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Time on the Road
Aug. 6th, 2021 11:45 pmFor a time, Wei Wuxian's life is just what he daydreamed about, in those fractured exhausting days between choosing to walk away the relative safety of Yunmeng Jiang and choosing to fall away from the ruined bloody shreds of what had become of his life. Under the open summer sky, he wanders. He has Chenqing in his hand, though he uses it more to play the tunes he hears as he wanders from town to town for Little Apple's enjoyment than he does for anything more nefarious. He has a weak sword strapped to his pack - he has the idea that as he has time to get further away from the stress of the start of his new life, he might be able to train, to strengthen that wisp of a core he's managed to earn from Mo Xuanyu, along with this unfamiliar frame, this unfamiliar face. He manages to earn enough coin between selling simple talismans and solving minor problems to kept himself decently fed. Of course he buys his donkey a frankly ridiculous number of apples, but it keeps his travelling companion relatively sweet. Every morning there is a new horizon, every day there is a new problem to solve, every night there is a new food to try, a new wine to sample, a new song to hear, a new story to get caught up in. He pinches the cheeks of cute babies in marketplaces, flirts outrageously with serving girls in busy taverns, carries water for little old aunties who scold him for not settling down already.
It isn't all careless good fun, of course, that isn't what life is. There are injuries - most minor, scrapes and burns and sprains, which become easier and easier to deal with has his core slowly strengthens. There are a few less minor injuries. Most thankfully where he can afford to spend a little time and a little coin to heal. Some not, spent gritting it out, with what rations he has and defensive talismans set around his camp while he waits it out. Some days the weather is downright hateful - impossibly muggy even for a Yunmeng boy, or filled with torrential rainfall, or one perfectly miserable week spent holed up in a mountain pass trapped by a surprise snowstorm. Some night hunts turn out to be painful in ways that aren't physical. He weeps with mothers who have unfairly lost their children. He has no good answers for spurned lovers who want to know why they were left behind. There are some decidedly uncomfortable moments with the shades of folk who were Wen, but weren't cultivators, but died in a war that wasn't of their making. Some days there just isn't a town within a day's walk - on those nights he camps, he sleeps in trees, he rations his food and does not think about how very alone he is.
He doesn't.
Wei Wuxian has always lied most to himself.
But this goes on for months, week after week falling in his wake, the seasons slowly changing around him. There are harvest festivals here and there, bright joyous things he revels in, imagining a life where this is the well-earned reward of a long growing season, of this being a glorious last hurrah before retreating indoors for the winter in a cozy little farmhouse to plan for a future spring. He wanders south as winter nears, closer to the sea, seeking to avoid a more bitter cold.
He writes to Lan Zhan of course, almost constantly. He doesn't send everything he writes, of course. Some of it is just too ridiculous, even for him - he doesn't need to bother Lan Zhan with every thought he has, after all. The man will be busy with his new duties, after all! But he makes sure to send anything that sounds interesting, or particularly worrisome. Tidbits of life from more far-flung regions. Sometimes he sends sketches - particularly gorgeous landscapes, busy town squares, once a very adorable bunny that had hopped right into his camp. Sometimes he sends gifts - little small candies, talismans he's thought up that have turned out to be particularly useful, once a small delicate figurine, an intricately carved crane with upturned wings that reminded him of the bird that stalked the pond outside the Jingshi. He sends his missives with couriers he finds along he way, when he has coin. He doesn't hear back, of course, how could he? His path is meandering, going where his interest is caught, sometimes wandering far beyond the edges of the commonly accepted cultivation world. He spends time amongst people who speak a language he does not understand, getting by with gestures and smiles and determined good will. He spends time in lonely countryside, without a soul alive or dead to mark his passing.
He spends time, because that is the currency he is suddenly rich in, and no matter what he does he's going to have to spend it anyway.
As the winter wears on, and he is forced indoors more often to keep away from the cold that bites nearly as hard as it ever did those last few years of his last life despite his best attempts to avoid it, he starts to hear of Lan Zhan again. Or no, not of Lan Zhan. Of Lan Wangji. Of Hanguang-Jun, the Chief Cultivator who is evidently making quite a name for himself. Wei Wuxian drinks in the stories. He hears he one about how he Second Jade of Lan is rumored to actually be made of jade, how those who earn an interview with the Chief Cultivator come away rattled, unsure if they have earned favor or ire. How the focus seemed more turned towards helping those without power, rather than building up the power of the cultivation world or of the Lan Sect in particular. Of how someone once offered the Chief Cultivator a local delicacy made of rabbit and the man had nearly set the poor unfortunate soul on fire from the power of his glare alone.
Spring slowly unfurls, reluctant and slow. The air warms, but doesn't necessarily gentle - snow turns to rain, the ground goes from iron-hard to mud-slick. Wei Wuxian reluctantly leaves Lil' Apple with the farmer who stabled him over the winter for a little longer, travelling on foot and truly alone for a time, worried about flash floods and wet hooves. He has to get new robes at one point, the set he left Gusu in patched and stained beyond all repair. Of course, this far out of the way, he has to take what he can get, abandoning his usual colors in favor of something less damaged.
It's in this way, sitting in a tavern with a hot meal after filling his purse with coin selling a pack of talismans, that he sees Lan Zhan. The windows are open to let in the afternoon breeze, letting in the bustle of the street. Suddenly he spots he bright clean white of Gusu Lan. There is a small cultivation sect nearby, and a rumor that they were asking for help for a bit of a knotty problem - he's been thinking to see if he can take a crack at it, but he didn't know the Chief Cultivator had agreed to help. He stares, openly, safe in his anonymous robes, in the shadow of the tavern.
Lan Zhan is just as gorgeous as he remembers - tall and cool and composed, leading a pack of absolutely adorable juniors as they head to one of the better taverns in town. He isn't spotted, of course - a crowd has gathered, drawn by such an uncommon sight, by the hope of Gusu silver making it into local pockets. He considers calling out, of course. Cheerful words, bright sparks like talisman butterflies, and it would be so easy. He knows that Lan Zhan wouldn't refuse him.
But that same knot under his breastbone that sent him on the road in the first place keeps him in his seat. It feels.. unearned. That he isn't... ready, yet. As much as he yearns for a friendly face, he still doesn't feel settled enough in this skin that he's sure he won't just fade into someone else's idea of what he should be. He tells himself Lan Zhan will understand.
He's not sure if that one is a lie or not, and decides not to examine it too closely as the bright Gusu white disappears into the crowd.
It isn't all careless good fun, of course, that isn't what life is. There are injuries - most minor, scrapes and burns and sprains, which become easier and easier to deal with has his core slowly strengthens. There are a few less minor injuries. Most thankfully where he can afford to spend a little time and a little coin to heal. Some not, spent gritting it out, with what rations he has and defensive talismans set around his camp while he waits it out. Some days the weather is downright hateful - impossibly muggy even for a Yunmeng boy, or filled with torrential rainfall, or one perfectly miserable week spent holed up in a mountain pass trapped by a surprise snowstorm. Some night hunts turn out to be painful in ways that aren't physical. He weeps with mothers who have unfairly lost their children. He has no good answers for spurned lovers who want to know why they were left behind. There are some decidedly uncomfortable moments with the shades of folk who were Wen, but weren't cultivators, but died in a war that wasn't of their making. Some days there just isn't a town within a day's walk - on those nights he camps, he sleeps in trees, he rations his food and does not think about how very alone he is.
He doesn't.
Wei Wuxian has always lied most to himself.
But this goes on for months, week after week falling in his wake, the seasons slowly changing around him. There are harvest festivals here and there, bright joyous things he revels in, imagining a life where this is the well-earned reward of a long growing season, of this being a glorious last hurrah before retreating indoors for the winter in a cozy little farmhouse to plan for a future spring. He wanders south as winter nears, closer to the sea, seeking to avoid a more bitter cold.
He writes to Lan Zhan of course, almost constantly. He doesn't send everything he writes, of course. Some of it is just too ridiculous, even for him - he doesn't need to bother Lan Zhan with every thought he has, after all. The man will be busy with his new duties, after all! But he makes sure to send anything that sounds interesting, or particularly worrisome. Tidbits of life from more far-flung regions. Sometimes he sends sketches - particularly gorgeous landscapes, busy town squares, once a very adorable bunny that had hopped right into his camp. Sometimes he sends gifts - little small candies, talismans he's thought up that have turned out to be particularly useful, once a small delicate figurine, an intricately carved crane with upturned wings that reminded him of the bird that stalked the pond outside the Jingshi. He sends his missives with couriers he finds along he way, when he has coin. He doesn't hear back, of course, how could he? His path is meandering, going where his interest is caught, sometimes wandering far beyond the edges of the commonly accepted cultivation world. He spends time amongst people who speak a language he does not understand, getting by with gestures and smiles and determined good will. He spends time in lonely countryside, without a soul alive or dead to mark his passing.
He spends time, because that is the currency he is suddenly rich in, and no matter what he does he's going to have to spend it anyway.
As the winter wears on, and he is forced indoors more often to keep away from the cold that bites nearly as hard as it ever did those last few years of his last life despite his best attempts to avoid it, he starts to hear of Lan Zhan again. Or no, not of Lan Zhan. Of Lan Wangji. Of Hanguang-Jun, the Chief Cultivator who is evidently making quite a name for himself. Wei Wuxian drinks in the stories. He hears he one about how he Second Jade of Lan is rumored to actually be made of jade, how those who earn an interview with the Chief Cultivator come away rattled, unsure if they have earned favor or ire. How the focus seemed more turned towards helping those without power, rather than building up the power of the cultivation world or of the Lan Sect in particular. Of how someone once offered the Chief Cultivator a local delicacy made of rabbit and the man had nearly set the poor unfortunate soul on fire from the power of his glare alone.
Spring slowly unfurls, reluctant and slow. The air warms, but doesn't necessarily gentle - snow turns to rain, the ground goes from iron-hard to mud-slick. Wei Wuxian reluctantly leaves Lil' Apple with the farmer who stabled him over the winter for a little longer, travelling on foot and truly alone for a time, worried about flash floods and wet hooves. He has to get new robes at one point, the set he left Gusu in patched and stained beyond all repair. Of course, this far out of the way, he has to take what he can get, abandoning his usual colors in favor of something less damaged.
It's in this way, sitting in a tavern with a hot meal after filling his purse with coin selling a pack of talismans, that he sees Lan Zhan. The windows are open to let in the afternoon breeze, letting in the bustle of the street. Suddenly he spots he bright clean white of Gusu Lan. There is a small cultivation sect nearby, and a rumor that they were asking for help for a bit of a knotty problem - he's been thinking to see if he can take a crack at it, but he didn't know the Chief Cultivator had agreed to help. He stares, openly, safe in his anonymous robes, in the shadow of the tavern.
Lan Zhan is just as gorgeous as he remembers - tall and cool and composed, leading a pack of absolutely adorable juniors as they head to one of the better taverns in town. He isn't spotted, of course - a crowd has gathered, drawn by such an uncommon sight, by the hope of Gusu silver making it into local pockets. He considers calling out, of course. Cheerful words, bright sparks like talisman butterflies, and it would be so easy. He knows that Lan Zhan wouldn't refuse him.
But that same knot under his breastbone that sent him on the road in the first place keeps him in his seat. It feels.. unearned. That he isn't... ready, yet. As much as he yearns for a friendly face, he still doesn't feel settled enough in this skin that he's sure he won't just fade into someone else's idea of what he should be. He tells himself Lan Zhan will understand.
He's not sure if that one is a lie or not, and decides not to examine it too closely as the bright Gusu white disappears into the crowd.
