we_bring_hell | (no subject)

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Harrowhark is in the bar, wearing the style of facepaint known as the Vanitas, with no lower teeth and sharp angular edges. It's good to be back in her makeup, even if the consecration was a greater undertaking than anticipated.

Although she is formally painted from the neck up, she is wearing some of the more informal clothes her room had supplied; soft trousers and a hoodie all in black. She is not wearing gloves today, because her palms are wrapped in bandages, but it is the kind of wound she is used to dealing with and it is healing quickly. The pinpricks of pain around her lips are worse, if only because it's been a very long time since she underwent the ritual of the Sewn Tongue.

She is diagramming spirals on paper, working in ink rather than blood right now. She can't spare any blood currently. She has refreshments to share, if you like faintly cucumber-flavored water and very bland, crumbly biscuits.

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Wei Wuxian nods, studying her closely over his tea.

"I am glad the suppression held, and she still sleeps," he says. "But her accompanying you, and you seeing and hearing things others don't, makes me think a piece of her escaped. I know our necromancy is not the same. But if you were from my world, we would determine it a haunting and try to help."

A small, humorless twitch of a smile.

"Lan Zhan also told me you do not wish for help, though."

"I do not," she says, as calm and cold as she can make herself.

"Indeed, I will put it to you this way, Wei Wuxian--I will consider your exorcism when you go to Moiraine Sedai to cleanse the stain of Shadow on your soul."

In the little time he's been awake, Wei Wuxian has pondered what Lan Zhan told him. The Ninth is haunted, and knows it to be so; despite this, she has made no effort to seek help. She is not in distress.

(She is in love.)

Her declaration puts a hand into his guts and squeezes, hard enough to drive the air from him. He readjusts his grip on the mug. Nods.

"I understand," he says, low.

"Do you?" she says, as hard and cold as he's ever seen her. Harrowhark Nonagesimus's tongue has a cruel edge when she chooses to wield it; she has felt safe leaving it sheathed at Milliways, for the most part. "I hope so."

"I did not share this information--information no one outside of the Ninth knows, information no one knows in full, information which would sign the death warrant of me and my entire House in the hands of any other necromancer--I did not share it to ask for help. I do not need help; not with this."

"I shared it with Lan Wangji in the hope that he would see me for what I am and make his decisions in full comprehension. I would not have affection gained under false circumstances. Fool that I am, it would hurt my pride."

"It is unfortunate in the extreme that it seems to have only furthered his musunderstanding."

Edited 2020-09-17 18:16 (UTC)

He lets out another breath, a slow deflating. His face does not change: calm, serious, unaffected by the venom she spits.

"Lan Zhan and I were raised to be cultivators from a very young age," he says, just as calm. "Everything we learn affects how we react to ghosts, spirits, and the dead. Even me, who chose a different path. And Lan Zhan especially -- " He huffs a small laugh, and rueful as it is, it carries more fondness than he realizes. "He always wishes to solve every problem he encounters. Even when it is a problem not in need of solving. Or even a problem at all."

He shakes his head.

"I am sorry. For him, and for my own misinterpretation."

"He thinks I am like you," she says frostily. "And he thinks you can do no wrong. So he persists in seeing me as a victim; it is the only explanation he can reconcile with his precious Wei Ying."

"But I am not you. I am not a problem to be solved. I am not a victim. I will not be pitied, Wei Wuxian."

"He has told me what it would take to dry up his pity, and I have no desire to do it. But I will not be pitied, and I would rather be a monster than a victim."

And at that, at last, the lash strikes. Wei Wuxian's jaw sets.

It is the only explanation he can reconcile with his precious Wei Ying --

Levelly, he says, "There will not be any need for that, Ninth."

"Good."

Her black eyes do not meet his; they stare past and through the wall, into infinity. Her jaw trembles. "I see now I have made an error by speaking of these things at all."

"There is only one person I owe my confession, and they are not here."

His own flare of anger extinguishes like a lantern blown out. He looks down at his tea; takes a sip, somewhat mechanically, after a long, silent moment.

Somehow he is even more exhausted than before.

"Are we allies, Ninth?" he asks.

O corse of the Locked Tomb, the cold death to anyone who looks at me in pity
the heat death to anyone who looks at me in amusement
the quick death to anyone who looks at me in fear

"Yes," she says, deflating in turn. "For all of me."

Harrowhark's closest ally in Canaan House is Palamedes Sextus; she told him, the last time she saw him, that she was embarrassed for him for his lack of facility with bone magic.

Her eyes drop to his mug. "I am the bitch, Wei Wuxian. I have risen. I am shining. I am a heretic and a shadow cultist. I am two hundred dead children. I am pride and arrogance incarnate. I am Harrowhark Nonagesimus."

Softly: "And I am your friend, if you will have me. As I am."

He breaks into a smile. It does not lift all the exhaustion; still, it is solid, unwavering.

"As you are," he agrees. "I am honored to call you a friend."

He drinks more of his tea, then digs the heel of his palm into one eye and utters a tired laugh. "Aiya, Ninth, I feel as if you deserve a secret or three from me, but I have no good ones to give."

She doesn't believe that's true.

"Would you tell me how your sister died?" she asks in a quiet voice.

His hands, where they fidget at the mug, still completely.

You did offer, murmurs a quiet voice in his mind, and he does not want to admit how much its gentle, light amusement sounds like his shijie.

"She died the same day I did." No louder than the Ninth. "The same place. Nightless City. It -- " Swiftly, he looks up. "It is a very short end to a very long story. But I will tell as much of it as you wish to hear."

She turns up one of her hands; at some point she's tugged off her gloves. It's a nervous tic.

"It might help to understand." Understand him; understand Lan Wangji; understand the undercurrents and shadows that fall over them.

Wei Wuxian nods. He casts his gaze down to the mug, with its obscenity cheerfully nestled among the bright glaze of the ceramic.

He will tell it as if relaying long-forgotten history. He will shore himself up as he should have done by the inlet.

"Until recently, there were five great cultivation sects, not merely four," he says. "Qishan Wen was the fifth. They took pleasure in their cruelty; they wanted only power, as much of it as they could gather to themselves. And they were very powerful by the end. We were able to subdue them and destroy their sect leaders, but it took enormous effort from all of the remaining clans.

"The problem was that in Qishan Wen's expansion, they forced many to follow them whom they treated just as cruelly, who were innocent of any crime. Lanling Jin -- they rose to prominence after Qishan Wen fell -- they dedicated themselves to hunting down every remnant of the Wen clan they could find. Even the elderly. Even children. I stopped some of Lanling Jin's cruelty and managed to rescue a small group of Wen remnants. Fifty in all, perhaps."

He smiles again, and it is small, and terribly sad. "We made a home elsewhere. For a time, we were happy.

"And then I was invited to my nephew's one-month celebration. Shijie's son."

She nods slowly. "So these sects... they're not just warriors and adepts like you? You have civilian populations?"

"Yes. There are servants; there are family members who may not be cultivators themselves, for whatever reason, but must be honored by their children. Qishan Wen was as large as a city."

He draws his thumb along the rim of the cup.

"Jiang Yanli, my shijie, she had married into Lanling Jin. Already they did not like me much for my crafty tricks, but when I became the Yiling Patriarch, the head of this new clan made of what they believed to be vermin, they liked me even less. A group of them intercepted me on the way to see my nephew, believing I had cursed one of them -- I defended myself with a fierce corpse, and -- "

Easier to think of Wen Ning as simply a fierce corpse. Easier, easier.

(His voice has begun to tremble.)

"I lost control of him. I don't know how. He killed my sister's husband, Jin Zixuan -- the other one you saw in the inlet, all in gold. He killed so many others. I was able to subdue him and flee, but it was too late." He wraps his hands more tightly around the mug to keep them from shaking. "Instead of letting me defend them, the Wen remnants... one of them paralyzed me, so I would not interfere, and they gave themselves up to Lanling Jin. It was too late."

He draws a shaking breath.

"They strung them up over the gates of Nightless City. I will be truthful with you, Ninth: I do not remember very much after I arrived at the gates and saw their bodies. But I do remember one thing." He raises his eyes to her, and they are bright with tears, hollow with the embers of rage and terrible pain. "I thought, If all of you think me a monster, then I will show you a monster."

She nods slowly; her black eyes are shining, blacker than the pits of hell.

"Of course," she whispers. "Of course you had to. What else could they expect?"

Wei Wuxian has seen in her a kindred spirit; another necromancer, from a world of necromancers. But of course the truth is that she is a heretic and an outsider within the Empire. She has always feared seeing the colors of the Third or the Fifth flying above the Ninth's black; how would she react if instead they hung the bodies of her gentle ancient anchorites and devoted sisters? If they had flown Marshal Crux like a flag from the top of Drearburh?

Another myriad later and they would still be telling the story of the vengeance of the black nun.

She finds his eyes. "Tell me you killed them all."

Edited 2020-09-18 01:54 (UTC)

A rush of emotion courses through his chest, hot and searing. It whispers with the voices of the Burial Mounds: not the home it had become, but the dark, vengeful energy that nearly choked him alive. It is the rage that made him upend his work table and scream until he coughed blood his first week at the inn. It is the pit of the Ninth's eyes, welcoming him to step from a cliff and fall forever.

"Yes." Hoarse. "As many as I could. I would kill them all again, and again, if I were taken back to those gates, and it would still not be enough."

He tried to spare Yunmeng Jiang, of course. Even in the throes of his grief and madness, he would not raise a hand against his brother and the rest of his former sect. But.

"But somehow my shijie found her way there as well."

She winces.

"Cruel," she says simply. "Oh... very cruel."

How God takes... and takes... and takes.

He draws the side of his hand across his eyes. It trembles even worse now.

"I don't know how it happened. She was struck down, and I remember her laying in my brother's arms -- I tried to talk to her, but someone, someone came up behind me and she pushed me aside to take the sword they'd aimed for my back. She died to save me."

Wei Wuxian croaks a mirthless laugh.

"And I threw away her gift. I stepped from a cliff to end my life. Lan Zhan tried to catch me, but..." He gestures, helplessly. "As you see, that did not work."

"I know how it feels," she says slowly, "to feel that you cost too much to die."

"But to walk away when you cannot win... when you are trapped in box... it is not suicide, it is murder. They killed you. They killed your sister. They killed your people."

"And you killed as many of them as you could. I see nothing in that to regret." She slides out of her chair, and into a kneel.

"I regret how I spoke to you before. We are alike. Nine is for the Tomb, and all that was lost. And we have lost so much. I do not pity you, Wei Wuxian. But I recognize you. I recognize the Ninth."

We do bones, motherfucker.

It is one thing to glimpse your reflection at its most beautiful: honor, goodness, strength, every ideal you wish to live up to. When you reach a hand to it, you hope you are worthy enough that it will deign to reach back.

But to stand before a mirror with bloodied hands as hatred burns hot in your gut, and to see your reflection stretch out its own red hand in reassurance as if to say, Yes, I see you too --

He's still shaking. The mug will spill if he doesn't set it down. Wei Wuxian does, as gingerly as if the tea inside were still boiling hot -- and then buries his face in his hands, choking down as many of the tears as he can before they turn into something far worse.

She has no idea what to do.

When she was like this--when she was like this, her parents left the room.
When she was like this--Crux sent the servants away and locked the doors.
When she was like this--she hid in the laboratory so no one would see, least of all, Gideon.
When she was like this--Lan Wangji played music.

Music.

She rises from her kneel and moves to her music machine, shuffling through discs with her thin, trembling hands. None of the music that has scoured her soul and shown her herself will help him. No tragedies.

Where is it? Where--

Here.

She sinks down to the ground, only the close-shorn top of her head visible over the bed, knees pulled up, and puts her hands over her face.

Edited 2020-09-18 23:29 (UTC)

He does not sob messily, as he has when Lan Zhan has pulled him free of a nightmare; it is just a near-silent, unceasing running of tears like a stream trickling through the woods. He is grateful for that much. Easy crier though he may be, with emotions so large that they never seem to fit fully into his chest, he would like to maintain at least some dignity in front of the Ninth.

She doesn't say anything. He's afraid to raise his head.

And then the drums start, and he does.

The singer's voice is -- not unlovely, but unadorned. Plain. The rhythms sound much like the song the Ninth sang to him once, and there is a roughness to the music he is unaccustomed to hearing. Just as the inn imparts understanding for languages he does not speak, so it translates the recording's lyrics, as plainspoken and unadorned as the one who sings it.

It gets all right
To dream at night
Believe in solid skies and slate blue earth below
But when you see him
You'll know

Enough hair has escaped from his ponytail to half obscure his face as he looks away, tears still leaking silently down his face.