, Lan Wangji can feel that the mist curling around his ankles is only mist, the earth under his boots no longer dry and dead as freshly fallen ash. There is life here now, if of a stubborn, begrudging sort. Free of corruption. That much alone is more than generations of cultivators managed to achieve.
It’s good Wen Qing provided him an escort. The misdirection wards outside the graves are not strong enough to influence him, but he can feel their tug at his thoughts more than he would have expected, and while he would have been able to find Wei Ying through the soul bond, Wen Sizhui brings him to the damaged area by a circuitous path he would not have discovered alone. They see Wen Qionglin first, hauling a stripped-down tree twice his height into place along the base of a freshly repaired mud-and-bamboo wall. There are other fierce corpses too—normal ones, with no consciousness in their eyes or ease in their movements. They appear to be collecting the mud and packing it into place, sealing gaps. Wei Ying supervises with Chenqing in-hand, but he has clearly done some physical work as well: His sleeves and skirts are tied and tucked out of the way, and his arms are patchy with dried mud to the elbow.
“Ah, A-Yuan!” Wei Ying waves, his smile cheerful and his voice nearly a shout. “You didn’t have to trek all the way out here, we’re almost done.”
Wen Sizhui waves back, but doesn’t speak until they are close enough to converse at a more normal volume.
“Qing-gugu asked me to show Liang-gongzi the way,” he says. “He was looking for you after breakfast.”
“Oh, of course, of course.” Wei Ying’s expression shifts as he seems to mark Lan Wangji’s presence for the first time. He looks away quickly, refocusing on Wen Qionglin. “What do you think? Good enough to reactivate the ward?”
Wen Qionglin studies the wall. He nods, decisive. Wei Ying grins and raises Chenqing to his lips.
The song is not one Lan Wangji has heard before. It starts slow and a soft, gradually building and increasing tempo. Wen Qionglin steps back from the wall. The other fierce corpses, the normal ones, retreat further up the hill, inside the border. There is a surge of resentful energy, like a rush of wind, and a flash of light like sword glare, and then Chenqing falls quiet, and Wei Ying jumps down from the wall looking smugly proud. He meets Lan Wangji’s gaze.
“Care to look around inside?” he asks. “I want to show you something.”
Lan Wangji nods, despite his reservations. If nothing else, time away from the sect grounds will give them better opportunity to discuss matters openly.
“Qing-jie expects you to return promptly.” Wen Qionglin is frowning. At both of them.
“So we’ll be quick,” Wei Ying says, waving dismissively as he jerks his layers of yi back into place and re-winds the bindings on his sleeves. “Just tell her I’m with Liang-gongzi, it’ll be fine.”
Wen Qionglin does not look particularly reassured, but he offers no further protest.
Lan Wangji turns to Wen Sizhui.
“Thank you for the escort.” It seems almost foolish to have troubled him now, if Wei Ying would have returned so quickly.
Wen Sizhui bows acknowledgment. “I wish you luck with your investigation,” he says. “I know I speak for my sect siblings as well; if you need further assistance, we will be happy to help however we can.”
“Ah ah ah,” Wei Ying reaches out and squeezes Wen Sizhui’s shoulder. “I know it’s a very intriguing situation, but don’t let your aunt hear you promising yourself so freely. And to someone you just met! Haven’t we taught you more caution that that?”
Wen Sizhui looks more amused than cowed.
“You trust him,” he points out.
“Not the point,” Wei Ying insists. “Wen Ning!”
“Wei-zongzhu is right,” Wen Qionglin agrees readily. “Following his example is not always correct.”
“Wen Ning!” The look of exaggerated betrayal on Wei Ying’s face is likely entirely for Wen Sizhui’s benefit, but Lan Wangji catches himself smiling, even as Wen Sizhui laughs. Wen Qionglin is unrepentant. When Lan Wangji looks back, Wei Ying has dropped the expression, and is only smiling.
At him.
“Sizhui will be late for morning sword forms,” Wen Qionglin says as the boy’s laughter fades. “I will escort him back.”
“Mn,” Wei Ying agrees, as if his thoughts are far away. “Train hard,” he adds, waving them back along the path Lan Wangji had arrived on. Then he turns, gesturing in the other direction, to the well-worn path that runs alongside the wall.
“Shall we?”
They walk in silence for a few moments, but it is too reminiscent of another walk together, another time when they lingered in these shadows.
“Is he the same Wen Yuan?” Lan Wangji asks, eventually. He has assumed this is the case, but clarification is reassuring, lest he say the wrong thing, as he so often seems to with Wei Ying.
“The same toddler you met in Yiling?” Wei Ying nods. “Yes, that’s him. I suppose that’s pretty strange, isn’t it. He’s nearly seventeen now.”
“He has grown well,” Lan Wangji observes, and Wei Ying smiles again, a little proud, and perhaps rueful.
“I don’t think I can take any credit for that,” he says. “Wen Qing’s the one who made sure he learned those manners.” He laughs softly, at some joke Lan Wangji is not privy to. “I almost called you Lan Zhan back there,” he says, changing the subject entirely. “It shouldn’t be so hard to remember another name, but...” He rubs at his chest with one hand, leaving flakes of dried mud on his outer robe.
“You had no trouble at dinner,” Lan Wangji points out, but Wei Ying rolls his eyes.
“I wasn’t surprised to see you, then.” He shakes his head. “And it was still—hard to remember. Maybe I should practice more. I wouldn’t want to get it wrong in front of everyone else.” He sighs. “Liang Feihong,” he says, nodding to himself. “Liang Feihong.” He frowns. “Do you know his personal name?”
Lan Wangji searches his memory. He was not close to any of the outer disciples, and Liang Feihong had not stood out to him. “No,” he admits.
Wei Ying nods again. “Could be tricky,” he says, as if they have reached some form of agreement. Lan Wangji is not certain what question they were considering.
Wei Ying slows his pace, then stops.
“You might want to brace yourself,” he says, as he turns to the wall. “Some people find this part a little… difficult.”
Wei Ying whistles, and talismans flicker across the stretch of wall before them. A doorway appears, mud and bamboo and wooden slats shimmering and fading to reveal an open gap. Something of a reverse of the gate at Cloud Recesses.
“Come on,” Wei Ying urges, and grabs Lan Wangji by the sleeve.
There is more than one ward wound around the Burial Mounds. That in itself is unsurprising, but the feel of them, as Wei Ying pulls him through the doorway and then deeper, is unusual. The first feels like pushing through a silk curtain, the second like standing too-near an open fire.
Wei Ying grips his arm more firmly.
“Hold on to me,” he says, “and don’t let go.”
Lan Wangji turns his hand to grab Wei Ying’s closely-wrapped sleeve in return. The next step feels like plummeting through the sky without a sword under his feet. Daylight snuffs to the dark of a moonless night. There are screams that reach past his ears to screech at his core, and unseen hands tug at his clothes. Another step, unsteady and wavering. Another, as resentment howls at his heels. And then there is another ward, a rush of summer wind off a lotus lake, and the clawing spirits go silent like a blown-out candle.
His robes are intact. The only lingering sign of the experience is the clammy sweat on his palms and the back of his neck.
“Sorry.” Wei Ying’s hand falls away.
“Was that a well?” Lan Wangji asks. “Like your—blood pool?”
“Only for emergencies,” Wei Ying confirms. “And I haven’t found one dire enough to use it since I made it, so really it’s just another kind of wall.”
He looks as if he might say more, then shakes his head. “Not much further,” he says, and they set off again.
This part of the Mass Graves is more familiar. The gate Lan Wangji remembers stands open, the lanterns and talismans long-since removed. The remaining structures beyond it are barely a shell of the haphazard buildings and farming plots he saw so many years ago. From the outside, the Demon Summoning Cave is unchanged. The ward, as they step over the threshold, gives him the same cool tingling sensation it did on his first visit.
Inside, Wei Ying’s ‘workshop’ looks much different. For one, it is actually a workshop now, rather than serving dual purpose as both workshop and living quarters. There are at least two tables that Lan Wangji can pick out for certain, one stacked high with manuscripts and the other covered in small chips of stone and curls of metal.The blood pool is now only water, and no longer stinks of rot. A transportation array is sunk deep into the rock before it. Opposite that is a clean-swept area that looks intended for array design, with chalk and ink arranged beside it. Beyond it, a completed array, activated and glowing dimly orange. In its center, a familiar severed arm is bound into place, the fingers twisted to point northeast.
“I had to reinforce that three times,” Wei Ying says. “Whatever spirit haunts that arm, it’s a strong one. But that’s not what I wanted to show you.” He gestures further into the cave, beyond a screen. A stone desk with talismans in various states of completion sits on one side of the makeshift room, and on the other … a guqin, laid carefully in the center of a purification ward strong enough to scald the unwary.
“You can have it, if you want,” Wei Ying says, his voice turned flippant and casual. “No one here can play it properly, anyway.”
Lan Wangji watches him.
“I tried,” he admits after a moment. His hand tightens around Chenqing at his belt. “I think my attempts would offend you to hear. Better for you to keep it. Give it a real voice.”
Lan Wangji considers.
“The ward?” he asks.
“Oh, just.” Wei Ying bends to deactivate it, then steps back. “Just keeping it uninfluenced,” he says.
Given the other projects he is likely to have worked on in this space, the precaution is warranted. Still, it is obvious no one has touched the guqin for some time. While no dust has gathered, the strings have lost their tension. When he touches it, there is no answering swell of spirit to meet his fingers.
“This is not a spiritual weapon.” Not that it could truly replace Wangji, even if it were. But his old guqin is likely locked away in Cloud Recesses, and might not recognize this different, damaged core even if he held it in his hands.
Wei Ying shrugs. “No, but a regular instrument is still useful. Good for cultivation, right? And I thought maybe we could—play together. If you want to.” He offers up a tight smile. “Rest, maybe. For the arm? Even with a small amount of spiritual power, another instrument might help.”
Music is, indeed, good for cultivation. He has been missing it, these few harried days, and it would be—satisfying, to play with Wei Ying. They have not done so since the war ended, and even before, opportunities were scarce.
“It needs new strings,” he observes. The slack silk is barely holding together and will not survive a tuning intact, despite the traces of preservation talismans that wind through it. The strings must have been here, unused, for quite some time.
“Ah,” Wei Ying grimaces, shuffling his feet. “Of course. I’ll find some for you tonight.” He looks disappointed. Perhaps guilty. But it’s unlikely he was expecting to go from building a wall to presenting this gift. It was Lan Wangji who surprised him.
“Thank you,” Lan Wangji says. The words carry more emotion than he intended, and he drags his eyes away from Wei Ying’s cautious smile, down to his new hands pressed against dark, polished wood.
“I hoped you’d like it.” Wei Ying’s voice is unexpectedly soft. The cave suddenly feels as hushed and still as the library at Cloud Recesses. “Even when I first found it I hoped—”
A bell rings, one of a hanging line of them behind the talisman-covered desk, and he cuts himself off. It rings again, the long purple tassel below it swinging gently in the still air. Wei Ying sighs.
“That’ll be Jiang Cheng,” he says. “We should get back, before he stomps up here looking for me.”
“He’s visiting?” Lan Wangji studies Wei Ying, but his body language has hardly changed. He’s shifted focus, but doesn’t seem overly worried. “Did Jin Rulan not arrive safely?”
“He did, he’s fine,” Wei Ying reassures him. “I got the butterfly last night, he’s good. This is something else, probably.” He bites his lip. “What do you think, should we walk? Or use the transportation array?”
Lan Wangji eyes him, even as he carefully picks up the guqin.
“Where is Suibian?” he asks.
Wei Ying shakes his head, clearly annoyed, brushing the question aside with a waving hand. “The array is faster.” He quickly strides back across the cave and draws a needle from his sash once more, pricking his finger and activating the iron-lined array. Lan Wangji takes his place in silence. Wei Ying only looks at him long enough to confirm he’s in the correct position before he raises Chenqing to his lips and begins the transition.
It feels different this time. There is a snag around Lan Wangji’s center, a blast of humid warmth, then aching darkness, then burning heat and icy cold. The wards, in reverse. Yiling-Wei’s gate slams into existence with the rigidity of a mountain, and Lan Wangji finds himself swaying slightly on his feet in the main courtyard. Across from him, Wei Ying is wavering and pale, his skin damp with sweat.
Lan Wangji reaches for him.
“Wei Wuxian!”
“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Ying turns away, towards his brother, pasting a smile on his face. “Don’t you have an archery tournament to plan?” Behind his back, he clenches both hands around Chenqing, white-knuckled.
Lan Wangji draws even with Wei Ying’s shoulder; if he cannot support Wei Ying physically he can at least present a united front. Jiang Wanyin is storming towards them from the other side of the courtyard, Liu Weixin trailing in his wake. Both are focused entirely on Wei Ying.
“Jin Ling traveled with you for a night hunt, not as a tool in you starting another war,” Jiang Wanyin all but shouts, and Lan Wangji stiffens. Wei Ying, in contrast ... slouches. The tension in his shoulders melts away.
“And we went night hunting,” he insists, now almost playful in his manner. He nudges Lan Wangji’s shoulder as he shrugs. “Is it my fault other people were also night hunting in that village?”
Jiang Wanyin stomps right up to them, well inside sword range. “Do you think I’m deaf?” he demands. “You think I haven’t heard about your argument with Zewu-jun? Do you have to antagonize the Lan Clan every time you see them?”
Wei Ying looks away. “Who’s antagonizing?” He scowls. “I’m not antagonizing, I’m just here, existing.”
Jiang Wanyin glares and Wei Ying doesn’t meet his brother’s eyes. Somehow, Lan Wangji is certain this is not the first time they’ve had this conversation.
Jiang Wanyin turns to Liu Weixin, expectant.
“We did meet with Zewu-jun,” the young disciple says, his hand tightening around his scabbard, “He didn’t talk to Wei-zongzhu much, really. He was more interested in Liang-gongzi, offering him help, but Liang-gongzi said he wanted to stay with us instead.”
“That is true,” Lan Wangji says, when Jiang Wanyin looks unconvinced. “Lan-zongzhu only wished to ensure the night hunt would be completed, and the arm reunited with its owner.”
Jiang Wanyin looks him up and down and is clearly unimpressed. Lan Wangji is aware that he must look shabby and unimportant, in borrowed, mended clothes and clutching an unstrung guqin with no sword at his side. Still, something in him bristles, and he returns Jiang Wanyin’s gaze with a cool, unwavering stare.
“This is—Liang Feihong, formerly of the Lan Sect,” Wei Ying says. “He helped with the hunt, and sought our expertise afterward.”
Jiang Wanyin’s eyes narrow.
“You’re the reason my nephew’s going on about someone dying of lingchi, aren’t you.”
“That’s a completely different thing.” Wei Ying steps just slightly in front of Lan Wangji, drawing his brother’s attention again. “Weixin, take Liang-gongzi to the music hall, will you? He needs new guqin strings. And when you’re done, tell the kitchen I’m meeting with Jiang-zongzhu in my rooms.” He pokes his brother in the ribs, already drawing him away. “We have those honey cakes you like, I’m sure they’ll send some.”
Jiang Wanyin moves at his side, not mollified but—it’s clear that this is a pattern they know well. “If you’re making promises to Zewu-jun you better be keeping them,” he scolds, and Wei Ying laughs.
“I will, I will,” he insists. “Jiang Cheng, really! You worry too much.”
Wei Ying seems at ease, largely recovered from whatever stress the transportation array had put on him. He looks entirely unworried by his brother’s presence.
It is not Lan Wangji’s place to protect Wei Ying from Jiang Wanyin, but he wants to. The impulse is no lesser now than it was thirteen years ago, watching the young Jiang Sect leader stand against Wei Ying at Nightless City. His feet stay firmly planted, despite the urge to follow as the pair turn a corner, to make sure Jiang Wanyin never draws his sword on Wei Ying again.
“Liang-gongzi?” Liu Weixin is fidgeting at his side. “I’ll show you to the music hall?” he asks, tentative.
Lan Wangji casts one more look at where Wei Ying disappeared, and nods.
*
Jiang Wanyin’s visit extends through the late afternoon, and even after he leaves, looking at least slightly less angry than when he arrived, Wei Ying retreats back to his rooms and doesn’t re-emerge even for the evening meal.
Lan Wangji spends most of his day on the guqin: choosing new strings, cleaning it, tuning it. There is another meeting with Wen Qing--who is always Wen-yishi to her apprentices and patients, he confirms, and seems to bear no other Sect title--and who frowns over him and sends him away with instructions to procure a practice blade from her brother, in the hope that Liang Feihong’s body and core might react better to something so familiar.
The results are mixed. Wen Qionglin presents him with a practice blade that is well-made, strong and balanced, but working through sword forms does not help Lan Wangji’s spiritual power flow any more smoothly than the unarmed forms. Still, it is reassuring to hold a blade again, even if it bears no spirit. He practices until his limbs tremble, trying to reach that state of untroubled existence that used to come so easily. If he gains nothing else, perhaps his mind will produce more useful thoughts when his body is sufficiently tired.
And perhaps if he is tired enough, he won’t dream.
In the evening he sits in his room with the windows unshuttered and the door half open and plays warm-up songs, and Clarity, without spiritual power, until his fingers no longer stumble over the notes. He has just finished a final, perfect repetition when Wei Ying knocks at his door, a teapot and cups in one hand and a jar of wine in the other.
He looks--softer, in the moonlight. More relaxed, with his sleeves unbound and his hair hanging loose and damp around his shoulders.
“Wen Qing said you’re to drink this.” He holds up the teapot, his sleeve sliding down to reveal the bare skin of his wrist. Lan Wangji swallows back a too-familiar want, and nods, and lets him in.
“How’s that talisman working?” Wei Ying asks as they settle at the table, the guqin set carefully aside. He sets down the wine to pour tea for Lan Wangji, and Lan Wangji, in turn, pours the wine into the second cup. Wei Ying looks surprised, and then pleased. Lan Wangji looks away from his smile.
“Wen Qing replaced it after dinner,” he says as he hands over the cup. The wine smells faintly of lotus.
“Any improvement?” Wei Ying asks. He offers the tea, and Lan Wangji takes the cup carefully. The soulbond is no secret, now, but he will not drive Wei Ying away with uninvited touch.
“Some.” The tea is acidic and bitter, most likely another spirit-boosting blend. Lan Wangji resolves to finish the cup quickly. “My reserves are not quite so low, when Wen-yishi removes it, and it stands up to sword drills.”
“That’s good.”
For a moment there is a sort of companionable silence. Wei Ying sips from his wine and again fills Lan Wangji’s cup with tea as soon as it’s empty.
“Three cups,” he says. He pulls a small silk bag from his sleeve and sets it on the table. “Another three in the morning.”
Lan Wangji drinks the second cup without comment. Wei Ying’s face scrunches into what is probably unnecessary sympathy.
“I had some this afternoon,” he says. “Wen Qing worries too much.”
“The transportation array is costly,” Lan Wangji observes.
Wei Ying downs the rest of his drink in a single swallow.
“It works better with more cultivators,” he admits as Lan Wangji refills his cup. “I don’t often use it like that, but it’s not nearly so bad as Wen Qing thinks it is. I was fine as soon as I ate something.”
Lan Wangji keeps his thoughts on Wen Qing’s expertise to himself.
“Have I caused more trouble for you?” he asks instead of commenting on Wei Ying’s white-knuckled hands and unsteadiness as they’d arrived. “With Jiang-zongzhu,” he clarifies when Wei Ying looks confused.
“No, no.” Wei Ying shakes his head. “He mostly wanted to talk about sect stuff. Family stuff.” He sighs. “He’s right though, Zewu-jun will be much less forgiving if I’ve made no progress piecing together our angry friend when we next meet.”
Lan Wangji finishes his second cup and watches Wei Ying’s hands on the teapot. Remembers his brother’s stony expression, his coldness. “You care so much for his good opinion?” he asks, meeting Wei Ying’s gaze.
For a breath Wei Ying stares back at him, his eyes dark, the line of his lips soft in the lantern light. He picks up his wine again, looking away.
“Lan Zhan.” He clicks his tongue against his teeth in disapproval. “Do you know how many cultivation conferences I’ve had to sit through, these thirteen years? There are some people who will never be happy with me, but your brother is fair.” He draws straight lines in the air between them with his free hand, smooth and decisive as sword strokes. “So long as he knows I will keep my word, he will hear me out.” He sighs, letting his hand fall. “All the Great Sects will attend Yunmeng-Jiang’s archery competition. That’s just a few weeks away.” He takes another drink, a long swallow that empties the cup again. “The arm points northeast,” he muses. “Too inaccurate to teleport. I suppose I’ll need to start preparing for the journey tomorrow.”
“I will go with you.” It’s the obvious choice. Lan Wangji won’t find new clues to the mystery of Jin Guangyao by staying in place, and without Wei Ying, Yiling-Wei holds little attraction.
Wei Ying blinks at him. He frowns.
“You’re still healing. Wen Qing can still help you.”
No. No matter how true the statement, he will not be left behind now.
“The talismans are yours,” Lan Wangji says. He keeps his voice firm. “Meditation can be done anywhere. And one of the ghouls died to the northeast. In Yingchuan.” He’s not sure what he’ll do if Wei Ying refuses him. Set out on his own perhaps. Follow, at whatever distance he can force himself to maintain.
Wei Ying hums softly.
“You’re certain you want to?” he asks.
Lan Wangji nods. He has no doubts about where he wants to be. The moment stretches, breathless.
Wei Ying grins. “One path with two goals?” He leans one elbow on the table and rests his chin on his hand. Damp dark hair spills gently over his shoulder. “Lan Zhan,” he says, lingering a little on the name, “you know I could never refuse a plan like that.”
Tension unknots in Lan Wangji’s chest, and he finishes the tea feeling lighter than he has since he first woke up in this body, tired and hurting and unexpectedly alive.
“Good,” he says, staring back at Wei Ying even as his mind takes flight toward futures still dim as mountains in mist. “I look forward to it.”
Hamish held her gaze for a beat and then tilted his head. His voice grew soft. “But enough about me, darling. How are you?” His face, usually mobile with humour, had gone very serious.
Hermione looked away. “Me? Oh I’m…” To her annoyance, she felt her eyes prick with tears. She fought them down and then shook her head. It was Hamish for Christ’s sake. She let them go and felt wetness start down her cheeks, “I’m not great.” Her words came out as a sort of half laugh, half sob.
He crossed to her quickly, sitting next to her on the couch and putting his arm around her shoulders. A snowy white handkerchief appeared in front of her face and she grasped it like a lifeline.
“Oh my poor dear.”
Hermione snuffled. “Thank you.”
“Tell me,” he said. “What happened between you and Draco Malfoy?”
“What? How did you know?”
“Well the Weasley broadcasting service has been in full effect, so we heard an inkling - from Pen or Ginny - I don’t remember which. But I wouldn’t have needed the background. Your face and voice today when you defended him… What happened? Are you in love with him?”
The second question was asked so gently that Hermione couldn’t dissimilate. “Yes,” she sobbed. “But I fucked it all up. And I’m so unhappy now, Hamish. I can’t snap out of it.”
isn't it interesting that here it is raining and there it is not, probably, and I am cold and you are not, probably, and yet here we are talking about the same thing through three thousand miles of cloud?
isn't it funny that you gifted me some songs and I took them and thanked you and listened to them even as I got farther and farther away, and we can't even hold sound in our hands?
isn't it strange that I can drag a little pin man on a screen and navigate streets as familiar as the sun without ever leaving my seat?
isn't it magical?
isn't it magic that Instagram, that Spotify, that Google, that Tumblr can create this-- portal of thoughts?
isn't it weird isn't it cool isn't it beautiful?
isn't better to have only words and pictures and this bright-screen magic than nothing at all?
is it selfish to wish for whispered-in-my-ear spells when I already have so much? is it impractical to want lumosmaximareal sunshine when I'm standing in a downpour? is it really that terrible to want your eyes to hold me where I stand-- petrificus totalus, basilisk eyes, your beauty is deadly-- to want the magic of a fleeting touch?
here is wonderful but here is not there, and they are all great but they're not you, and yes there is sunshine but it's not Sunshine, you know, and from a young age I've always missed the important bits when I needed them most.
Iwyn Lavellan x Solas | post Crestwood, time travel | romance, angst
rating: teen, romance, pining, arlathan
start | previous chapter | next chapter || start on ao3 | read this on ao3
Temporal Arrangements, chapter 5
Iwyn doesn’t have a plan when she leaves, all she knows is that she needs to get some air, to feel the wind on her face. The hallways are tall and beautiful, and she knows the way to the eluvian and nowhere else. She walks the other way, wondering if this place even has a proper exit, a door, or if she is prisoner in this ethereal place, a mansion of sparkling magic with no way out.
She doesn’t want to know if it’s rotten underneath, if Solas contributed the rot as much as all of them. You wouldn’t have liked me when I was young. How young did he mean? Or did he mean this, the corrupt meanness, the meaningless splendor and callous disregard for life?
Luckily, she soon finds herself in a courtyard, with rows of low bushes and pathways and trees. Across it is an outer wall and huge set of double doors, they are open and beyond there is roads and houses; a whole city.
No one stops her when she exits through the gates.
The streets are wide and covered with flat stones. The houses are tall and painted in vibrant colors. She slows her steps and looks around curiously. Some of the houses are tall and graceful, with trees growing through the corners, and some are small and square with crystals glowing on the second-floor balconies. She walks among the people there, elves and spirits who drifts aimlessly like her, or hurry determinedly on errands she doesn’t understand.
She turns down a large road. There is a shop selling flowers, and next to it a bookshop and next to that a bakery. The smell of fresh bread is familiar, the same as when her mother bakes it, as the kitchens of Skyhold, as the small bakery just outside the alienage in Wycome, or as the large one with white-clothed tables where she purchased sweets at in Val Royeaux, so long ago. She is hungry, but she has no money. She continues down the street, past the bakery and a barber, a butcher and a shop that sells only stationary. How much stationary does one person need?
She follows the street a little longer, and then another and another. The streets are straight at first, and then winding, passing up and between small hills. The area here seems residential, with fewer people around, and kids roaming the streets. A boy of about twelve seem to be doing magic tricks for an adoring crowd of younger kids. He lights up in a proud smile when the kids gasp when the dancing lights he has conjured chases down the street. Iwyn laughs too.
She decides to turn back a little later, only to realize she is lost. No matter which way she walks, she can’t find the corner the boy was on, or the hill she walked up, or the street with the bakery. She waves at a beautiful lady who is watering plants in floating pots, and she is still lost. The houses here are taller than anywhere else, and maybe if she could get up she could see where she needs to go. Solas’ house was more like a palace, and it should be easy to spot. It’s easy enough for her to find a house she can climb, clear crystals jutting out from the vivid blue surface. She wonders if the house is grown, somehow, from magic, but it seems solid enough. She avoids the wooden balcony, just in case someone is home, and soon enough she has scaled the four stories. The roof is only slightly slanted, and she walks across the black tile, looking in all directions.
She is still lost. It makes no sense that she can’t see Solas’ place, that she can’t even see the shops or the straight streets. Just houses and more houses, the streets curling around them like big lazy cats.
Iwyn sighs, and sits down. It’s so unlike her to run off in frustration, but it was all so much. The roof is warm from the sun, and she lies down, starting up at the sky. She doesn’t regret seeing the city through her own eyes. She still doesn’t understand Solas, or his world. Not fully, but she knows now there is a life where elves water their plants and play in the streets and eat fresh bread from the bakery. A few puffy, white clouds drift across the sky, and a hawk chases across the sky, brown and mundane.
She doesn’t know how long she lies on the roof, but the light grows warmer and the shadows longer and the day colder. Someone climbs up on the roof, and Solas sits down next to her.
“You found me,” she says, sitting up.
“I hope you do not mind,” he replies.
She shakes her head, and smiles a little.
“I got lost.”
“It’s a big city.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I am glad you can see the beauty here.”
“Solas – I’m sorry for storming out. It was… I mean, everything was… I’m sorry.” She can’t find the right words. Her emotions are everywhere, and it’s dusk, and she’s cold in this flimsy dress. She rubs her arms.
“It is I who should apologize,” he says, looking out at the city. “I’m sorry you had to see that. And I’m sorry about – about everything else.” He gestures, turning his hand up. She doesn’t know if he means the time travel, or his deception, his future plans or his stubbornness. Maybe all of it, and maybe it doesn’t matter unless he wants to change.
“Did you ever – did you ever kill people, just like that?” She needs to know, now, though she doesn’t think he would. It isn’t as if blood and death are unfamiliar to her, but a battle is different.
“No.”
“Okay,” she says. “I didn’t think so, but I just needed to know.”
“Thank you.” The words soften his profile, harsh and angular against the setting sun. She rubs her arms again.
“Are you cold? May I?” he asks.
She nods, and his magic flows over her, familiar and easy. She wonders if the elves of Arlathan ever used coats. Maybe only to look dramatic.
“I’m also hungry. Can you fix that too?”
He laughs a little and this pleases her.
“Not with magic, I’m afraid. But I know of a small restaurant a short walk from here. If you want to join me.”
He suddenly looks bashful, like a young hunter asking a maiden for a walk to the stream. She likes that too, and she agrees readily. She is also really hungry.
They easily climb down from the building, and soon enough find themselves in at a small restaurant. There are five tables with different colored tablecloths. Magic lights floats above them, all in different soft colors. At the counter in the back is an elf with big curly hair, a few tones brighter red than Iwyn’s own, and pale skin with lots of freckles. He greets Solas warmly and they talk a little, and when Solas introduces her, she is greeted warmly. They are seated in the back, away from the door. It’s warm and cozy and Solas’ warming spell slips away. She misses it far too much.
They order their food, and she drinks deeply of her water. Solas pours wine for her, and she doesn’t mind. It’s refreshing, with slight taste of citrus.
“You come here often,” she says.
“I did. The food is good, and it’s not well known.”
They talk a little of the city and Elvhenan. Of life and magic and plants and how she managed to get lost. Solas is right, this place is private and very different from the courts she has seen so far. Their argument from earlier has faded away, and she isn’t ready yet to ask more about what happened. He smiles and she smiles, and their food arrives. He is right about the food too, it’s good. Solas wants her to try everything, and offers her food from his plate. He blushes, and he pours her more wine.
She is warm and happy and full when they leave, and she links her arm in his. It’s dark now, and the streetlights are glowing. They look like regular streetlights, with flickering flames inside. She wonders if someone came by to light them, or if it’s magic.
There is nothing to suggest they aren’t just leaving from a dinner date, and she almost wants to keep pretending. They’d go home and they’d crawl into his bed, and she wonders if he’d kiss her back if she kissed him. She is a little drunk.
“Solas,” she says. “Can I ask you something?”
He nods.
“Why didn’t you stop Andruil today? You said you rebelled against the Creators, and imprisoned them. Why did you wait?”
He stops. They are next to a park, a big oak tree on a small plot of land. Almost like the Alienage trees she’s seen. Solas looks at the tree and the spirits below it and the teenager playing with a puppy. He looks back at her, earnest. Maybe she should have asked him the question that came into her mind first, but she can’t just ignore what happened.
“This is not a discussion for a public street. Please, let me take us somewhere else.”
“Of course.”
He takes a step and she follows him, her arm still in his. The magic moves them swiftly, and when she takes another step, they’re on the flat roof of a small tower. They’re back at Solas’ mansion, just the two of them underneath the stars.
Solas lets go of her and start pacing, his hands behind his back.
“I didn’t know.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t know? You were there today – I assume you were before too?”
She stops him in his path; there isn’t much space up here, not really.
“It may seem extreme now, but for me, for us, it was a sliding scale. I didn’t realize yet… I didn’t understand my purpose. Soon, Elvhenan will be attacked by monstrous beings, the likes I have seen since. We won and they never returned. When I was told… “
Solas stalls. He shakes his head. He turns around and looks out over the city. There is light and magic in little dots spread across the city. The lights spread and spread, and the city is bigger than Val Royeaux. She wonders if Solas sees the city, or something else. She stands next to him, not quite touching him.
“My sister had a gift of foresight. She told me I had to gather power, that the very survival of Elvhenan depended on it. When we were attacked, all the nobles stopped their petty games and drove them back. When we won, we were declared kings and queens, wise leaders. I foolishly though my purpose filled. It wasn’t until later, when Andruil went back to her killing, when Elgar’nan demanded more slaves, more power – it wasn’t until then I understood what she meant. And by then I had squandered my time. I did not save Elvhenan. I doomed us all.”
“Your sister?”
She has so many questions, never-ending. She knows so little of him, of this place.
“She is… long gone.” Solas fiddles with the jawbone on his chest, and turns to her, but he is still tall and distant. “It doesn’t matter now.”
She knows enough to know he is hurting. She puts her hand on his arm.
“You must miss her. I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.”
“I don’t mind. I – Her name was Enara. It’s good to remember her. She would have liked you.”
He smiles at her, and she nods. She would have liked to meet her too. Solas looks back at the city.
“About today, and Andruil – I can’t act know. Both because changing the past would have consequences I cannot foresee, but I also can’t erode anyone’s power right now. All their power will be needed the war to come.”
“I see,” she says, and she does. And no matter how horrible it seems, it has already happened, once before. The world and the Dalish and every other elven are still there. The world that Solas dismisses.
“But what about after the war. Would you change that? If you – stayed here?”
She doesn’t want to stay. She wants to go home, and she selfishly wants Solas with her, even if he doesn’t reach for her anymore.
“I… I have given it some thought, I admit. If this had happened right when the Breach was new, I wouldn’t have hesitated. I would have taken the chance, even if I changed the course of time, or maybe because I could do that. Now – now I do not know.”
“Let’s find a way home, first. I miss it.”
“I know,” he says, his eyes kind and reassuring.
She can give him a little more time, but she wants to drag him fully into her own world and have him stay.
Will you continue the winged jeremwood? Btw I love your writing it’s mama Mia spicy hot delicious food for my heart.
Naww thank you! I’m glad you like my writing :) I guess I can’t let anyone go hungry ;) I can continue the winged au if you guys want?
—
Jeremy leant against the balcony railing looking up at the evening traffic, the winged flying home or to work for night shifts. It was secretly one of his favourite sights, seeing them fly across the twilight sky.
“Hey.” Ryan spoke behind him, coming up to lean on the balcony next to him. Jeremy nodded a greeting but looked back up at the sky rather then his friend.
“Sup?”
“Dinners ready.” Ryan cocked a thumb behind himself. Jeremy didn’t answer just watching the evening sky, Ryan following his gaze. He wondered if Jereny was longing to be up there.
Instead of asking that personal question, instead he simply extended a wing to press around the lad. Jeremy looked at him sharply and Ryan shrugged, “it’s cold out. Think of me as a windbreak.”
“Thanks but I got a jacket.” Jeremy told him tightly, pushing Ryan’s wing away as he turned heading inside. Ryan sighed, taking another moment to watch the skies himself, wondering when he would get things right…
