Ruptor
Ruptor: broken, a hurt person.
Wangji searches for Wuxian in everything, but he isn't there.
...
...
Good evening. Happy Valentine's Day. I wrote this in like an hour. I've just had a hot toddy. Let's go.
Written for the lovelies in my 'Chen Qing Ling and MDZS' discord for the prompt of "Hurt."
I had someone read this over, but they don't know the show so they only sort of count as a beta. Mainly they just told me whether this fit the prompt or not.
...
...
The Cold Pond Cave was a sacred place, and Lan Wangji visited often to meditate. The path from the Cold Pond itself never opened again, never brought unexpected visitors. The rabbits had long since moved to the forest. Lan Yi's spirit was gone, not a trace left behind, not even when Lan Wangji sat and played her guqin, praying for answers that would not come.
The time they spent in the cave was a moment locked in time. It was as frozen as the icicles decorating the cave walls. As fixed in Lan Wangji's memory as the stone table that held Lan Yi's guqin.
The first time Lan Wangji had sat down to play the guqin, he had apologized to Lan Yi before he ever touched a string. Over the years, his apologies grew less earnest, and his pleas more desperate. He prayed so hard and put so much of his spirit into his playing that, once, only once, it almost seemed he got an answer.
The music echoed off the walls, sad and longing. Lan Wangji kept his eyes shut tight, reaching out with everything in him.
Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying
Are you there? Are you in pain? Can you finally rest? Are you happy now?
Wei Ying.
"Lan Zhan."
His eyes had flashed open. Wei Ying stood before him – white student robes, wet hair, impudent expression.
"Lan Zhan, wait up!"
"Wei Ying."
In his shock, he had stopped playing. Silence filled the cave once more, and the memory of Wei Ying had faded like the notes of the guqin. For that was all it had been – a memory carved into the very air around him from the vigor of his playing.
It was not real.
It would never be real.
…
…
Lan Wangji always sat at the same table in the library, always lifted his head at every sound, always glanced to the table in the corner whenever he flipped a page. But there was no laughter, no agitated humming, no crinkling paper. The far table was always empty, always pristine.
It was only a month they spent together in that room, and yet Lan Wangji still looked for him in every book and ink well.
The drawing Wei Ying had done of him burned with the rest of the Cloud Recesses. It was no more than dust on some distant peak. Every loose sketch made his heart leap, thinking that somehow, someway, it had survived. It had come back to him. Some piece of Wei Ying was still there. But it hadn't, and he wasn't.
…
…
Group lectures happened almost daily. Students sat in neat rows, raised their hands, gave the expected answers, followed the rules. Lan Wangji had moved beyond those walls, but still he passed by and waited for the unexpected, for some outlandish response – to hear his uncle's ire, the giggles that accompanied pranks, a thrown scroll.
Lan Jingyi was good for that purpose. Of all the Lan disciples and all the visiting disciples, he was the most like Wei Ying had been. He questioned everything, spoke too loud, walked too fast, talked too much. But he never questioned what the teachers said was right and wrong, black and white. He never stuck pictures on his teacher's backs. He was not Wei Ying.
They had shared a classroom for not even half a year, but Lan Wangji heard his voice echo irreverently under the words of every student. A whisper. A breath. A memory.
…
…
He was Hanguang-Jun, who followed wherever there was chaos. He helped the needy, vanquished the darkness, brought the light.
No. He was ice searching desperately for warmth. He was gray wishing for a hint of color.
He was the untouchable reaching out to be touched – hands stretching into the dark wherever he could find it, seeking, and finding nothing.
…
…
He saw Wei Ying in every smile from A-Yuan. In every good thing about him as he grew up. For surely that kindness, that empathy, that selflessness, must have come from Wei Ying's influence. As a young boy, he had so many questions, endless questions. He played with the rabbits the way Wei Ying used to and had to be taught the proper way to care for them. He smiled freely at everyone, even Lan Qiren.
A-Yuan did not remember Wei Ying.
Lan Wangji could not decide if that was better or worse. They could not share the pain of his loss if one of them did not know who was gone, and yet he would not wish this pain on anyone else.
He could not bring himself to tell A-Yuan about Wei Ying either, not even in general terms. Because how could he properly encompass everything that Wei Ying was? Who he had been? What he had achieved? His chest throbbed and every scar on his body ached just imagining talking about Wei Ying. How could he tell A-Yuan about Wei Ying when even a word threatened to cut him open, to wring every tear from his eye, every drop of blood from his veins?
How could he explain the immensity of what he felt, even in its smallest measure? If he started, he would never be able to stop. He was paralyzed by the fear that if he tried to share his memories of Wei Ying with A-Yuan then he would be left with nothing for himself. It was illogical. It was ridiculous. But still he felt it. Still he could not open his mouth.
The only time he ever came close was the day A-Yuan came to see him, to tell him about his day. They had learned about the Yiling Patriarch that day, he said. Everyone else already seemed to know who he was, he said.
"Teacher Lan told us he was a man who sold his soul to demons for power and killed thousands of innocents for fun. He said Yiling Patriarch dug up graves to use the corpses in evil rituals and eat their marrow for strength. He said—"
"No."
That one word was so forceful that it stopped A-Yuan's retelling dead. A-Yuan's eyes were wide but not frightened, and he nearly knocked over his tea cup.
Every rumor ever spread about Wei Ying ran through Lan Wangji's mind – every lie, every falsehood. He knew they were still being told, only growing grander and more grotesque as the years passed, and yet to hear Wei Ying's own son—
Softer, like the kiss of a flower petal, "No. A-Yuan—"
His emotions choked him then and he could not continue, but something must have shown on his face for A-Yuan's own expression became one of curious wonder. Lan Wangji willed him to understand, to simply know the truth. Wei Ying was not the monster they painted him to be. He was talented. He was kind. He was selfless.
He was good.
After several long moments, A-Yuan nodded as if he did truly understand. Then he changed the subject to Lan Jingyi's latest antics, and Lan Wangji could breathe again.
…
…
When all he had was memories to survive on, it was acceptable – expected – that he would replay them to keep them fresh. He could not forget a single detail. He could not lose him.
When a night hunt was too easy, or when clan politics dragged on far longer than they should—
"Lan Zhan, are you still bored?"
When he drew another talisman, hid them in his robes so no one could see, no one could judge—
"Lan Zhan, this is my self-made talisman. What do you think? Is it fun?"
When a night hunt was harder than expected and he found his usual techniques didn't work—
"Lan Zhan, do you have any better ideas?"
When he went to a tavern to purchase food and drink in return for information—
"There are a lot of people here, all talking at once. If something weird happened, then they must have seen or heard it."
Years later, the memories were well worn, like a childhood blanket. They were faded, not as crisp as they once were. His image of Wei Ying was frayed at the edges. He wondered if Wei Ying had really said this, or if he had the wording wrong this time. He worried that he had the quirk of Wei Ying's laugh wrong, the crinkles by his eyes, the angle of his finger when he rubbed his nose.
"Lan Zhan, wait for me!"
Lan Wangji opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling of an unfamiliar tavern room, the sun not yet shining, salty tracks running down his face, into his hair, onto the pillow.
"Wei Ying," he breathed into the stillness of morning. "I will wait."
He would wait forever.
…
…
fin