( barefoot, the rough bark of the pine tree below his heels as he stretches out beneath the moonlit sky; the wind is crisp, slipping up beneath the draping, loose volume of his robes causing goosebumps to build along his thighs and hipbones. he is long and limber again, his chest emptied and filled with something new and something dark that preys upon his hidden insecurities and forgotten vulnerabilities - no matter how far he pushes them away, they exist as long as the people he loves most are alive.
one foot dangles, toes spread as he plucks pine needles from the branch lazily, flicking them down towards the ground below. in his fingers, he holds the ghost flute with its crimson tassels captured by the breeze, flicking softly before his eyes. it's a beautiful instrument, glossy black bamboo and the most resonant and powerful flute he's ever placed his mouth to. it's a sinister little thing, he knows, by no fault of its own for the weapon often followed in the master's wake - and the yiling patriarch's wake was a bloody, evil thing. below, he thinks he can hear someone calling his name - the sound of their voice unknowable but he feels it as it causes his chest to ache and his to heart twinge and twist within. something tells him he shouldn't come down from the pine, he should stay up high, chilled and apart from it all.
but he doesn't, and instead descends from the pristine heights down, down, down the trunk of the pine to that familiar-but-not voice with the intention of taking their hand and taking them back to where it is warm and safe. he descends, though, onto the dusky, fire-lit battlefield and steps directly into something soft and warm and bloody. the remnants of someone's corporeal form, become meat - just meat, as vultures and furious corpses swarm the remainder of the sinful living and pluck them apart piece by piece. across the field he can hear the notes of chenqing as they wither and die, feeling the sweat trail down the back of his spine and the exhaustion creep into his limbs and lungs.
'once, he played for a whole night - turning his army of ghosts and corpses upon the wicked and innocent alike.'
'had he already lost himself to madness? how foolish, how sad. no good could ever come of a beast that bares its teeth in the face of its masters.'
chenqing calls and calls, plaintive and inscrutable; it calls in his dream, piercing through hazy memories and ramshackle thoughts until he wakes; he wakes -- )
chest glowing, soft and blue in the quiet of the dorms. his two strange bunkmates either missing or asleep in their own ways, unknowing of the way wei wuxian sits up and presses his hands to his aching, twisting chest and coughs softly into his knees, breathing ragged and trembling as he feels it in his hands. feels it slender and unmistakable against his ribs - knows what he will see when he opens his eyes and looks down at what rests in his palms. so, he doesn't look. instead, he gathers his breath, gathers his muddied and disoriented mind as best as he can and slips free from the room before he disturbs his bunkmates, the object tucked below his shirt as he clutches his still-glowing chest and half-stumbles, half-creeps to the door he knows lan wangji is behind.
jiang cheng, he knows, is out. he had seen him vacate, as he does most nights - unable to sleep, unable to settle as he always is. so, wei wuxian calls out from the doorway, secretive and soft: ] Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, wake up - it's important. Come with me, hurry up!
CHENQING DREAM TIME.
( barefoot, the rough bark of the pine tree below his heels as he stretches out beneath the moonlit sky; the wind is crisp, slipping up beneath the draping, loose volume of his robes causing goosebumps to build along his thighs and hipbones. he is long and limber again, his chest emptied and filled with something new and something dark that preys upon his hidden insecurities and forgotten vulnerabilities - no matter how far he pushes them away, they exist as long as the people he loves most are alive.
one foot dangles, toes spread as he plucks pine needles from the branch lazily, flicking them down towards the ground below. in his fingers, he holds the ghost flute with its crimson tassels captured by the breeze, flicking softly before his eyes. it's a beautiful instrument, glossy black bamboo and the most resonant and powerful flute he's ever placed his mouth to. it's a sinister little thing, he knows, by no fault of its own for the weapon often followed in the master's wake - and the yiling patriarch's wake was a bloody, evil thing. below, he thinks he can hear someone calling his name - the sound of their voice unknowable but he feels it as it causes his chest to ache and his to heart twinge and twist within. something tells him he shouldn't come down from the pine, he should stay up high, chilled and apart from it all.
but he doesn't, and instead descends from the pristine heights down, down, down the trunk of the pine to that familiar-but-not voice with the intention of taking their hand and taking them back to where it is warm and safe. he descends, though, onto the dusky, fire-lit battlefield and steps directly into something soft and warm and bloody. the remnants of someone's corporeal form, become meat - just meat, as vultures and furious corpses swarm the remainder of the sinful living and pluck them apart piece by piece. across the field he can hear the notes of chenqing as they wither and die, feeling the sweat trail down the back of his spine and the exhaustion creep into his limbs and lungs.
'once, he played for a whole night - turning his army of ghosts and corpses upon the wicked and innocent alike.'
'had he already lost himself to madness? how foolish, how sad. no good could ever come of a beast that bares its teeth in the face of its masters.'
chenqing calls and calls, plaintive and inscrutable; it calls in his dream, piercing through hazy memories and ramshackle thoughts until he wakes; he wakes -- )
chest glowing, soft and blue in the quiet of the dorms. his two strange bunkmates either missing or asleep in their own ways, unknowing of the way wei wuxian sits up and presses his hands to his aching, twisting chest and coughs softly into his knees, breathing ragged and trembling as he feels it in his hands. feels it slender and unmistakable against his ribs - knows what he will see when he opens his eyes and looks down at what rests in his palms. so, he doesn't look. instead, he gathers his breath, gathers his muddied and disoriented mind as best as he can and slips free from the room before he disturbs his bunkmates, the object tucked below his shirt as he clutches his still-glowing chest and half-stumbles, half-creeps to the door he knows lan wangji is behind.
jiang cheng, he knows, is out. he had seen him vacate, as he does most nights - unable to sleep, unable to settle as he always is. so, wei wuxian calls out from the doorway, secretive and soft: ] Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, wake up - it's important. Come with me, hurry up!