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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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.

There is nothing in this one for her.

It's okay to find the faith to saunter forward
With no fear of shadows spreading where you stand
And you'll breathe easier just knowing that the worst is all behind you

She has listened to it many times--all of these songs many times--and there is nothing here for her. She has always wanted for comfort and she has always been alone. The worst has always been before her.

But surely there is something in this for Wei Wuxian, who has reached the end of his struggles; who has someone who loves him.

Does it frighten you, that monsters can love and be loved? It terrifies me.

She twists, and peers over the edge of the bed; her makeup is smeared, and her fingers leave black smears on the sheets. She looks like a frightened child; or like a goblin peering from the foot of your bed. "Wei Wuxian?" she says tentatively.

Edited 2020-09-19 01:00 (UTC)

He rubs the back of his wrist across his eyes; pushes some of the loose hair behind his ears, fitfully. Tries to make himself presentable when he's still sniffling every so often and his cheeks feel tight from the drying tears.

"I am here." His voice will crack if he pushes it above a whisper, so he does not try. "I'm sorry, Ninth. Thank you."

"You must not apologize," she says, almost pleading. "I should not have asked. There is no reason you should bleed for me. Or thank me."

"I would help you if I knew how." Her voice is low and dismal.

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)