"Ours," he says, a quick, easy rejoinder, "Our children."
No, he will not concede that, not to this man, with all the guilt and gratitude in his heart for Lan Sizhui's raising, when Wei Wuxian had gone to his death believing him already dead. Ours, and he relents. Ours, and he forever has a stake in lives beyond his own, beyond Lan Zhan's, in a way still tenuous with his brother and nephew. A way that strengthens, but at a distance, still at cross ties all those tangled webs they stumble into, slowed further until they've struggled their way free.
Surrender a ribbon willingly, tie together two lives repeatedly, name two deaths as intertwined, even yet to claim children apace. His flute, certainly, on Lan Zhan's call as well, but Chenqing is not what he needs in this world. A tool, and one his shijie had called for the naming of, and that reminds him of importance in ways that any simply named bamboo flute otherwise might not. And yet.
The wind whispers, but only through leaves rasping against each other, too ossified to fall, spring a memory so distant it speaks as if legend among the roots of dying giants, and he gives another squeeze to Lan Zhan's hand.
"Bindings both ways. Though if I'm to find another ribbon, we'll be having to head into town."
No, spares he does not carry, does not see need for; had not, almost a lifetime ago, their eldest's lifetime ago, not even recalled to use it to bind Lan Zhan's leg. Funny now in retrospect, to not bind red with red, but red with white. Still, he does not yet shift, studies Lan Zhan like a face he does not know, relearning the planes of it, the shadows that fall, the lean lines of nose and jaw. He has aged well, where the generation above them had been less graceful, and for once, he really things about that, the time etched beneath that skin. Thinks of it, and doesn't linger in the guilt and pain, but wonder at the who, the will, the making of the Lan Zhan he sees today.
Wonders at himself, and the man he's remaking himself into, day by day.
"Pick it for me," he says, and it's pure whimsy, to tell Lan Zhan, do this for me. "When we get there." Red or black or white or blue or purple, ah, he doubts purple, but anything. Even a strip of repurposed lace.
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No, he will not concede that, not to this man, with all the guilt and gratitude in his heart for Lan Sizhui's raising, when Wei Wuxian had gone to his death believing him already dead. Ours, and he relents. Ours, and he forever has a stake in lives beyond his own, beyond Lan Zhan's, in a way still tenuous with his brother and nephew. A way that strengthens, but at a distance, still at cross ties all those tangled webs they stumble into, slowed further until they've struggled their way free.
Surrender a ribbon willingly, tie together two lives repeatedly, name two deaths as intertwined, even yet to claim children apace. His flute, certainly, on Lan Zhan's call as well, but Chenqing is not what he needs in this world. A tool, and one his shijie had called for the naming of, and that reminds him of importance in ways that any simply named bamboo flute otherwise might not. And yet.
The wind whispers, but only through leaves rasping against each other, too ossified to fall, spring a memory so distant it speaks as if legend among the roots of dying giants, and he gives another squeeze to Lan Zhan's hand.
"Bindings both ways. Though if I'm to find another ribbon, we'll be having to head into town."
No, spares he does not carry, does not see need for; had not, almost a lifetime ago, their eldest's lifetime ago, not even recalled to use it to bind Lan Zhan's leg. Funny now in retrospect, to not bind red with red, but red with white. Still, he does not yet shift, studies Lan Zhan like a face he does not know, relearning the planes of it, the shadows that fall, the lean lines of nose and jaw. He has aged well, where the generation above them had been less graceful, and for once, he really things about that, the time etched beneath that skin. Thinks of it, and doesn't linger in the guilt and pain, but wonder at the who, the will, the making of the Lan Zhan he sees today.
Wonders at himself, and the man he's remaking himself into, day by day.
"Pick it for me," he says, and it's pure whimsy, to tell Lan Zhan, do this for me. "When we get there." Red or black or white or blue or purple, ah, he doubts purple, but anything. Even a strip of repurposed lace.