#and can I just mention how it is like a ritual now TO HEAR YI AND RONIN ARGUING AROUND EVERY MORNING?! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

qobiin · 4 years

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fluffy, soft junior quartet 👉👈

we will never lose our way

pairing: platonic junior quartet, very background wangxian

genre: fluff | post-canon compliant

warnings: mentioned yi city, implied violence

a/n #1: despite the angst of the scene this gif is from, there is no angst to be found here! this is just soft, platonic cuddle puddles galore so thank you for giving me an excuse to write that! title is taken from seventeen’s “together” bc that is junior quartet’s theme song to a T, are you joking kaljdskljf pls give it a listen and look up the lyrics if need be and you’ll understand what i mean <3

words: 1200

summary: ...Lan Sizhui is certain his friends are worth every bit of trouble and inconvenience they bring.

“So,” Lan Jingyi says as they are walking through the trees in the middle of the night. “How long do you think it took Hanguang-Jun and Senior Wei to get together exactly?”

Lan Sizhui takes his eyes off the surrounding woods to silently peer at his friend. Lan Jingyi only raises a brow in question, determination set in his shoulders as they come to a stop.

“Is this really the time for that?” Lan Sizhui finally manages to say.

Lan Jingyi shrugs, mouth already opening to respond when Ouyang Zizhen cuts in. “For the sake of proving true love is real to Jin Ling, please answer the question.”

“Can we please focus on the ghost we were sent out to find?” Lan Sizhui asks at the same time that Jin Ling exclaims, “True love? Don’t make me laugh!”

Lan Sizhui sighs and mentally prepares himself for the argument to come. He is certain they won’t be getting much done tonight now that this topic of conversation has begun. Lan Sizhui would respectfully like to be omitted from this, but considering how stubborn all three of his closest friends are about Hanguang-Jun’s and Senior Wei’s marriage, he finds that a lack of involvement from him will be unlikely. His friends will inevitably say or do something that Lan Sizhui will have to smooth over before a genuine fight breaks out amongst them.

He loves his friends, but sometimes, they can be a little too much for him.

“Hanguang-Jun and Senior Wei are the embodiment of true love,” Ouyang Zizhen sighs dreamily.

Jin Ling shoves his arm, ignoring Ouyang Zizhen’s pout and Lan Jingyi’s protests. “True love is not a thing! Get your head out of those trashy romances you love to read and into the real world!”

Lan Sizhui winces at his friends’ volume. “We are in the middle of a night hunt. Can this not wait?”

He almost laughs when Jin Ling, Lan Jingyi, and Ouyang Zizhen all exchange glances with one another before turning to face him, simultaneously answering, “No.”

He is not laughing when in the next moment, the ghost they have been searching for appears and leads them straight into the jaws of a beast. Lan Sizhui is only faintly relieved that his friends are able to forget whatever differences they had when confronted with danger.

Much later, after they have fought off the beast and put the ghost to rest, Lan Sizhui finds himself sprawled across the floor of the room Jin Ling and Ouyang Zizhen are sharing in the town’s only inn.

Lan Jingyi’s legs are tangled with his own, Jin Ling curled up in the small space between them while Ouyang Zizhen lies with his head pillowed on Lan Sizhui’s chest. He finds himself playing with the ends of Ouyang Zizhen’s hair absentmindedly, his other arm being used as a pillow by Jin Ling and Lan Jingyi. They had all separated to shower and dress in their sleeping robes, their hair down or braided for the night. Lan Sizhui’s hair is still mostly damp and will be tangled when they finally get up from the floor, but for now, no one is inclined to move.

Being able to feel three other beating hearts and hearing their breaths all around him soothes Lan Sizhui. The first time they did this was after Yi City, after Hanguang-Jun had marched past them up the stairs with a tray of alcohol, and after he reappeared with a blustering Senior Wei trudging along behind him. Lan Sizhui had followed Lan Jingyi to Ouyang Zizhen’s room afterward, still trying to burn the image of Senior Wei’s hands tied up with Hanguang-Jun’s forehead ribbon out of his head. He had been surprised to find Jin Ling there, but the haunted look on his young face was enough to keep even Lan Jingyi from teasing him for long.

Just not long enough.

It had felt like no time had passed at all before Lan Sizhui found himself in between Jin Ling’s and Lan Jingyi’s newest argument, except this one somehow ended with them sprawled across the floor. Jin Ling claims he had been aiming for Lan Jingyi but he had caught Lan Sizhui instead and they all tumbled when Ouyang Zizhen tripped in his haste to separate them.

Lan Sizhui was the first to laugh as he stared up at the ceiling from the floor, Jin Ling plastered to his right and Lan Jingyi struggling to untangle their legs so he could sit up and hit Jin Ling in retaliation. Ouyang Zizhen began to giggle and settled himself more comfortably on Lan Sizhui’s left, hiding his face in Lan Sizhui’s hair when Jin Ling’s complaining became louder.

Eventually, Lan Jingyi and Jin Ling had also laughed at the hilarity of the situation and they had laid out on that floor, giggling to themselves until their exhaustion caught up to them.

Jin Ling’s face was bright red when he had sat up and darted out of the room quickly, not sparing any of them a word but they all knew. The simple reassurance of other people living and breathing in their space was enough to settle them after the grim day they had just experienced. There would be no teasing each other for this.

None of them had quite expected it to become a tradition since they had never run into each other for night hunts as often as they did now, but it had. Now it is a sacred, unspoken ritual they do not mention in the light of day. Regardless of whether they acknowledge it or not, they all find comfort in each other.

This intimacy between friends is not something Lan Sizhui had ever envisioned for himself. He had counted himself lucky to have a friend like Lan Jingyi at all while he was growing up. He was Hanguang-Jun’s ward and favored disciple, the unofficial Lan Sect Heir. Not many children had the confidence to approach him and treat him as normally as Lan Jingyi had. Lan Sizhui had been certain at one point that if he could only call Lan Jingyi his friend, then his life would be full.

He is grateful he realized how dim and dull his life would be if he did not know Jin Ling and Ouyang Zizhen as well as he does in the present time though. Having friends he can be himself with is the greatest source of joy in Lan Sizhui’s life. He is not anything except a friend when he is with them.

“So,” Lan Jingyi breaks their comfortable silence with, his voice thick with amusement. “You never answered me, but do you know how long it took your parents to get together?”

Lan Sizhui sighs as Jin Ling and Ouyang Zizhen play right into Lan Jingyi’s clutches. Jing Ling is loud and stubborn while Ouyang Zizhen is softer in his approach, awe shadowing every word he speaks. Lan Jingyi only interjects to keep the argument going. None of them drag Lan Sizhui into the conversation at least.

Even despite this exhausting and recurring argument, Lan Sizhui is certain his friends are worth every bit of trouble and inconvenience they bring.

a/n #2: thanks for reading! i have more mdzs content in the works rn, but in the meantime, feel free to send requests or headcanons to my inbox bc i will probably welcome them all owo

#junior quartet #the juniors #lan sizhui #lan jingyi #jin ling #ouyang zizhen #mdzs #cql #the untamed #oneshot #f:mdzs #g:fluff #t:oneshot #p:ot4 #p:jin ling&lan jingyi&lan sizhui&ouyang zizhen #m: fic

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spillthetaesissy · 4 years

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Daechwita

pairing ➳ yoongi x oc!yi min

synopsis ➳ a crazed prince and a determined rebel with an enriched past. When fates collide and they are brought face to face again, who will come out on top?

genre ➳ historical!au/fantasy!au, angst(?), fluff(? I don’t really know? I feel like angst but fluff if you squint???)

warnings ➳ mentions of imprisonment, mentions of death/execution (no depiction), mention of torture/mistreatment, minor physical violence

word count ➳ 1.3k

other ➳ 05/23/2020 - 05/26/2020 // unedited

a/n ➳ inspired by the tags in this here post by @btssavedmylifeblr. Not exactly what you asked for and also not smut, but I read those tags and I just had to. Maybe I’ll make a smut-y pt. 2? I’m thinking prequel, but who knows. Also, original title - I know.

⬘⬙⬘⬙⬘⬙⬘⬙⬘⬙⬘⬙

He could hear his prosecutor before he could feel him, the royal executioner’s feet laid heavy upon the gravel of the pit Yoongi was waiting in. With a scratchy blindfold wrapped tightly over his eyes, Yoongi was left without sight, and as a rough, unforgiving hand is clapped on his shoulder, he is forced to trust in the direction in which he is being pushed. Though, he knows, ultimately, his destination is death. Perhaps this was one rebellious act too many, and the defamed prince was ready to collect on his promise of death by his blade.

It is a long, stumbling journey to his doom. Futilely, he pulls on the ropes that bind his arms, but to no avail. Even if he had managed to escape that obstacle, Yoongi was unsure if he still remembered how to escape this hellish palace. It had been far too long since he had been here last, and with his vision robbed, there was no feasible way to retrace his steps. Before he even had the chance to further contemplate his escape, his guide came to a halt and brought Yoongi to his knees, which he easily obliged to with no other option in sight.

There is a brief silence as Min takes in the sight - one of his favorites. To have people on their knees for him, awaiting his next command...it gave the unruly prince a deep sense of satisfaction. It was why he kept his little collection of followers outside of the throne room at most hours of the day. They were well trained pets, staying motionless for hours on end, until he felt satisfied with their worship. Sometimes, he kept them out there for days, unmoving and on the brink of starvation, but they were ever so obedient - no matter what little tortures he put them through. Even now, they knelt before him, ready to bear witness to another’s downfall. However, no amount of willing subjects quite topped the sight of one rebellious Min Yoongi ripped of his head-strong attitude and lying patiently in wait along with the onlookers - just for him.

With a deep, fulfilling inhale, the prince marches out onto the landing of his little palace. “Min Yoongi,” the prince greets, a twisted smile upon his lips, “it has been far too long.”

“Yi Min,” Yoongi greets back, his tone mocking. The prince’s smile grew - he loved it when Yoongi was so devilishly informal with him. “Not long enough.”

A puff of air leaves the blonde haired man’s lips, just short of a chuckle. Ignoring the comment, he moves on with the purpose of their gathering. “That was quite the little stunt you pulled.”

Yoongi smirks, and if not for the blindfold, he would have looked the smug prince dead in the eye while doing so. “Impressed?”

“Hmm…” Min hums, feigning thought. “More like shocked. You have been in hiding for quite some time now.” He pauses - if only for dramatic effect - as he watches his prisoner shuffle on the stone walkway. “Must have been someone rather important for you to make an appearance.”

Despite no one being able to see the small rebellious act, Yoongi rolls of his eyes. “You say that like one life is more important than another.”

Min lets out a hearty, genuine laugh at the thought, eyes crinkled at the sides and gums on full display. He can feel the stretch of the taunt skin of his scar at the wide pull of his cheeks. It was uncomfortable, but the amusement was well worth the pull. “Oh, Yoongi, that is a cute sentiment, however, you know as well as I do that some lives are more valuable than others. Take me, for example: I am one of the most important people in the world.”

“You’re just a self-important ass.” Yoongi spits out the insult, though it is only met with a disapproving click of a tongue.

“You know,” the prince begins again, swiftly moving past yet another thrown jab in an attempt to calm his rising anger, “it is ironic, for someone who dislikes me so much, that we share a name.”

It is Yoongi’s turn to chuckle, his head thrown back with a subtle shake of his head. “Come to that conclusion all on your own?”

Min’s jaw ticks as his teeth clamp together. He had forgotten how annoying Yoongi could be. As his anger begins to boil to the top, Min is about to declare the sentence they all gathered there for, but Yoongi interrupts his unspoken words before they are even able to leave his lips.

“That isn’t all we share.” Yoongi states with another smirk, his head cocking ever so slightly to the right as if to gesture to their matching scars.

The prince scoffs, quickly catching on to his meaning and whipping his head to the right to hide the crude mark from the blinded onlooker. “The scar that you gave me has banned me from rule.”

Yoongi shrugs, unsympathetic. “Good. You would’ve been a terrible ruler.”

Min’s right eye twitches. He brings his blazing hot gaze back to Yoongi, hands coming to grip the railing in front of him, knuckles quickly turning white with the force at which he holds it. “And it was foolish words like that that bought you a matching one.”

A dry, almost pained laugh escapes Yoongi. “We both know that isn’t true.”

With a tight purse of his lips, Min releases a long exhale, letting go of the railing and standing tall on the platform. “Enough reminiscing on the past, let us get back to the point at hand.” When no snide rebuttal comes from Yoongi, the prince continues. “I have saved a special box just for you, and I think it is past time that you filled it.”

“Heh...that’s it, then?” Yoongi’s question is followed by an eerie silence. One that seems to drag on for a long moment when it was really mere seconds - Min taking in their last moment together. Then, with a snap of his fingers, death steadily approaches.

Despite not being able to see, Yoongi knew exactly what that command was for, and not long after the snap, he could hear the executioner's sure movements. Min had always liked a good show, and the dance of death the man before him was performing was one Yoongi himself had seen countless times before. The ritual used to be about honor - giving the damned a ceremonious goodbye - but Min had turned it into a sick performance for his own gratification. Before then was a time when Yoongi never dreamed he would ever be on the receiving end of it.

Yoongi knew the dance well - it’s pacing was deeply ingrained in his head alongside every move and swish of the blade. That was why he knew, as he leaned over the ground - baring his neck and accepting his unjust death - sucking in a deep gulp of air, that it would be his last breath.

Except, just beyond his reach, the executioner paused in his final step, the sword in his hands raised high in the air above Yoongi's head. The man looks to the prince for the final command, and with the raise of a dainty hand, the executioner nods.

The blow comes hard and strong, but it is not the one Yoongi had expected. Rather than the meeting of flesh and blade, the hilt of the sword comes down on the back of his head, rendering him unconscious as he slumps onto the ground, face pressed to the tiles.

Min knew he shouldn't have just cancelled the execution order, but he just couldn't bring himself to really go through with losing Yoongi. He also knew that if the situation was reversed, and if Yoongi had a chance to kill him, he would not have even hesitated. Though, Min couldn't bring himself to care.

Death was one of the only constants in Min’s life, and he had sentenced it upon many unsuspecting subjects without a second thought. However, Yoongi, too, was a constant for Min, and in that moment, life seemed more precious.

#yoongi x oc #yoongi drabble #daechwita #daechwita drabble

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imaginaryelle · 4 years

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Chapter 3: Memento, Mori ~2.5k Rating: Teen (may change in later segments) Warnings: temporary character death, blood, injury, suicide mention, imprisonment, violence, minor character death, mild gore Tags: MDZS, Wangxian, Role Reversal AU, Soulmates AU, Canon Divergence, Very AU okay, I’m warning you, soulmates + WWX living changes things. Note: This chapter was written for the @wangxianweek 2020 day three prompts "mementos" and "rebirth." Many thanks to @miyuki4s and @morphia-writes for awesome brainstorming and feedback! Summary: The clan elders made sure Lan Wangji would not be present for the siege of the Mass Graves, but even the discipline whip can’t cut a soul bond, and pain can’t dim Lan Wangji’s determination, even if his efforts consume him.

Wei Wuxian lives. The siege fails.

Thirteen years later, Lan Wangji wakes in a body that is not his own.

on tumblr: part one | part two

Dawn seeps into his awareness with slow light painted over his eyelids and the bright notes of birdsong outside. For a moment Lan Wangji can’t remember where he is—not the Jingshi—but the smell of rotting blood soon brings his surroundings back to mind.

Physically, the cell looks no better in daylight. When he again extends his senses he finds no change; no new beings have joined him in this prison under the shroud of night.

The body he found himself occupying is still weaker than he is used to, still hungry and thirsty, but he feels steadier for the sleep. All but one of the wounds on his arms have scabbed over, and that one remaining sends a shock through his fingertips when he touches it.

A curse, most likely. Perhaps related to the ritual that called him here.

It’s worrying, but not his most pressing problem; if he doesn’t find a source of water soon, he will lose what mental clarity he still retains. The demands of this body, so much less disciplined than his own, batter at his mind. The itch of blood and sweat on his skin is ever-present, but the single set of yi and trousers he wears is not cleaner than anything else in the room; even the sash is bloodstained. He resumes his meditations, sinking deeper than the night before.

His spiritual power is still reduced, but not quite so low; meditation does seem to help it coalesce into a more workable form as well.

So. He has a small amount of spiritual power, the clothes on his back, a forehead ribbon, a very weak spirit lure and a sharp shard of porcelain. He is barred from escape by a door which opens outwards, a lock, and a seal.

He takes a moment to tie the ribbon in place for whatever comfort that can offer and examines the door again, probing the seal cautiously. Perhaps he can negate it, or overpower it. It will be tricky without the ability to see or physically touch the talisman itself, but it’s theoretically possible. Alternatively, he could write a new talisman, in blood on torn cloth.

Of the two, attempting to remove the seal is more appealing; the spirit lure does not inspire confidence in future talisman creation attempts. He’s determining the exact positioning of the seal talisman when voices suddenly cut through the small morning noises of birds and wind over leaves, apparently partway through a conversation.

“—said only you should take the food,” says one voice.

“Is he here, that you need to quote him so faithfully?” asks another, the tone strident and irritated. “Was he cleaning up pieces of teacup yesterday because his ‘guest’ threw a fit?”

That explains the shard still in the room. Lan Wangji listens with more than his ears to confirm—there are two new presences inside the bright circling of space he can sense, but only two. In less promising developments, the abruptness of their presence implies that that circle is indeed restrained by a ward, and anything could be on its other side.

Outside the cell door, the conversation continues, the voices growing louder as they draw closer.

“I think you can handle one weakened, failed cultivator. He doesn’t even have a golden core,” says the first voice, still reluctant.

“I don’t care what he has,” voice two insists. “I want him incapacitated when that door opens.”

There are footsteps now, careless and too-heavy on raised wooden floorboards. One pair, the one lagging behind, favors the right side. Perhaps an injury, or something carried on that side. This close, Lan Wangji can also hear a soft rattle of wood against wood, perhaps the mentioned food. He moves to the side from which the door will open and considers his options. He has no chance against a spiritual weapon of any caliber, but if he moves quickly enough—

“If we use the talisman too much it could kill him,” says voice one.

“So then we say he killed himself,” says voice two, very close now. There is the scrape of a bar being removed. “We can’t be blamed if he’s dead when we open the door, right? He’s been locked in a room on his own.”

Two assailants who barely care whether he lives or dies. Who are willing to kill him, so long as such an act does not draw the ire of a superior. Lan Wangji holds his shard of porcelain carefully in his right hand, nearest the door, and raises his left hand to his face, two fingers pointing to Heaven. He may, just, have the spiritual strength to shield from a talisman, depending on the skill of both maker and caster.

He doesn’t have time to make another plan; iron turns against iron, and the seal dissipates. The door is opening.

“Ugh, that stink,” says the bearer of voice two as Lan Wangji begins to move. “Look at the blood—”

Lan Wangji clears the doorway and slashes a clean line across the speaker’s throat. A talisman flies toward his face but he catches it against his fist and—stumbles back, blood filling his throat and streaming from his nose. He staggers and coughs, fighting to breathe, to see.

The first of his targets is slumped on the floor. The second is reaching for his sword. Lan Wangji rushes him, aiming for that heavier right side and slamming him into the wall. He struggles again with the shard in his fist until the blood that coats his hand is not only his own and this assailant, too, falls.

For a moment Lan Wangji only stands in a sun-warmed hallway and shakes, and breathes.

Blood drips down his chin; he wipes it away with his sleeve. Once again, his spiritual power is a guttering vagueness near his center. His right hand stings, fingers and palm both lacerated, but he cannot let go of the shard until he is certain. He drops to his knees to check for breath, but the second man is well and truly dead, his eyes open but unseeing and his throat a ragged mess. The first man is also still and lifeless.

The outer ward is still in place. No new presence has arrived.

He has a few moments, at least. Perhaps longer. He tucks the shard into his sash with fingers that tremble no matter how he tries to control them, and examines his situation once more.

The door is open, and this hallway, at least, appears unguarded. His assailants wear outer robes of rough, dark blue linen that he doesn’t recognize as belonging to a known Sect, but their inner robes are finer, pale cotton and silk with delicate stitching, so the outer garments are likely a deception rather than daily wear. They each bear spiritual swords that will do Lan Wangji no good at this body’s current level, and the second one also carried a pipa, the neck and frets of which snapped in the struggle. The weapons carry gold detailing, but no peony. Nothing that points definitively to Jin Guangyao or the Jin Sect, or any Sect he knows. Nor does the iron key for the door’s lock bear any identifying stamp.

His hands are still shaking.

The tray of food was upset in the struggle, but some small amount of rice still remains in the dish and a wax-sealed gourd proves to hold water. He drinks half of it, then tears a strip from the cleanest of the dead mens’ sashes, wets it, and wipes carefully at his face and wounds. Aside from the curse mark, the cuts in his right hand are now the most worrying, one lancing long and deep at an angle across his palm. He wraps it carefully, tightening the knot with his teeth when all other attempts fail. Even careful rinsing cannot wash the taste of blood from his tongue.

He needs to keep moving. This progress is only progress so long as he can hold onto it. If there is a way to delay pursuit, he must take it.

He drags both men into the cell and removes their outer robes and sashes. Stained and rough as they are, they will still provide a moment’s doubt to his identity, and he will not surrender to the shame of approaching another being in only his blood-soaked underlayers if he can avoid it.

He’s going to have to approach someone, eventually.

He knows who he wants it to be.

Later, he can think about that later. He eats the rice and cleans up as much of the spill of food and blood as he can. Then he moves the dishes and the men’s weapons into the cell as well.

The array is too obvious a clue to leave it undamaged—even if he cannot decipher it, that doesn’t mean whoever arranged this prison will not recognize it.

He starts at the edges, breaking the circle carefully in case of residual backlash. The blood is dried and flaking, and he uses another torn rag to smudge it into more of a smear than any sort of defined, focused shape. Then he positions one of the dead men over the space, face down to perhaps prevent questions about additional blood, and moves the other out of sight from the door. In their sleeves he finds a jade pendant that tingles against his fingers, a sachet of medicinal herbs, a sachet of chrysanthemum tea, five talismans and a qiankun pouch holding another gourd of water, a comb, and a pair of leaf-wrapped zongzi.

Just the smell of the zongzi makes his mouth water, but escape is more pressing. He puts everything but the water gourds and the pendant in the pouch, along with three of the pipa’s four silk strings and the polished wooden rice bowl. The remaining string he tucks beside the porcelain shard.

Neither of his assailants’ boots fit well, but they will serve far better than bare feet. He wraps one sash around his left arm, covering the curse mark, layers one outer robe over the other despite the gore that coats their collars and promises himself he will wash as soon as an opportunity presents itself.

He leaves the cell, closes the door, and locks and bars it.

He can sense no new presence inside the ward. There are other rooms along the hall, and an opening onto a courtyard beyond it.

None of the other rooms are cells, or locked. Most are empty of all but the faint smell of dust. One holds a small writing desk with a brush, ink stick and stone, paper, and a sheaf of notes he can’t read. He wraps the brush and ink stick carefully and folds all of it into the qiankun pouch. He does it again with the mobile contents of the next room: paper twists of tea, a small cloth bag of rice, a small earthenware bowl and two small bottles—one of soy sauce, one of vinegar. A horsetail whisk he tucks into his sash; this one was clearly designed for shooing insects rather than combat, but better than the makeshift weapons he’s accumulated so far.

The ward burns against his awareness as he nears the courtyard, and he stops in the shadow of the hall to watch that brightly sunlit space carefully.

Birds flit across the space. Insects buzz. Between two buildings he can see trees swaying gently in the light summer breeze, a promise of shadowed shelter beyond this place.

It would be easy to stop here. To meditate until he no longer feels as though his muscles will betray him at any moment.

The longer he stays still, the more likely someone is to come investigate why his assailants haven’t returned.

He closes his eyes and allows himself ten slow, steadying breaths. The ward hums at him. The jade pendant in his sleeve vibrates in response. Like the wards of Cloud Recesses, and the jade pass token he wore for nearly half his life.

If he’s wrong, the ward could rebound on him, and in his present state that would likely knock him unconscious. But this ward is a much stronger, more permanent working than the array he woke to, or any of the talismans he’s encountered thus far. If he’s wrong, he has no way to move outside it anyway. If he’s right …

He steps into the courtyard and walks to the very edge of the carved stone that marks the boundary. Nothing impedes his hand, reaching in front of him. Neither ward nor token shift in resonance.

He steps over the ward.

It hums merrily behind him.

He runs for the trees and doesn’t stop until he hears moving water. It’s only a small stream, but it’s enough to clean himself, and his clothing, and he removes only his boots and the contents of his sash and sleeves before he wades in eagerly. The water is cold, but not nearly as cold as Gusu’s Cold Spring, and the sun is warm on his back as he soaks, and scrubs, and then lays all but the inner trousers out to dry as he re-binds his wounds and combs his hair.

It’s only when he catches sight of his reflected face that he remembers: this body is not his body, for all that he is bound to it, and feels its pain and hunger and weariness.

He examines the face more closely and finds it familiar, but only vaguely so. A face he has not seen in many years, and rarely before, but one that did live within the walls of Cloud Recesses in his memory. A disciple who left the Sect for—family reasons, he thinks. After the Sunshot war. His brother had been disappointed about it. Lan Wangji cannot remember the man’s name. He must have kept the forehead ribbon as a memento.

It’s disconcerting, that this man, this cultivator, knew Lan Wangji’s name well enough to summon him from death but left no strong impression on him during life.

He shakes the thought away and finishes combing and tying up his hair, and then busies himself refilling the water gourds. He trickles a pinch of the chrysanthemum tea into one and sets in the sun to brew. Then he eats one of the sticky, red-bean-stuffed zongzi, and turns his mind to the question of where to go next.

It occurs to him that he may be able to reach his spiritual senses further now, outside the prison’s ward, and so when he has finished his paltry meal he meditates, sinking as deeply as he can. His range is still not as far as he’s accustomed to, but the flow of energy is much clearer. To the north he can feel a collection of power, a static array, strong but far off. To the south another, further away and indistinct.

South, the small tug he associates with the soul bond informs him, and the relief he feels that that connection remains threatens to overwhelm the sensation itself. He should go south.

South, to Wei Ying.

on to part four

#wangxian #lan wangji #wangxianweek2020 #mo dao zu shi #mdzs fic #cw: suicide #cw: blood #cw: imprisonment #cw: violence #cw: character death #cw: mild gore #alex writes

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