The Tears of Thirteen Years

Chapter 11

In the next chapter, Lan Wangji will leave seclusion. For now, this a short piece.

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The deep resonating chords of the guqin echo mournfully in the late afternoon air.

The nights fell early now in the mountains, darkness enshrouding the Recesses well before sunset was meant to come. It was too early for Inquiry but that would be his next song. This was Sorrow, one of the oldest music scores developed by the Lan Sect and one few mastered.

Long elegant fingers danced over the strings, stroking and gliding as the melody rose. The song flowed through the air, dancing in the breeze calling to the souls of the departed, the lost and those cast aside. It cried for one soul, tormented and alone, the blue light of cultivation energy illuminating the dewy grass.

It was a whisper of love and the depth of prayer, calling with hope reassuring with tender hands that safety could be found here.

Sadness lingered but there was power in the notes, carried into the inky depths of the cold sky, to the stars hidden by clouds with the promise of rain. Only few knew the chords of Sorrow, wishes and forgiveness curving around the secrets only two souls knew as the lone figure knelt beneath the shade of an ancient tree.

The white of his robes gleamed in the darkness, the water of the pools rippled as the sound of a heart's despair drifted over the mountains, his finger s ceaseless, gold eyes intent on the strings.

Grey eyes smiled in the distance, a slender, deceptive figure settled on the rooftops. A laugh full of fearless carefree youth echoed from memory. A father carrying his son, with happy pride, long legs dancing on the path, his reward an excited giggle.

A single tear fell from long lashes, to fall onto the strings adding more pain to the melody.

Today was his birthday. The day he would always celebrate as the blessing it was. The day Wei Ying came into this world, the date told to him by chance and never forgotten.

Sorrow is a song that has no fixed end. The repetitions could be played until the end of time, grief as encompassing as the second day waking with the fathomless truth.

Wei Ying's face staring down at him from the tiles of the roof, the halo of stars caressing his skin with sweet light. His dark waves of hair almost loose from the red ribbon, his sleeves no longer hiding toned forearms and the delicate juncture of his wrists. A mouth made red, such a tempting rosy red from the aged wine...

The leaves fall from the tree and he laughs wild and free...so young...so full of mischief and those eyes could call anyone into rapture, a voice that could so easily beguile, distract and enrage. A heart purer than mountain water as he flowed into the stone pools cherished by their people and a mind sharper than any blade with a soul that believed itself unlovable.

Wei Ying. Wei Ying. I'll always love you.

He pays no mind to the two standing in the shadow of the building not far from his home. Gentle eyes filled with worry watching those elegant fingers glide and strum, the heartache so apparent with every note. It pains him that nothing can soothe that broken heart, that the man who so carelessly held his brother's soul had thrown him away so cruelly. Yet, Lan Zhan plays on praying for him to return one day.

Older eyes of disappointment and grief, judge as he plays knowing that the song is flawless and emotive, calling to a man that was rightfully gone from this world. The demon of a man that holds his nephew's heart even now, but he believes so foolishly that the bonds will break over time.

Together they watch as a young child walks onto the veranda, his robes immaculate and his ocean eyes fixed as always on his father. The child settles beside Wangji who greets the small boy with a nod that is as tender as it welcoming.

The boy moves closer, carefully away from the sweeping motions of his father's elbow, his eyes fixed on the strings now.

The pair in the shadows say nothing as they watch, seeing their changed Lan Wangji pause and surprise fills them, as he shifts the guqin away slightly. For a moment they believe he would cease playing this ode to a man long dead, a man cursed and damned by all except the tall figure beneath the ancient tree.

One hand pats his knee and the child moves to sit on the lap of his father, to the shock of the pair watching. He is held safely, the white of his new robes blending with the seamless edges of his father's attire, his movements confident. The pair had doubted that the silent man holding the child was capable of doting on the ocean eyed boy, but it is with ease that he reaches for the guqin strings, listening intently to the simple quiet instructions, offered by a rich voice. Larger hands gently position the tiny fingers of youth, with no calluses and a shining heart of wonder now in ocean eyes.

Together father and son begin again, playing the difficult notes of Sorrow. Older hands lifting to allow the younger one to copy the chords, while caressing the strings with his right hand, teaching and guiding.

At each pause and breath, the confidence in the child grows until they begin to play in excellent harmony, the song growing with each breath, more spirits attracted to the melody with each passing moment. Gold eyes watch over the child, one hand holding his tiny waist so he doesn't fall, the other guiding the tune, correcting the faltering passages, praising the deft hands as they play the middle chord together.

No one completely understands Lan Sizhui. Even Qiren can admit he is an avid learner and his manner is pleasingly quiet and polite. He is clever and has succeeded many that are older than he, aided no doubt by a father few could surpass. It is clear that he listens to Wangji with the man of one devoted, trying to emulate his father where he can, but unlike Wangji who dislikes interacting with others, Lan Sizhui easily engages with other children.

Xichen was so proud to see the child flourish as he has and there is no doubt that in time he become a young leader of his generation. Watching him play the guqin with Wangji is a precious sight and he is relieved that the darkness which formed his early years does not torment him now. Already at the age of five, he had grown beyond expectation, perhaps not yet in height but certainly in his education.

At first Xichen thought that he might not be accepted, considering Wangji's defiance and punishment. The simple fact that his origins were unknown likely to stand in his way, but within a few weeks he formed the bonds of friendship with Lan Jingyi, comforting the other boy he had apparently found crying on the steps. Now, after two years it was as if the child had been born into the Sect, his place set by the Lan family.

Xichen closed his eyes and turned away from the sight of father and son. It was a cherished memory he would keep in his heart. Their uncle sniffed in displeasure no doubt finding error in the moment and turned as well, vanishing into the gloom of the building behind them, unwilling to gaze upon the nephew so changed by Wei Wuxian and the grand-nephew he had gained so recently.

Lan Wangji noted they had left, but he continued, guiding A-Yuan's tiny hands over the strings.

"Father?"

Gold eyes study the crown of his son's head, the hesitation in the hushed question surprising him. "Mn."

"As it is Ma's birthday...can I light a candle in the Ancestor Hall and pray for his safe return?"

Emotion welled in his chest at the offer, the quiet reverent love from a child that remember almost nothing of Wei Ying. "En. I will request Lan Ai take you."

A sweet little nod and for some minutes there is only the call of the strings. "I will go with you next year."

"Thank you Father."

Tonight Wei Ying will not answer his call, but A-Yuan learns what many have needed decades to master. Together they honor a man cherished and missed. Somewhere, Wei Ying will be smiling and his laugh may not be as carefree, but he always found joy in life. Black robes flutter in his memory and grey eyes smile again over the flickering flames. "Lan Zhan...play a tune."

The pair in the shadows watching as father and son play into the late afternoon, one wondering about his mother, one worshiping a man with grey eyes cradled in the core of his heart.