[From one sound to another—after hours upon hours of the same old music box, the guqin is a welcome change. Naturally, Sieghart follows the source to Lan Wangji, whom he greets in a casual tone of voice.]
[Lan Wangji is far too stubborn to let this place change his habits, so up at 5am he gets!! Once the bear unlocks the new area, he heads straight outside, moving away from everyone else. HE LIKES HIS SPACE.
He's been out here for a while, though, mostly just meditating, and now that he's playing he doesn't mind the intrusion too much. He lifts his head and nods, both in greeting and gratitude. But before he can speak, Sieghart gets a memory!
It's a very clear memory. A recent thing, like a still-bleeding wound. Lan Wangji is only 17 years old, but his eyes are hard, stubborn, expression as unwavering as ever. He stands alone, defiant against the red and white soldier that holds a lit torch out to him. Other disciples, dressed like Lan Wangji, stand clustered and terrified nearby. They are powerless to help, though, and Lan Wangji does not expect them to try.
The soldiers grab him too quickly, before he can fight back, and they break his leg without a moment's hesitation, letting him drop to the ground at the sound of snapping bone. He doesn't make a sound, doesn't give them the satisfaction of his pain--and really, it hurts more that he's too slow to get to his feet. He can't stop the soldiers from forcing the other Lans to set fire to the Library Pavilion, but he drags himself up anyway, drawing out his guqin and positioning himself between the Pavilion and the soldiers in front of him.
He stands defiant, and fights, even when every last string has snapped, and his fingertips are bloodied and useless. He lets the heat of the fire hold him upright, until finally, the last of his power drains out of his body. His home is ablaze, his brother is missing, his people are wounded--Lan Wangji must hold, for all of them. Not because he has any hope of winning, but because he is the only one left to prove that their spirits will not bend.
He passes out, at some point. He does not know who saves him from the fire. When he wakes, his leg is very poorly bound. But he barely has time to feel the pain before a trembling Lan disciple hands him a letter, marked with the seal of Qishan Wen.]
[It's strange, coming out of the frame of mind of someone so reticent. Sieghart is no stranger to maintaining a certain level of composure, but his indignation has always been explosive. The amount of discipline Lan Wangji possesses is staggering.
His fingers and leg burn from the phantom pain of memories that aren't his as Sieghart looks thoughtfully down at the youth before him.]
[He does relive it--and his usual composure shows it, in the way he presses a hand to his forehead, the way his breath is just a little more shallow than usual. It takes him longer than usual to come back to himself; he draws in a quiet, deep breath, then straightens and nods slightly.]
[That manages to shake him out of the residual tension--he lifts his head, then shakes it slightly.]
It is fine.
[It's not something he'd share without prompting, but it's no secret, either. He isn't ashamed--but his heart does ache for his home, his people. His brother, still missing. His father, condition unknown.
If they escape this place, will he return to that cave, trapped and awaiting rescue once again? Or has time moved on, every day that passes here? It's impossible to know.]
[It must be. Lan Wangji arrived at the Academy with a bum leg. And if that's true, then the stress of those events must weigh that much heavier on those shoulders.]
If not for our powers being sealed, we could've . . .
[Sieghart trails off—or, rather, he's cut off by a memory:
The ashen smoke and stench of burnt flesh choke your throat, leaving a rancid aftertaste, as you navigate the burning ruins of your second home. What was once a warm refuge attended by the kind souls of your brothers is now a hellish purgatory with their bodies strewn everywhere like ragdolls. There are so many of them, yet nary a one so much as utters a cry while the fire claims their limbs. Every step you take lands your feet in a puddle of their blood, growing increasingly desperate as you call out their names, hoping against hope for a response.
You cough into your excoriated arm, damaged from a collapsing pillar you passed earlier. How long have you been in here now? If you don't hurry, you may collapse before you can get anyone out.
Your breath hitches when you come upon Graham, crumpled on the ground, with the fire raging all around him. Dropping to your knees, you gather his body in your arms and shield him from the scorching heat, only to find that his chest neither rises nor falls.
"N-no!" Your vision blurs and voice cracks as you give him a shake. "Get up! Wake up! Please!"
But Graham doesn't open his eyes. Your dearest friend, who saved your life when he found you, a lonesome stranger on the verge of death, with nothing but kindness in his eyes and who later accepted your nameless self into the fold as family, is gone.
Everyone is gone. The fire is just meant to bury what's left of them.
Ignoring how the same fire pricks your eyes, chokes your throat, and sears your skin, you hold Graham's corpse close and wail in a terrible combination of grief and rage.
Who could've killed the immortal Highlanders? The question rattles harshly within your mind, piercing the deafening roar of the flames. Whoever it was, you'll kill them. You'll tear them apart. You will get revenge.
If only you hadn't been so careless.
Your chest tightens. Although you scream yourself hoarse, it does nothing for the pain in your heart as you weep at once. You can't breathe. You don't think you can even live with yourself. The grief, the rage, the guilt—they hurt. They hurt so much that you think you may just go mad from it all.
This is your fault. It's your fault—all of it. Your fault. Your fault, yourfault,yourfaultyourfaultYOURFAULT—]
[To be thrown back into the heat of flame once was jarring. Twice is harrowing, and it steals his breath away. Lan Wangji, for all that others call him cold, is a man who feels very strongly on his own, but the depth of these emotions threatens to overwhelm him in a way he hasn’t experienced since… since the death of his mother, really.
Even when he snaps out of the memory, it takes a moment for the smoke to clear. On reflex, he lifts a hand to touch his face—and is startled to find it dry.]
[Sieghart doesn't touch his face. He doesn't need to, to feel that his eyes are a little wet and the lump in his throat. There's a moment's hesitation—a necessary pause—before he swallows the latter and rakes a hand through his hair.]
. . . As I was saying, we could've beaten down whatever's driving this world by now.
...Mm. [A sound of agreement, but he's still a little disoriented.
After a moment, he drops his hand--but only to lift both in a bow.]
...I am sorry. [Less formal, this time, but more sincere for it. It's an "I'm sorry you were forced to share something so painfully personal", rather than an attempt at offering pity or comfort--not because his heart doesn't go out to Sieghart (it does, truly it does), but because he wouldn't even know how to begin to express that.
...And partly because, well. Condolences won't rebuild a home. They both know that.]
[They both know that, and it's why Sieghart understands. The sincerity doesn't go unnoticed. He watches Lan Wangji for a beat before giving a small wave.]
Don't be. It's the same for everyone right now. There are better things to do than feel sorry all week.
[That much is true, and a small bit of tension eases from Lan Wangji's shoulders at the mention of it, though his expression shifts the tiniest bit into mild frustration.]
However, I am unsure of what else can be done, for now.
[Wait for more people to die??? He understands the risks of Rupert and the others telling everyone what's going on, but still... it feels cruel to let them continue on uninformed. But if there's no way to contact them besides the marquee...]
. . . We'll just have to keep an eye on the outside. We're no longer at risk, but their souls are still in danger.
[It's cruel; however, there's still much and more they've yet to learn. The questions to which Sieghart would like answers require time. All they can do for now is wait.]
Matters of the soul are rarely straightforward. I wouldn't call it easy. But returning home should be simpler than everything we've had to endure here, if things go our way.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Week 3: Monday
Hey, that's a nice melody.
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He's been out here for a while, though, mostly just meditating, and now that he's playing he doesn't mind the intrusion too much. He lifts his head and nods, both in greeting and gratitude. But before he can speak, Sieghart gets a memory!
This is an old post but listen I'm melting.
As for Lan Wangji--
It's a very clear memory. A recent thing, like a still-bleeding wound. Lan Wangji is only 17 years old, but his eyes are hard, stubborn, expression as unwavering as ever. He stands alone, defiant against the red and white soldier that holds a lit torch out to him. Other disciples, dressed like Lan Wangji, stand clustered and terrified nearby. They are powerless to help, though, and Lan Wangji does not expect them to try.
The soldiers grab him too quickly, before he can fight back, and they break his leg without a moment's hesitation, letting him drop to the ground at the sound of snapping bone. He doesn't make a sound, doesn't give them the satisfaction of his pain--and really, it hurts more that he's too slow to get to his feet. He can't stop the soldiers from forcing the other Lans to set fire to the Library Pavilion, but he drags himself up anyway, drawing out his guqin and positioning himself between the Pavilion and the soldiers in front of him.
He stands defiant, and fights, even when every last string has snapped, and his fingertips are bloodied and useless. He lets the heat of the fire hold him upright, until finally, the last of his power drains out of his body. His home is ablaze, his brother is missing, his people are wounded--Lan Wangji must hold, for all of them. Not because he has any hope of winning, but because he is the only one left to prove that their spirits will not bend.
He passes out, at some point. He does not know who saves him from the fire. When he wakes, his leg is very poorly bound. But he barely has time to feel the pain before a trembling Lan disciple hands him a letter, marked with the seal of Qishan Wen.]
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His fingers and leg burn from the phantom pain of memories that aren't his as Sieghart looks thoughtfully down at the youth before him.]
. . . Did you relive it?
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Apologies. I do not know what happened.
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It's been happening all day. I'll understand if you want me to walk away.
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It is fine.
[It's not something he'd share without prompting, but it's no secret, either. He isn't ashamed--but his heart does ache for his home, his people. His brother, still missing. His father, condition unknown.
If they escape this place, will he return to that cave, trapped and awaiting rescue once again? Or has time moved on, every day that passes here? It's impossible to know.]
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[It must be. Lan Wangji arrived at the Academy with a bum leg. And if that's true, then the stress of those events must weigh that much heavier on those shoulders.]
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This place sure picked a time to grab everyone.
. . . But at least you won't have to worry about your leg while you're here.
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[But noooo instead they were NERFED. It doesn’t matter now, though, since death kindly took care of it.]
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If not for our powers being sealed, we could've . . .
[Sieghart trails off—or, rather, he's cut off by a memory:
The ashen smoke and stench of burnt flesh choke your throat, leaving a rancid aftertaste, as you navigate the burning ruins of your second home. What was once a warm refuge attended by the kind souls of your brothers is now a hellish purgatory with their bodies strewn everywhere like ragdolls. There are so many of them, yet nary a one so much as utters a cry while the fire claims their limbs. Every step you take lands your feet in a puddle of their blood, growing increasingly desperate as you call out their names, hoping against hope for a response.
You cough into your excoriated arm, damaged from a collapsing pillar you passed earlier. How long have you been in here now? If you don't hurry, you may collapse before you can get anyone out.
Your breath hitches when you come upon Graham, crumpled on the ground, with the fire raging all around him. Dropping to your knees, you gather his body in your arms and shield him from the scorching heat, only to find that his chest neither rises nor falls.
"N-no!" Your vision blurs and voice cracks as you give him a shake. "Get up! Wake up! Please!"
But Graham doesn't open his eyes. Your dearest friend, who saved your life when he found you, a lonesome stranger on the verge of death, with nothing but kindness in his eyes and who later accepted your nameless self into the fold as family, is gone.
Everyone is gone. The fire is just meant to bury what's left of them.
Ignoring how the same fire pricks your eyes, chokes your throat, and sears your skin, you hold Graham's corpse close and wail in a terrible combination of grief and rage.
Who could've killed the immortal Highlanders? The question rattles harshly within your mind, piercing the deafening roar of the flames. Whoever it was, you'll kill them. You'll tear them apart. You will get revenge.
If only you hadn't been so careless.
Your chest tightens. Although you scream yourself hoarse, it does nothing for the pain in your heart as you weep at once. You can't breathe. You don't think you can even live with yourself. The grief, the rage, the guilt—they hurt. They hurt so much that you think you may just go mad from it all.
This is your fault. It's your fault—all of it. Your fault. Your fault, yourfault,yourfaultyourfaultYOURFAULT—]
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Even when he snaps out of the memory, it takes a moment for the smoke to clear. On reflex, he lifts a hand to touch his face—and is startled to find it dry.]
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. . . As I was saying, we could've beaten down whatever's driving this world by now.
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After a moment, he drops his hand--but only to lift both in a bow.]
...I am sorry. [Less formal, this time, but more sincere for it. It's an "I'm sorry you were forced to share something so painfully personal", rather than an attempt at offering pity or comfort--not because his heart doesn't go out to Sieghart (it does, truly it does), but because he wouldn't even know how to begin to express that.
...And partly because, well. Condolences won't rebuild a home. They both know that.]
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Don't be. It's the same for everyone right now. There are better things to do than feel sorry all week.
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[That much is true, and a small bit of tension eases from Lan Wangji's shoulders at the mention of it, though his expression shifts the tiniest bit into mild frustration.]
However, I am unsure of what else can be done, for now.
[Wait for more people to die??? He understands the risks of Rupert and the others telling everyone what's going on, but still... it feels cruel to let them continue on uninformed. But if there's no way to contact them besides the marquee...]
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[It's cruel; however, there's still much and more they've yet to learn. The questions to which Sieghart would like answers require time. All they can do for now is wait.]
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...Will it truly be so easy to return home?
[If those working to liberate souls succeed, that is.]
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