The Tears of Thirteen Years

Chapter 12

Black robes whirl around long legs, a red ribbon flutters in the wind.

Leaning against the bamboo, his head tilted those grey eyes watching remorseless and yet...they were warm, gentle in this half light.

Everything is in shades of grey and black, the stars and moonlight concealed by the clouds that promise rain. The richly earthy scent of soil and bamboo still green and young fills his nose as he walks further into the forest.

Eyes now as red as his ribbon watch as he approaches, Chen Qing twirling idly in the loose grip of his fingers. He is half turned away, coy and tempting, one long hand stroking the leaves near his arm, his touch that of a lover.

It is not the red of his demonic cultivation that sends fear through his heart. It is not the promise of the power he knows lives in this man. No, it is the path deeper into the forest lies behind Wei Ying, a winding route made of stone roughly cut and laid, disappearing off into the distance. "Wei Ying...stay. Please stay."

His voice is somber and tired, grief pressing down on his shoulders, pain in his heart and anger lighting his step. Wei Ying is not angry though, the syllables of his name caressed by that voice, sending shivers down his spine. "Lan Zhan."

His eyes opened in the pale grey light before dawn, the scent of bamboo and the chill of the forest clinging to his skin, his heart in his throat. It was a dream. With a soft sound, a keening noise heard by no one, he turns onto his side, his left hand reaches from the bell hidden beneath his pillow. He cradles it to heart as tears escape, running in rivulets of sorrow down his cheek, disappearing into his hair.

The bell gleams even in this muted light and he presses it to his lips.

Wei Ying...Come back...

----

Hours later the breeze touched by the hand of winter, drifts through the ancient courtyard, gathering the fallen leaves that signal the end of the year is approaching.

It is too similar to his dream for his heart to settle, for his mind to truly focus. No one, not even his brother seems to notice that Lan Wangji is distracted, that his heartache robs him of the motivation needed to stand so diligently. His pristine white robes lift to swirl in a gentle dance, his jade Lan Sect token swings away from his hip following the cold air. His long sleeves billow, the material rippling with cold air and the long strands of his hair rise in an elegant wave as gentle as the wings of a black moth.

The ribbon securely tied around his forehead barely moves, as if only the hands of Wei Ying can disturb its careful position. It is his right after all.

The breeze is mild when compared to the one in the dream, he thinks of red and grey, of charcoal black and the drawings on his desk. As he waists, he thinks too of the chords left partially unwritten, a song Wei Ying had begun but never finished, left with the notes scrawled inelegantly over the page. He thinks of adding to it, the melody different to those preferred by the Lan Sect, but the music is not from Gusu, it reflects the brilliant mind of its composer.

It would work for a guqin. It is not one of Wei Ying's more complex songs, the ones he played alone on his flute by the curving tree. He wonders this as the gathered Elders and attending Seniors, attempt to hold their robes down or try to re-order the white cloth, when the breeze abandons the courtyard for another long moment. Lan Wangji simply remains where he is, an untouchable statue uncaring of the wind or rain.

Unseen, resting against his skin the Yunmeng Jiang Sect bell is warm, carried by Wei Ying and now hidden close to his heart.

He could teach the melody to A-Yuan. It would have pleased Wei Ying, that he was playing something he had written, his cheeks brightening with that rare flash of color, embarrassment there and gone before it could be noticed.