[ There comes a time in every man's life when he finds himself once more stranded on the steps of the sanctuary-home of the Yunmeng Jiang, and he must wonder which part of his mind or his liver or his drink failed him yet again to bring him there. The curse of perpetuity: each cycle, you wake to discover a great guilt that erodes the dark cockles of your heart and you are somehow propelled to pay respects at Jiang Wanyin's feet, as if he were an underworld judge of formidably terrible decisions.
And lo, here Lan Wangji is, repeating that turn of unfortunate events, armed with the recent history of Wei Wuxian's questionable life choices and a string of tightly wrapped bowls sto — borrowed from the array of dishes master Song Lan delivers unto them with sad understanding that the only survival the Lans are equipped to undertake is on the battlefield.
They are not helpless exactly, so much as inhumanly prone to failing every household task there ever was. Curse of the clan, failing of the blood. Do not pass the mop.
His back straight, cut of his eyes softened by understanding that he imposes without invitation, he knocks once at good Jiang Cheng's door. Twice. Again. Then, finally, when Jiang Cheng has presumably erred on the side of caution to sate his belly more than neglect it, and the gates open — Wangji raises his little stack of dinner, delivered in peace offering.
( Worth, some might say, a good rate of coin, with a modest fee for travel and another for the tax collector. ) ]
An incense stick's time.
[ Even Jiang Wanyin can take that time away from staring down puppies, loathing the world at large and terrorizing small children. ]
[ The humble halls of new Yunmeng Jiang are quiet, as still as the aftermath of any other massacre, this time visited upon them by those of Gusu Lan. The walls, the shelves are all stripped bare, war spoils packed into cardboard war chests, waiting to be taken to new lands far from the ghosts of memory that pace the corridors of what, for a time, was home.
Of those Jiang Cheng expected to come calling in this time of change, Lan Wangji ranks last on the list. That he comes bearing gifts, with enough on his mind to ask for Jiang Cheng's time, rankles as much as it startles. How many words can Lan Wangji get out in the half hour asked? Likely not even enough to explain himself, his presence here, but still Jiang Cheng makes himself step aside.
He motions the man in, someone he should like to call a friend but cannot stop finding himself at odds with. A good and righteous son of Gusu Lan, a fox in the hen house of Yunmeng Jiang.
Leading them to the table, Jiang Cheng motions for Lan Wangji to settle himself however he likes, moving into the kitchen to put together tea. ]
And to what does Yunmeng Jiang owe this pleasure, Second Young Master Lan?
[ A haunted house, walls groaning when the press of Lan Wangji's step offends hard wood and its sensibilities. Like sickness, he's received with wide berth, Jiang Che — Wanyin in quick retreat, for his thoughts or the weapon of his wit, sharpening.
Abandoned, Lan Wangji feels, not for the first time, stone on the river bank, coming adrift. His mind floats. Loses itself. Anchors again, when Jiang Cheng (no matter the correction) speaks, and Wangji remembers to slip down with the pool of his robes, and start the slow-rustled unpacking of his gifts. Four bowls, lidded with bamboo, tied with string.
Two more, for portioning. He positions them, like the general of a culinary army, or Jiang Cheng's latest wife. ]
Dinner.
[ On Jiang Cheng's return, pronouncement and presentation. They miss their chopsticks, but surely even the Yunmeng Jiang don't eat from their bowls like dogs. And is this not what Jiang Cheng requested of Wangji, far too often? Breaking their hunger like travellers on the road, sharing rice and fish and whatever poor master Song Lan found in himself the creativity and inclination to delegate for his Lan mongrels.
Dinner, yes. And peace. ]
For what was stolen from you.
[ Wei Wuxian. Some might argue, though it is not for them to mutter it now, the boy too — Jin Ling. Good bounty, if vocal.
Wangji's head finds itself burdened with enough shame to dip down, easily. ]
[ At the peace offering of food Jiang Cheng immediately recognizes as anything but the work of Gusu Lan, the young sect leader looks up to fix his dubiously wanted house guest with a withering stare. The food is inoffensive, could almost near the territory of thoughtful were it brought by anyone else in any other situation. Were it anything of Lan Wangji's own making, Jiang Cheng might have considered it a declaration of war on Yunmeng Jiang.
As it is, what besets him lies primarily in Wangji's approach to this, that he should find any fault in himself at all for what has come to pass. It is not that Jiang Cheng doesn't feel wronged in this, but for once his blame does not lie on Lan Wangji's shoulders. For all of their disagreements, for all the friction and discontent, a relationship with Wei Wuxian has been all Jiang Cheng has sought to push Lan Wangji for. It's clear to him just how much the other man means to his sworn brother, even if it's obvious to no one else involved.
He squints in discomfort as the facts of the matter settle on his mind, returning to the table to sit and pour their tea. ]
What am I, his keeper? You didn't steal anything. And you don't need my permission to do... [ He makes a face, briefly shirking back like a particularly displeased turtle. ] ...whatever it is you do. If I've been angry, it's only because he didn't bother telling me before he left.
[ Jiang Cheng pauses then, a question surfacing in his mind as he goes over the conversation he had with Wei Wuxian over this matter. Shouting match, really. Anyway. ]
He said he was in danger from who kills him where we're from. [ Lips thinning, Jiang Cheng levels Lan Wangji with his gaze. ] Are you really just trying to get him away from me?
[ No, Wei Wuxian never gave. Mercy of spirit might decree he never had the time. Lan Wangji spared him little: not his deliberations, not his hesitation, not his doubts. Thieves in the night, but they fled. They fled, and never sought the shadows of ship wreckage behind him.
( And is it not in Yunmeng Jiang, where they keep the finest of swimmers? Should Jiang Wanyin blame any man but himself, if he drowns? )
Tea, a deeper colouring than Wangji cares for, though appetite bends the knee to diplomacy, and Jiang Cheng already extends himself. Poured, it simmers and waits, the siren's call an empty invitation, spelled out in wisps of desperate jasmine. Slender-handed, he raises the cup in a tired keep, two hands and tipping it forward — the courtesy of a salute, before the critical sip.
Tongue burns. Thoughts singe. The world's aflame. ]
Jin Guangyao. Jin Ling. [ The pause, derelict; his lips smack in muted sound. ] Yourself. [ Men who have hurt him. Men who would hurt him still. Two pairs of hands bloodied; the one, clean, criminal. ] Only precaution.
[ Jin Guangyao will not touch a protegee of Lan Xichen's home. He will not presume. Jin Ling, tamed now but possessed of his uncle's spirit only a handful of moons before, will not shed blood under Wangji's roof. And Jiang Cheng seems equal to the task of eviscerating from a distance. Perhaps his archery was always splendid, after all. ]
I mean peace between us. [ No; not so. Not the painful, veiled artifices Lan Xichen's presence brokers. ] Past protocol. May we?
[ The teacup cracks in Jiang Cheng’s hand, jaw clenched with equal tension.
Dark liquid bleeds from the fracture, spilling between them on the table and spreading. Precaution.
Lan Wangji appoints himself the protector of Wei Wuxian, from threats he deems and declares. Certain persons, allowed. Certain persons, proscribed.
Only precaution.
Wei Wuxian's words ring in his mind, that this man, Lan Wangji, his brother, Lan Xichen, are that which can stay whatever threat looms over Wei Wuxian. It crackles over his skin, the memory of failure, Yunmeng pride broken upon Lan jade.
Why does Lan Wangji's brotherhood endure? Is it a matter of blood? A matter of strength? A matter of character?
Does the fault lie within Jiang Cheng? ]
Just what are you asking, Lan Wangji?
[ The question itself is mild, but Jiang Cheng’s lash out, electric, temper unspooling like the coils of his whip.]
What are your intentions exactly?
[ Exhaling his tension, he forces himself to release the shards of porcelain, jasmine tea murky, red specks against white clay.]
[ ...ah, what a waste then. Tea and hurt and heat and bleeding. Rivulets of herbal fragrance that Wangji tries (fails) politely to circumvent, before courtesy gives way to practicality, and he extends himself to salvage a stretch of linen that's come with serving, and fold it once, then again in the satisfying stabs of a sturdy triangle.
Nothing to see here, blood, bone and ambition. Everything to bury. Snow, then. Ice building. ]
Keep Wei Wuxian unharmed for a month's time.
[ Premise undisputed, plan accepted. Adults already had their say, but if they must pretend Jiang Cheng holds the ultimate truth of permission, then the dance has stumbled once, but Wangji can keep its step. ]
Less, if brother exerts control over Jin Guangyao.
[ Wisps of smoke of a prospect, Xichen's own command of his sworn brother unclear. Can a beast so rabid it turns on the tenets of all of its families ever regain form? Ever return to its senses?
Jin Guangyao is the variable of every equation, turning one breath smile, the other fang. At Wangji's side, Bichen hurts to refuse him the liar's death, the cheat's, the gallows. He begs the kill, and in this Xichen is cruel, denying him. He begs with each breath. ]
Return him to you after.
[ Tribute before that: the triangle of cloth, presented in Wangji's open hands, sweeping under Jiang Cheng's. He waits, permission pending, before he might presume to inflict on master Jiang the indignity of Lan succour. ]
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consignation) wrote2019-12-14 12:01 pm
no subject
And lo, here Lan Wangji is, repeating that turn of unfortunate events, armed with the recent history of Wei Wuxian's questionable life choices and a string of tightly wrapped bowls sto — borrowed from the array of dishes master Song Lan delivers unto them with sad understanding that the only survival the Lans are equipped to undertake is on the battlefield.
They are not helpless exactly, so much as inhumanly prone to failing every household task there ever was. Curse of the clan, failing of the blood. Do not pass the mop.
His back straight, cut of his eyes softened by understanding that he imposes without invitation, he knocks once at good Jiang Cheng's door. Twice. Again. Then, finally, when Jiang Cheng has presumably erred on the side of caution to sate his belly more than neglect it, and the gates open — Wangji raises his little stack of dinner, delivered in peace offering.
( Worth, some might say, a good rate of coin, with a modest fee for travel and another for the tax collector. ) ]
An incense stick's time.
[ Even Jiang Wanyin can take that time away from staring down puppies, loathing the world at large and terrorizing small children. ]
no subject
Of those Jiang Cheng expected to come calling in this time of change, Lan Wangji ranks last on the list. That he comes bearing gifts, with enough on his mind to ask for Jiang Cheng's time, rankles as much as it startles. How many words can Lan Wangji get out in the half hour asked? Likely not even enough to explain himself, his presence here, but still Jiang Cheng makes himself step aside.
He motions the man in, someone he should like to call a friend but cannot stop finding himself at odds with. A good and righteous son of Gusu Lan, a fox in the hen house of Yunmeng Jiang.
Leading them to the table, Jiang Cheng motions for Lan Wangji to settle himself however he likes, moving into the kitchen to put together tea. ]
And to what does Yunmeng Jiang owe this pleasure, Second Young Master Lan?
no subject
Abandoned, Lan Wangji feels, not for the first time, stone on the river bank, coming adrift. His mind floats. Loses itself. Anchors again, when Jiang Cheng (no matter the correction) speaks, and Wangji remembers to slip down with the pool of his robes, and start the slow-rustled unpacking of his gifts. Four bowls, lidded with bamboo, tied with string.
Two more, for portioning. He positions them, like the general of a culinary army, or Jiang Cheng's latest wife. ]
Dinner.
[ On Jiang Cheng's return, pronouncement and presentation. They miss their chopsticks, but surely even the Yunmeng Jiang don't eat from their bowls like dogs. And is this not what Jiang Cheng requested of Wangji, far too often? Breaking their hunger like travellers on the road, sharing rice and fish and whatever poor master Song Lan found in himself the creativity and inclination to delegate for his Lan mongrels.
Dinner, yes. And peace. ]
For what was stolen from you.
[ Wei Wuxian. Some might argue, though it is not for them to mutter it now, the boy too — Jin Ling. Good bounty, if vocal.
Wangji's head finds itself burdened with enough shame to dip down, easily. ]
I should have asked permission.
no subject
[ At the peace offering of food Jiang Cheng immediately recognizes as anything but the work of Gusu Lan, the young sect leader looks up to fix his dubiously wanted house guest with a withering stare. The food is inoffensive, could almost near the territory of thoughtful were it brought by anyone else in any other situation. Were it anything of Lan Wangji's own making, Jiang Cheng might have considered it a declaration of war on Yunmeng Jiang.
As it is, what besets him lies primarily in Wangji's approach to this, that he should find any fault in himself at all for what has come to pass. It is not that Jiang Cheng doesn't feel wronged in this, but for once his blame does not lie on Lan Wangji's shoulders. For all of their disagreements, for all the friction and discontent, a relationship with Wei Wuxian has been all Jiang Cheng has sought to push Lan Wangji for. It's clear to him just how much the other man means to his sworn brother, even if it's obvious to no one else involved.
He squints in discomfort as the facts of the matter settle on his mind, returning to the table to sit and pour their tea. ]
What am I, his keeper? You didn't steal anything. And you don't need my permission to do... [ He makes a face, briefly shirking back like a particularly displeased turtle. ] ...whatever it is you do. If I've been angry, it's only because he didn't bother telling me before he left.
[ Jiang Cheng pauses then, a question surfacing in his mind as he goes over the conversation he had with Wei Wuxian over this matter. Shouting match, really. Anyway. ]
He said he was in danger from who kills him where we're from. [ Lips thinning, Jiang Cheng levels Lan Wangji with his gaze. ] Are you really just trying to get him away from me?
no subject
( And is it not in Yunmeng Jiang, where they keep the finest of swimmers? Should Jiang Wanyin blame any man but himself, if he drowns? )
Tea, a deeper colouring than Wangji cares for, though appetite bends the knee to diplomacy, and Jiang Cheng already extends himself. Poured, it simmers and waits, the siren's call an empty invitation, spelled out in wisps of desperate jasmine. Slender-handed, he raises the cup in a tired keep, two hands and tipping it forward — the courtesy of a salute, before the critical sip.
Tongue burns. Thoughts singe. The world's aflame. ]
Jin Guangyao. Jin Ling. [ The pause, derelict; his lips smack in muted sound. ] Yourself. [ Men who have hurt him. Men who would hurt him still. Two pairs of hands bloodied; the one, clean, criminal. ] Only precaution.
[ Jin Guangyao will not touch a protegee of Lan Xichen's home. He will not presume. Jin Ling, tamed now but possessed of his uncle's spirit only a handful of moons before, will not shed blood under Wangji's roof. And Jiang Cheng seems equal to the task of eviscerating from a distance. Perhaps his archery was always splendid, after all. ]
I mean peace between us. [ No; not so. Not the painful, veiled artifices Lan Xichen's presence brokers. ] Past protocol. May we?
no subject
Dark liquid bleeds from the fracture, spilling between them on the table and spreading. Precaution.
Lan Wangji appoints himself the protector of Wei Wuxian, from threats he deems and declares. Certain persons, allowed. Certain persons, proscribed.
Only precaution.
Wei Wuxian's words ring in his mind, that this man, Lan Wangji, his brother, Lan Xichen, are that which can stay whatever threat looms over Wei Wuxian. It crackles over his skin, the memory of failure, Yunmeng pride broken upon Lan jade.
Why does Lan Wangji's brotherhood endure? Is it a matter of blood? A matter of strength? A matter of character?
Does the fault lie within Jiang Cheng? ]
Just what are you asking, Lan Wangji?
[ The question itself is mild, but Jiang Cheng’s lash out, electric, temper unspooling like the coils of his whip.]
What are your intentions exactly?
[ Exhaling his tension, he forces himself to release the shards of porcelain, jasmine tea murky, red specks against white clay.]
no subject
Nothing to see here, blood, bone and ambition. Everything to bury. Snow, then. Ice building. ]
Keep Wei Wuxian unharmed for a month's time.
[ Premise undisputed, plan accepted. Adults already had their say, but if they must pretend Jiang Cheng holds the ultimate truth of permission, then the dance has stumbled once, but Wangji can keep its step. ]
Less, if brother exerts control over Jin Guangyao.
[ Wisps of smoke of a prospect, Xichen's own command of his sworn brother unclear. Can a beast so rabid it turns on the tenets of all of its families ever regain form? Ever return to its senses?
Jin Guangyao is the variable of every equation, turning one breath smile, the other fang. At Wangji's side, Bichen hurts to refuse him the liar's death, the cheat's, the gallows. He begs the kill, and in this Xichen is cruel, denying him. He begs with each breath. ]
Return him to you after.
[ Tribute before that: the triangle of cloth, presented in Wangji's open hands, sweeping under Jiang Cheng's. He waits, permission pending, before he might presume to inflict on master Jiang the indignity of Lan succour. ]