Truths, and what telling of them? He presses his palm to stone, watches Lan Zhan submerge long, calloused fingers into the waters of Wei Ying's once bathing pool. Warm, they are, and cold, upon the extraction. Haunted as surely as the rest has become once he was gone, when that knock-off had drained clusters to suppression of qi, and the juniors could stand against them, had not been played to that ending, as neither had he (so useless, half a wreck) or Lan Zhan been, in that instance of staged betrayal.
So many accusations. He feels them here, whispered and shouted, sometimes still in Lan Zhan's voice. Not as breaking as the ones that come as Jiang Yanli, pleading, then vicious as she never was.
His truth, and their truth.
"All three, in unequal measure. These are old deaths, and there's no vengeance any can find; some let go, some must be made to let go. Some need cleansing, to face the horror of how they died. Especially those dropped in," he says, not looking up, but at his hand, pressing it firmer and firmer against the stone, curious in an idle, unpleasant way as to which would break first. In an ideal world. In some other history.
"Those bones need little more than collecting, and the fractured spirits of the ghost-slain can heal, reincarnate. Delicate work," he says, and he smiles, looking to Lan Zhan. "But not hopeless."
Endless in ways, but not hopeless.
Wei Wuxian breathes in, breathes out, and pulls his hand away from the stone. Some scraping of flesh remains, and he'll discover the rawness later. Right now, he doesn't feel it or the thin trickle of his own blood at all. Not even the resentful dead can sing louder to that call, though they brush against him, shadows marring a pallid frame with dark eyes that drink in the world around him and find it as wanting as it ever revealed itself to be.
"At least this time, I can offer you tea." He smiles, crooked, and settles back on his heels. A lifetime ago, and a poor host he'd been, and that'd been what stuck to his ribs, that one lack, for the one visit he had stolen Lan Zhan away for.
Wei Wuxian had not neglected to purchase his own leaves before they made their way here, their sons entrusted to clean, honest hands, or at least caring ones that respected coin and reputation and children alike.
no subject
So many accusations. He feels them here, whispered and shouted, sometimes still in Lan Zhan's voice. Not as breaking as the ones that come as Jiang Yanli, pleading, then vicious as she never was.
His truth, and their truth.
"All three, in unequal measure. These are old deaths, and there's no vengeance any can find; some let go, some must be made to let go. Some need cleansing, to face the horror of how they died. Especially those dropped in," he says, not looking up, but at his hand, pressing it firmer and firmer against the stone, curious in an idle, unpleasant way as to which would break first. In an ideal world. In some other history.
"Those bones need little more than collecting, and the fractured spirits of the ghost-slain can heal, reincarnate. Delicate work," he says, and he smiles, looking to Lan Zhan. "But not hopeless."
Endless in ways, but not hopeless.
Wei Wuxian breathes in, breathes out, and pulls his hand away from the stone. Some scraping of flesh remains, and he'll discover the rawness later. Right now, he doesn't feel it or the thin trickle of his own blood at all. Not even the resentful dead can sing louder to that call, though they brush against him, shadows marring a pallid frame with dark eyes that drink in the world around him and find it as wanting as it ever revealed itself to be.
"At least this time, I can offer you tea." He smiles, crooked, and settles back on his heels. A lifetime ago, and a poor host he'd been, and that'd been what stuck to his ribs, that one lack, for the one visit he had stolen Lan Zhan away for.
Wei Wuxian had not neglected to purchase his own leaves before they made their way here, their sons entrusted to clean, honest hands, or at least caring ones that respected coin and reputation and children alike.