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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He shakes his head.

"I think only time will fix it." He wipes away more tears. "It has not been very long for me, since it happened. Little more than a month. I do not think I have stopped bleeding since. You have not torn anything open, Ninth -- simply noticed the wound."

And normally, Wei Wuxian is very, very good at hiding his wounds.

She rises a little more fully above the parapet. "I am sorry if my... I did not intend to cause you pain by saying what I did."

"I realize that the comparison is not... kind." She might not want to be compared to herself either. Not in this particular way.

"What?" he asks blankly. "No, I..."

She thinks that is why he's upset? When he has looked into that mirror, and been comforted by the sight of a bloodied hand reaching back? When he knows he is not alone?

He can't help it -- he laughs, a little, the sound faint and tremulous. After scrubbing his eyes yet again, he says, "I gave you a secret after all. Not even Lan Zhan knows how often I am so angry, and how much I wish I were alive to hunt all of them down to the last. For him it has not been a month -- it has been three years. He has suffered at the hands of his family for trying to save my life. And he will never know how, when I think of what they've done to him, I so often think of breaking his uncle's neck."

He smiles. It is just as faint as the laughter, and far more rueful.

"Perhaps the resentful energy has harmed my temperament after all. But it is good to know I am not alone. That I am recognized."

She nods slowly. "That all seems natural to me. If your temperament is damaged--so is mine. So is all of ours."

It's not impossible.

"I told Lan Wangji that... that even monsters can love and be loved. And I told him that it frightens me. It frightens me because... it gives me hope that there is a way back. And hope is the most terrifying thing in the universe."

Before, he may have pressed gently, saying the monsters were her parents, that she needs to come back from nothing. Not now. Never again.

I will not be pitied, and I would rather be a monster than a victim.

"It leaves room for the hope to be crushed," he agrees quietly. "It is -- it is a kind of trust. Like placing your bare arm under a sword even though its wielder might cut your hand off at any moment. And why should you ever trust that they won't?"

He sighs, long and low.

"I keep my hopes smaller now. That lotuses will grow if I plant them. That I will crack my latest talisman, complex as it is. It makes it easier to pull my hand back before the sword falls. Maybe that's the only proper way any of us should hope."

"You are loved, Wei Wuxian," she says steadily, although she feels herself coming apart inside. But when she has nothing left, the only thing she can cling to is bloody-minded composure. "And I believe you still harbor love in your chest, beside the resentment. Strange bedfellows though they are."

Her voice becomes low; gloveless hands writhe on the coverlet.

"I spoke scathingly of Lan Wangji before. I spoke in cruelty and envy. If I could be trusted so entirely--I will stand under the shadow of the sword. If she holds it. I would die for the chance to be forgiven."

His brow knits slightly in bewilderment. But any questions he may have about why she's bringing up Lan Zhan again, or clarifications he wants to speak that all those who have loved him are long lost -- they will wait.

(You are loved. It lodges under his ribs like a thorn, but there is no pain. How -- ?)

"Will you tell her?" he asks instead, still unable to put much volume into his voice.

"When I return," she says. Swears. "Everything."

Inhale. Exhale. All secrets on the table, yes?

"Gideon Nav is the one who told my parents what I had done. I punished her for a long time. As I punished myself. And when I realized it was their choice, not mine or hers, I continued to punish her for trying to escape me. She has never known that what she survived as an infant was not a plague. It was me."

Gideon will probably kill her, she thinks. And be justified. That's the problem with being the monster. Her face is calm, though. Placid, although the disturbed facepaint conveys her inner distress in a way she cannot control.

"My life belongs to the Ninth. I should not risk it so. But I asked her to be my cavalier. Her claim on me is..."

"If you reject other people's ideas about your morality," she says, with just a subliminal tremor in her voice, "you must hold yourself to something."

"Yes." He has come to steadiness at last, and though his eyes are still red from tears, he holds the Ninth's gaze unwaveringly. "Let the self judge the right and the wrongs. Let others decide to praise or to blame."

It feels like -- it was, he realizes with bleak humor -- a lifetime ago when he last spoke those words.

"I do not know what she will say, or do. But she has stood at your side through terrible trials at your Canaan House. She has put her trust in you, and you her. That is not nothing."

I brought her as a slave to a killing field. I made a mistake that sent her and two children to their deaths, and she only survived... I know not how.

Before I came here she asked to be released to serve the Seventh.

"We shall see," she says quietly.

"I should release you," she says. "We have shattered ourselves against one another enough for one day." She smiles ruefully, a thin, almost invisible curve in the black expanse of her paint. "But may I play you one other song?"

Edited 2020-09-19 17:05 (UTC)

He mirrors the smile, breathing out an impossibly quiet laugh.

"Yes," he says. "I would be honored to hear."

"Sometimes I would swear," she says, "these Mountain Goats were necromancers."

She clicks backwards two songs on the same disc to play a song that begins:

If you really want to conjure up a ghost, cultivate a space for the things that hurt you most.

Edited 2020-09-19 17:09 (UTC)

Where the previous song's familiarity pierced him like a blade, this song -- quieter, slower, softer -- settles next to him like an old friend, gently nudging him in the side as it offers a bottle of wine. Wei Wuxian listens as if it were a meditation melody. He lets his breathing slow; folds his hands in his lap with both palms raised.

It is a short song, but by the time it ends, he feels... better. As if the music washed away a thin layer of grime that still clung to him.

Rake the sands until they surface.
Don't let anybody call them ugly.

He stays silent a moment after the last chord fades, then picks up the cold mug of tea and rises to his feet. Wei Wuxian clasps his hands, the cup tucked behind them, and bows with a greater formality than he's shown the Ninth in the past.

"Thank you," he murmurs. "I wish you luck, Ninth."

"I wish you peace," she says in return, still seated on the floor, legs curled beneath her, but lowering her head to the coverlet in courtesy.

"And please call me Harrow, if you wish." If she is not the only one of the Ninth here, after all.

Nine is for the Tomb, and all that was lost.

"Try to get some rest before Lan Wangji comes," she adds. "Or he will be furious with me."

And finally, at that, Wei Wuxian breaks into a genuine grin.

"And food," he agrees. "I will never hear the end of it. For both our sakes then, Harrow, I will go take care of myself."

With a final wave good-bye, he takes his leave.

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

His easy humor always dazzles her; it reminds her of Gideon. They are like mirror-images, she thinks; he combining Gideon's irreverence and ebullience and her own deep wounds, Lan Wangji combining her bloody-minded composure with Gideon's inner light and longing to protect and to serve.

She hesitates, picking a new song to accompany her, and goes back to the first song on the disc. There are parts of it she doesn't understand; but there are parts of it she certainly does.

Cold cream. She peels off the smeared make-up, regards the face her mother gave her once again, then covers it over again to reveal the one she had first. This face she recognizes better than the other.

Alabaster first, then ebony, then the details.

Crawl 'til dawn
On my hands and knees
God damn these vampires
For what they've done to me

The difference between a victim and a monster is that a monster does not forgive, she thinks. A monster works with what she is given, makes her pain into weapons, when the world would be happier to see her simply crawl into the darkness and sob her life away.

She intends to walk upright. Let them fear her. The skull in the mirror nods approval.

The quick death to anyone who looks at me in fear.

And peace to anyone who looks at me in love. Exactly as I am.

Edited 2020-09-19 18:04 (UTC)

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