ravkanwitch | [[open post and announcement: no mourners, no funerals]]

[[open post and announcement: no mourners, no funerals]]

[cw: discussion of death!]

Nina knows that word of Shen Yuan's death has been slowly spreading. She tried to put out a general warning of danger right after it happened... but she's not sure how many people were warned by it. She wasn't in the right mind at the time, after all. This time, she's more careful and collected. With SecUnit's help, she's alerted and gathered everyone who's interested for an important announcement in the lobby of the mansion. Despite all appearances of bossiness and stubbornness - all quite true - Nina has never been in charge of anything so serious. Kaz, Zoya, and the King himself; she followed their lead. As people slowly begin to gather and she attempts to compose herself, she wonders why she decided to put herself up to this.

Deep breath, Zenik. Pretend that - well, that this is pretend. She's back in the orphanage as the official greeter, making an important announcement to all the other children. She's the governor of a small town, making sure that all the citizens are aware and prepared. It does have to be her, after all. She's playing a crucial role in everything. She also doesn't want anyone else to carry the emotional load.

"Hi," she tells everyone gathered, trying to paste on a somber but not-too-morose expression. "Thanks for coming. I'm sure some of you have heard part of this announcement already and I'm sorry that it took so long to pass this information onto everyone else... but there was an incident not too long ago. We're not sure what caused it, whether it was the house or whether it was an individual, but... Shen Yuan is dead." There's most likely a reaction at this point and Nina forges onwards as confidently as she can, pitching her voice above the hubbub.

"But there is a way that he can return. We're sure of it. We're just trying to figure out the details, which might take a while. If you want to know more about that, you can ask Magnus, but I'm not sure how much he can tell you. Also, if you encounter any signs of Shen Yuan's spirit, you can talk to--" Here she meets Aleksander's eyes almost instinctively; this line of conversation is something she's purposefully kept from him. "You can talk to myself. Or... to Lan Wangji. ...That's all. Thank you."

A confident start but slightly deflated by her last few sentences, Nina steps back and allows for conversation to happen. If anyone would like to speak to her, she's looking much less strained and grim than she has in a while.

[[Feel free to post a single comment reaction and/or start a thread with Nina in the comments!]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A ritual, Claudius thinks, like his own rituals and Galahad's, worth lingering on because it stays the same in a world of many variables. The ground still feels like it's shifting under Claudius, like he can't trust any of the skills or instincts that let him understand people and anticipate their actions. But with the familiarity of ritual, he can at least anticipate the next moment. He tidies up his own tools, his notebook, his pen, folds them both into hidden pockets.

With that same precision, Lan Wangji takes the spirit attraction flag and folds it up. Before he returns it to his qiankun pouch, he lingers with his fingertips to the black cloth. Wei Ying made this, and Lan Wangji forgot he had it at all. Once, for thirteen years, Wei Ying was dead. Lan Wangji kept everything. He kept every talisman, the flower thrown to him from a window in Yunmeng, the Cloud Recesses rules a laughing fifteen-year-old Wei Ying carelessly copied over and over under Lan Wangji's frustrated supervision.

When he looks to Claudius, there are too many things he wants to say. That he is rarely afraid, but he is now; that he could have done this alone, but he is grateful for Claudius' insight; that more than anything, he is grateful for Claudius' company. None of those words seem able to make their way out. "Claudius," he says, and then stops.

Claudius’s fingers instinctually flicker through the signs he’s made so many times, how are you feeling — he doesn’t expect Lan Wangji to read his hands, but perhaps his intent gaze will speak for him. “My friend,” he says, “how dost thou?”

Lan Wangji knows very little, relatively speaking, of the sign language Magnus began teaching him, but he knows enough. He knows Magnus' name, Claudius' and Galahad's, a handful of simple phrases, and some of the alphabet. He knows enough to feel the question twice over when Claudius points to him. He knows, arguably, the answer to this question, or at least an answer that skirts something much larger. It's only that he's trained himself to such perfect stillness, not even his hands want to speak, and certainly not his face.

"Overwhelmed." He says it instead of signing it, but he does say it.

"Thou hast learned much." Claudius glances down at his watch, the silver seconds ticking onward, the symbol of shared time -- then back at Lan Wangji's dark eyes. "And lost much."

He is not the only one who has lost memories, Lan Wangji should point out. Aornis wiped herself neatly from everyone here, as best as he can tell. He has endured worse. He told Magnus as much, before he knew the cause for all his lost time, and it was true. He has endured worse, and he survived it. Despite all of that, tension coils tighter and tighter, up from the base of his spine. "My mind," he says, with the sharpness that shapes his voice whenever he is battling fear as quickly as it arrives. "I thought--"

What did he think? That he was losing his mind, or at least losing control of all the ways in which he's painstakingly ordered and controlled himself across the years? Finally, he tucks the flag away, so that he can bury his face in his hands instead.

"Thy mind has been thy fortress." He lays his hand upon Lan Wangji's arm, a gentling touch. "Through thy travails, its walls preserved thee. Of all men, thou know'st thine own mind better than most any I've met."

If his mind is a fortress, he can hardly stand the thought of some unseen invader slipping away into the night with pieces of its walls and all the little treasures it guards. Before he can think better of it, he drops one hand to take Claudius', gripping it tightly.

"Here, brother," Claudius murmurs. If it were Galahad, he would hold him and stroke his hair. After a moment's thought, he brushes back a long strand, as though it were misplaced. (It wasn't. It never is.) "Here. I am with thee." He returns the tight clasp of Lan Wangji's hand, with all his little strength.

There must still be something of the child in him, kneeling in wait on a precipice of feeling, sure that if remains still and patient enough, he will be rewarded by an absence of pain. There is Claudius, though, tucking back a lock of his hair and holding onto his hand. It doesn't matter that his grip is weaker. It's steady. "I know," he says on the tail end of a slow breath.

"Good. When fortresses fail us, we turn to our allies." He may not be a military man, but he knows strategy. He knows how sieges can stretch on, even against the best-defended of walls. He knows a well-timed arrival of allied forces can be what turns the tide. "I am here to help thee guard the gate. I can hold it, while thou look'st to thy losses. Even soldiers have a right to mourn."

For a moment, Lan Wangji grips Claudius' hand tighter still -- only a moment, because he is always wary of hurting him and even warier of frightening him. He touches his fingertips to his forehead ribbon and its embroidered cloud, the most familiar shape he could imagine, and then he lets that hand drop, too, to fold around Claudius', one hand in both of his. "After several years, I could no longer recall Wei Ying's face. But I remembered him as he was. I was the only one." There is no reason Aornis might take any of that from him, but she could. She has the ability, and it is apparently impossible to stop her. She has already taken, he suspects, dozens of small moments between himself and his husband. Anything that might lead him back to her.

A thought occurs to Claudius, that he had once while watching the photograph develop on a Polaroid picture. They had nothing like that in his time. In his time, if someone passed away, you remembered them by a portraits painted, letters written, a lock of hair pressed in a locket. It isn't a surprise to him that Lan Wangji forgot Wei Wuxian's face ... but he realizes what a precious image that is. "Thou shouldst have gone through enough," he says, soft. "Every new memory was a memory to cherish. And thou hast carried that memory of Wei Wuxian so long, no matter how others tried to defame it."

It still cuts through him, the simple kindness of Claudius' understanding. Lan Wangji's brother was gentle with him when he was in seclusion, but tried again and again to encourage him to forget Wei Wuxian, to move on, what with the Yiling Patriarch's true nature exposed so wholly to the world. Lan Wangji didn't want to forget.

Overcome again, he shuts his eyes. It's a few still-slow breaths before he finds the next words. "He forgets so much. I remember for him." He remembers the ludicrously spicy dish Wei Ying liked best at the Hunan restaurant in Caiyi, so that they can order it again if they ever return. He remembers to warm Wei Ying's house slippers in time for his return when he has been out, because Wei Ying gets cold easily in his new body. He remembers Jin Ling's birthday. He remembers the cold terror in Wei Ying's eyes the last time they saw each other, even as the fine details of his face have scattered into the mist of a dream.

Ah. It’s not only losing memories of the man he loves that’s rattled Lan Wangji, Claudius realizes. It’s that remembering is one of the ways he loves. “Tell me,” he prompts, “something thou hast remembered for him.”

A thousand possible answers spread out before him. Lan Wangji kept everything, for as long as he could. He told Wei Ying how he loved him, how he had only ever wanted to care for him, and he is the only one who holds the memory of his own words. "In Yiling," he says at length, "we shared a meal." It was the only time he had an excuse to see Wei Ying during those years, before the beginning of the end. "He offered to pay. One of his talismans lit; he was needed at the Burial Mounds. He left, forgetting the food and the bill. I paid before I followed him."

It’s a darling story, and Claudius smiles at it. “Such generous intentions,” he says. “Thou wert the one to put intention to action, but at least he was able to express them. He and thou art truly yin and yang, in perfect balance with another.” Another strand of hair, it seems, needs to be brushed back, and Claudius lets his hand linger and frame Lan Wangji’s face.

The settling of Claudius' hand is so wholly unexpected and carries such easy tenderness with it that it freezes him in place for the first half of a breath. He can't remember the last time anyone but Wei Ying touched his face. It must have been A-Yuan a decade ago, when his hands were still improbably small and he wanted to touch and meddle with everything, or perhaps Lan Xichen's brisk adjustment of his forehead ribbon, a glancing touch at most. He thinks of Sagramore telling him it's not a kindness to refuse care, Claudius himself explaining oxytocin, and he lets his cheek lean into Claudius' palm on the exhale.

"Thou know'st this already, but I'll say it, anyway," Claudius says, as he pets Lan Wangji's cheek. Like a cat who's pressed against his hand. "Thy yin and yang work because they are in flux. Like a landscape of peaks and valleys, struck against the sky: where one rises, the other descends. Shouldst thou falter, thy partner will be there to inspire thee. Shouldst thy partner forget, thou wilt remember. We will protect what remains of thy memory, so that it may always be so, and thou wilt make many new ones with him."

Lan Wangji sits quietly as Claudius talks, his eyes still closed and Claudius' hand still caught between both of his. The words wash over him in concert with Claudius stroking his cheek. There is some fitting circularity to this. Claudius is comforting him by draping words over the structure of a concept Lan Wangji taught him. He thinks it may even be working. Wei Ying will tease him later, exclaiming how remarkable it is to have Lan Wangji finally be the forgetful half of their marriage. "I know," he says again. He doesn't say thank you, but when he opens his eyes, his gratitude is evident in them.

“Ay, as thou art a scholar and a gentleman.”

Unbidden, Claudius thinks of Lan Wangji truth-compelled, eyes shut against shame as he begun to speak of a kind, beautiful mother imprisoned, a mother who teased him, who knew when he bit it was from the strength of unspoken feelings. Lan Wangji has always felt things strongly beneath his silences, and Claudius has always admired it in him.

He wonders whether Lan Wangji’s mother fussed over him this way, in their stolen hours in her appointed prison-house, the way Gertrude fussed over Claudius before such innocent touches became forbidden. Whether sitting in the snow outside her soor, Lan Wangji longed for his mother to touch his hair, and tut that he’d better come in before he caught his death of cold.

“And shouldst thou need to bite anyone,” he softly teases, “Wei Wuxian will aid thee there, too, I’m sure.”

Lan Wangji doesn't quite smile, or laugh, either, but Claudius knows him so well now that he no longer wonders or worries whether the depths of his feelings will come across. His eyes soften and brighten; that's enough. I like to be around people who laugh and talk and tease me. That is something Claudius has remembered for him.

"He will have no choice," he says, after one more small sojourn in silence. The implied second half of that sentence, naturally, is nor would he want to.

Claudius laughs for them both — a bright, pealing laugh that says there’s still some joy in the world. “Good man,” he says, and he could mean either of them.

This little breath is not precisely a sigh, but it might qualify as the close cousin of one, Lan Wangji coming back to himself under Claudius' fond attention. He could almost wish for a second truth spell, so that he could say, I am so glad you were here with me and that I didn't have to face this alone. I could have, and I would have withstood it, but it means something that I didn't have to. Because he can't, he only presses Claudius' hand more firmly between his for a moment, the firm and gentle pressure of setting something beloved in its place.

Claudius understands something of the sentiment, nonetheless. He squeezes back, before releasing a sigh of his own. "Now I suppose the only question is how to responsibly spread this information. I'm disinclined to start a witch hunt for blonde women in hiding ... but for many, it will be a relief to know it's only one woman. The unknown is always more frightening than the known."

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