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academyguide · 2 years

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SummarySome of the earliest of all known art (pre-historic cave and rock art) features wildlife. However, it might be more properly regarded as art about food, rather than art about wildlife as such.Then for a lot of the rest of the history of art in the western world, art depicting wildlife was mostly absent, due to the fact that art during this period was mostly dominated by narrow perspectives on reality, such as religions. It is only more recently, as society, and the art it produces, frees itself from such narrow world-views, that wildlife art flourishes.Wildlife is also a difficult subject for the artist, as it is difficult to find and even more difficult to find keeping still in a pose, long enough to even sketch, let alone paint. Recent advances such as photography have made this far easier, as well as being artforms in their own right. Wildlife art is thus now far easier to accomplish both accurately and aesthetically.In art from outside the western world, wild animals and birds have been portrayed much more frequently throughout history.Art about wild animals began as a depiction of vital food-sources, in pre-history. At the beginnings of history the western world seems to have shut itself off from the natural world for long periods, and this is reflected in the lack of wildlife art throughout most of art history. More recently, societies, and the art it produces, have become much more broad-minded. Wildlife has become something to marvel at as new areas of the world were explored for the first time, something to hunt for pleasure, to admire aesthetically, and to conserve. These interests are reflected in the wildlife art produced.The History and development of Wildlife Art...Wildlife art in Pre-history.Animal and bird art appears in some of the earliest known examples of artistic creation, such as cave paintings and rock artThe earliest known cave paintings were made around 40,000 years ago, the Upper Paleolithic period. These art works might be more than decoration of living areas as they are often in caves which are difficult to access and don't show any signs of human habitation. Wildlife was a significant part of the daily life of humans at this time, particularly in terms of hunting for food, and this is reflected in their art. Religious interpretation of the natural world is also assumed to be a significant factor in the depiction of animals and birds at this time.Probably the most famous of all cave painting, in Lascaux (France), includes the image of a wild horse, which is one of the earliest known examples of wildlife art. Another example of wildlife cave painting is that of reindeer in the Spanish cave of Cueva de las Monedas, probably painted at around the time of the last ice-age. The oldest known cave paintings (maybe around 32,000 years old) are also found in France, at the Grotte Chauvet, and depict horses, rhinoceros, lions, buffalo, mammoth and humans, often hunting.Wildlife painting is one of the commonest forms of cave art. Subjects are often of large wild animals, including bison, horses, aurochs, lions, bears and deer. The people of this time were probably relating to the natural world mostly in terms of their own survival, rather than separating themselves from it.Cave paintings found in Africa often include animals. Cave paintings from America include animal species such as rabbit, puma, lynx, deer, wild goat and sheep, whale, turtle, tuna, sardine, octopus, eagle, and pelican, and is noted for its high quality and remarkable color. Rock paintings made by Australian Aborigines include so-called "X-ray" paintings which show the bones and organs of the animals they depict. Paintings on caves/rocks in Australia include local species of animals, fish and turtles.Animal carvings were also made during the Upper Paleolithic period... which constitute the earliest examples of wildlife sculpture.In Africa, bushman rock paintings, at around 8000 BC, clearly depict antelope and other animals.The advent

of the Bronze age in Europe, from the 3rd Millennium BC, led to a dedicated artisan class, due to the beginnings of specialization resulting from the surpluses available in these advancing societies. During the Iron age, mythical and natural animals were a common subject of artworks, often involving decoration of objects such as plates, knives and cups. Celtic influences affected the art and architecture of local Roman colonies, and outlasted them, surviving into the historic period.Wildlife Art in the Ancient world (Classical art).History is considered to begin at the time writing is invented. The earliest examples of ancient art originate from Egypt and Mesopotamia.The great art traditions have their origins in the art of one of the six great ancient "classical" civilizations: Ancient Egypt, Mesopotamia, Greece, Rome, India, or China. Each of these great civilizations developed their own unique style of art.Animals were commonly depicted in Chinese art, including some examples from the 4th Century which depict stylized mythological creatures and thus are rather a departure from pure wildlife art. Ming dynasty Chinese art features pure wildlife art, including ducks, swans, sparrows, tigers, and other animals and birds, with increasing realism and detail.In the 7th Century, Elephants, monkeys and other animals were depicted in stone carvings in Ellora, India. These carvings were religious in nature, yet depicted real animals rather than more mythological creatures.Ancient Egyptian art includes many animals, used within the symbolic and highly religious nature of Egyptian art at the time, yet showing considerable anatomical knowledge and attention to detail. Animal symbols are used within the famous Egyptian hieroglyphic symbolic language.Early South American art often depicts representations of a divine jaguar.The Minoans, the greatest civilization of the Bronze Age, created naturalistic designs including fish, squid and birds in their middle period. By the late Minoan period, wildlife was still the most characteristic subject of their art, with increasing variety of species.The art of the nomadic people of the Mongolian steppes is primarily animal art, such as gold stags, and is typically small in size as befits their traveling lifestyle.Aristotle (384-322 BC) suggested the concept of photography, but this wasn't put into practice until 1826.The Medieval period, AD 200 to 1430This period includes early Christian and Byzantine art, as well as Romanesque and Gothic art (1200 to 1430). Most of the art which survives from this period is religious, rather than realistic, in nature. Animals in art at this time were used as symbols rather than representations of anything in the real world. So very little wildlife art as such could be said to exist at all during this period.Renaissance wildlife art, 1300 to 1602.This arts movement began from ideas which initially emerged in Florence. After centuries of religious domination of the arts, Renaissance artists began to move more towards ancient mystical themes and depicting the world around them, away from purely Christian subject matter. New techniques, such as oil painting and portable paintings, as well as new ways of looking such as use of perspective and realistic depiction of textures and lighting, led to great changes in artistic expression.The two major schools of Renaissance art were the Italian school who were heavily influenced by the art of ancient Greece and Rome, and the northern Europeans... Flemish, Dutch and Germans, who were generally more realistic and less idealized in their work. The art of the Renaissance reflects the revolutions in ideas and science which occurred in this Reformation period.The early Renaissance features artists such as Botticelli, and Donatello. Animals are still being used symbolically and in mythological context at this time, for example "Pegasus" by Jacopo de'Barbari.The best-known artist of the high Renaissance is Leonardo-Da-Vinci. Although most

of his artworks depict people and technology, he occasionally incorporates wildlife into his images, such as the swan in "Leda and the swan", and the animals portrayed in his "lady with an ermine", and "studies of cat movements and positions".Durer is regarded as the greatest artist of the Northern European Renaissance. Albrecht Durer was particularly well-known for his wildlife art, including pictures of hare, rhinoceros, bullfinch, little owl, squirrels, the wing of a blue roller, monkey, and blue crow.Baroque wildlife art, 1600 to 1730.This important artistic age, encouraged by the Roman Catholic Church and the aristocracy of the time, features such well-known great artists as Caravaggio, Rembrandt, Rubens, Velazquez, Poussin, and Vermeer. Paintings of this period often use lighting effects to increase the dramatic effect.Wildlife art of this period includes a lion, and "goldfinch" by Carel Fabrituis.Melchior de Hondecoeter was a specialist animal and bird artist in the baroque period with paintings including "revolt in the poultry coup", "cocks fighting" and "palace of Amsterdam with exotic birds".The Rococo art period was a later (1720 to 1780) decadent sub-genre of the Baroque period, and includes such famous painters as Canaletto, Gainsborough and Goya. Wildlife art of the time includes "Dromedary study" by Jean Antoine Watteau, and "folly of beasts" by Goya.Jean-Baptiste Oudry was a Rococo wildlife specialist, who often painted commissions for royalty.Some of the earliest scientific wildlife illustration was also created at around this time, for example from artist William Lewin who published a book illustrating British birds, painted entirely by hand.Wildlife art in the 18th to 19th C.In 1743, Mark Catesby published his documentation of the flora and fauna of the explored areas of the New World, which helped encourage both business investment and interest in the natural history of the continent.In response to the decadence of the Rococo period, neo-classicism arose in the late 18th Century (1750-1830 ). This genre is more ascetic, and contains much sensuality, but none of the spontaneity which characterizes the later Romantic period. This movement focused on the supremacy of natural order over man's will, a concept which culminated in the romantic art depiction of disasters and madness.Francois Le Vaillant (1769-1832) was a bird illustrator (and ornithologist) around this time.Georges Cuvier, (1769-1832), painted accurate images of more than 5000 fish, relating to his studies of comparative organismal biology.Edward Hicks is an example of an American wildlife painter of this period, who's art was dominated by his religious context.Sir Edwin Henry Landseer was also painting wildlife at this time, in a style strongly influenced by dramatic emotional judgments of the animals involved.This focus towards nature led the painters of the Romantic era (1790 - 1880) to transform landscape painting, which had previously been a minor art form, into an art-form of major importance. The romantics rejected the ascetic ideals of Neo-Classicalism.The practical use of photography began in around 1826, although it was a while before wildlife became a common subject for its use. The first color photograph was taken in 1861, but easy-to-use color plates only became available in 1907.In 1853 Bisson and Mante created some of the first known wildlife photography.In France, Gaspar-Felix Tournacho, "Nadar" (1820-1910) applied the same aesthetic principles used in painting, to photography, thus beginning the artistic discipline of fine art photography. Fine Art photography Prints were also reproduced in Limited Editions, making them more valuable.Jaques-Laurent Agasse was one of the foremost painters of animals in Europe around the end of the 18th C and the beginning of the 19th. His animal art was unusually realistic for the time, and he painted some wild animals including giraffe and leopards.Romantic wildlife art includes "zebra", "cheetah,

stag and two Indians", at least two monkey paintings, a leopard and "portrait of a royal tiger" by George Stubbs who also did many paintings of horses.One of the great wildlife sculptors of the Romantic period was Antoine-Louis Barye. Barye was also a wildlife painter, who demonstrated the typical dramatic concepts and lighting of the romantic movement.Delacroix painted a tiger attacking a horse, which as is common with Romantic paintings, paints subject matter on the border between human (a domesticated horse) and the natural world (a wild tiger).In America, the landscape painting movement of the Romantic era was known as the Hudson River School (1850s - c. 1880). These landscapes occasionally include wildlife, such as the deer in "Dogwood" and "valley of the Yosemite" by Albert Bierstadt, and more obviously in his "buffalo trail", but the focus is on the landscape rather than the wildlife in it.Wildlife artist Ivan Ivanovitch Shishkin demonstrates beautiful use of light in his landscape-oriented wildlife art.Although Romantic painting focused on nature, it rarely portrayed wild animals, tending much more towards the borders between man and nature, such as domesticated animals and people in landscapes rather than the landscapes themselves. Romantic art seems in a way to be about nature, but usually only shows nature from a human perspective.Audubon was perhaps the most famous painter of wild birds at around this time, with a distinctive American style, yet painting the birds realistically and in context, although in somewhat over-dramatic poses. As well as birds, he also painted the mammals of America, although these works of his are somewhat less well known. At around the same time In Europe, Rosa Bonheur was finding fame as a wildlife artist.Amongst Realist art, "the raven" by Manet and "stags at rest" by Rosa Bonheur are genuine wildlife art. However in this artistic movement animals are much more usually depicted obviously as part of a human context.The wildlife art of the impressionist movement includes "angler's prize" by Theodore Clement Steele, and the artist Joseph Crawhall was a specialist wildlife artist strongly influenced by impressionism.At this time, accurate scientific wildlife illustration was also being created. One name known for this kind of work in Europe is John Gould although his wife Elizabeth was the one who actually did most of the illustrations for his books on birds.Post-impressionism (1886 - 1905, France) includes a water-bird in Rousseau's "snake charmer", and Rousseau's paintings, which include wildlife, are sometimes considered Post-impressionist (as well as Fauvist, see below).Fauvism (1904 - 1909, France) often considered the first "modern" art movement, re-thought use of color in art. The most famous fauvist is Matisse, who depicts birds and fish in is "polynesie la Mer" and birds in his "Renaissance". Other wildlife art in this movement includes a tiger in "Surprised! Storm in the Forest" by Rousseau, a lion in his "sleeping Gypsy" and a jungle animal in his "exotic landscape". Georges Braque depicts a bird in many of his artworks, including "L'Oiseaux Bleu et Gris", and his "Astre et l'Oiseau".Ukiyo-e-printmaking (Japanese wood-block prints, originating from 17th C) was becoming known in the West, during the 19th C, and had a great influence on Western painters, particularly in France.Wildlife art in this genre includes several untitled prints (owl, bird, eagle) by Ando Hiroshige, and "crane", "cat and butterfly", "wagtail and wisteria" by Hokusai Katsushika.Wildlife art in the 20th Century, Contemporary art, postmodern art, etc.Changing from the relatively stable views of a mechanical universe held in the 19th-century, the 20th-century shatters these views with such advances as Einstein's Relativity and Freuds sub-conscious psychological influence.The greater degree of contact with the rest of the world had a significant influence on Western arts, such as the influence of African and Japanese art on Pablo Picasso, for example.

American Wildlife artist Carl Runguis spans the end of the 19th and the beginnings of the 20th Century. His style evolved from tightly rendered scientific-influenced style, through impressionist influence, to a more painterly approach.The golden age of illustration includes mythical wildlife "The firebird" by Edmund Dulac, and "tile design of Heron and Fish" by Walter Crane.George Braque's birds can be defined as Analytical Cubist (this genre was jointly developed by Braque and Picasso from 1908 to 1912), (as well as Fauvist). Fernand Leger also depicts birds in his "Les Oiseaux".There was also accurate scientific wildlife illustration being done at around this time, such as those done by America illustrator Louis Agassiz Fuertes who painted birds in America as well as other countries.Expressionism (1905 - 1930, Germany). "Fox", "monkey Frieze, "red deer", and "tiger", etc by Franz Marc qualify as wildlife art, although to contemporary viewers seem more about the style than the wildlife.Postmodernism as an art genre, which has developed since the 1960's, looks to the whole range of art history for its inspiration, as contrasted with Modernism which focuses on its own limited context. A different yet related view of these genres is that Modernism attempts to search for an idealized truth, where as post-modernism accepts the impossibility of such an ideal. This is reflected, for example, in the rise of abstract art, which is an art of the indefinable, after about a thousand years of art mostly depicting definable objects.Magic realism (1960's Germany) often included animals and birds, but usually as a minor feature among human elements, for example, swans and occasionally other animals in many paintings by Michael Parkes.In 1963, Ray Harm is a significant bird artist.Robert Rauschenberg's "American eagle", a Pop Art (mid 1950's onwards) piece, uses the image of an eagle as a symbol rather than as something in its own right, and thus is not really wildlife art. The same applies to Any Warhol's "Butterflys".Salvador Dali, the best known of Surrealist (1920's France, onwards) artists, uses wild animals in some of his paintings, for example "Landscape with Butterflys", but within the context of surrealism, depictions of wildlife become conceptually something other than what they might appear to be visually, so they might not really be wildlife at all. Other examples of wildlife in Surrealist art are Rene Magritte's "La Promesse" and "L'entre ed Scene".Op art (1964 onwards) such as M. C. Escher's "Sky and Water" shows ducks and fish, and "mosaic II" shows many animals and birds, but they are used as image design elements rather than the art being about the animals.Roger Tory Peterson created fine wildlife art, which although being clear illustrations for use in his book which was the first real field guide to birds, are also aesthetically worthy bird paintings.Young British Artists (1988 onwards). Damien Hirst uses a shark in a tank as one of his artworks. It is debatable whether this piece could be considered as wildlife art, because even though the shark is the focus of the piece, the piece is not really about the shark itself, but probably more about the shark's effect on the people viewing it. It could be said to be more a use of wildlife in/as art, than a work of wildlife art.Wildlife art continues to be popular today, with such artists as Robert Bateman being very highly regarded, although in his case somewhat controversial for his release of Limited-Edition prints which certain fine-art critics deplore. Source by Thomas Goldman

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

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Delight in Misery (ao3) - part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8 (interlude)

The Lotus Pier was a free and unrestrained place in comparison with the Cloud Recesses, and there was no similar prohibition on raising pets. This was a good thing, largely because Lan Wangji had recently started to think of his little found family primarily in animal metaphors.

It was, he concluded, because of the way Mo Xuanyu followed Jiang Cheng around like an imprinted duckling, with stars in his eyes and an unfortunate tendency to try to emulate his actions while possessing exactly none of the temperament required to pull any of it off.

Indeed, watching him wheezing his way through a threat to break Jin Ling’s legs was a sight worth seeing, especially with Lan Sizhui patting him on the back and encouraging him when he temporarily got stuck stuttering on the word ‘legs’.

Jiang Cheng, for all his faults and imperfections, could be terrifying when he wished to be, the blood of the battlefields of the Sunshot Campaign forever impressed upon his bones; with Zidian to hand, he could look commanding and fearsome, decisive and harsh, and with his sharp looks and sharper scowl, he cut a fine picture - even if Lan Wangji knew the truth, that behind all that sharpness was the soul of a grumpy marshmallow.

Mo Xuanyu, with his wild thatch-like hair that couldn’t be controlled no matter their joint efforts and even wilder and far more questionable taste in appearance, couldn’t hope to match him, and really ought to stop trying.

Naturally, Jin Ling looked about as convinced about the threats as he ever was when Jiang Cheng said it, meaning of course that he didn’t care one whit, but despite their initial concerns, he took to Mo Xuanyu quite well. Lan Wangji was initially puzzled by it, given their conflicting personalities, but Jiang Cheng insightfully (for once) pointed out that it was most likely that Jin Ling was willing to forgive quite a lot in exchange for having another person dressed in Lanling Jin gold around to make him feel less awkward about it.

The two of them together were two little goldfinches strutting around in a sea of purple – or, perhaps more accurately, two golden roly-poly puppies bounding around, tails wagging, trying to befriend the Jiang sect’s army of sleek haughty purple cats. They were accompanied, of course, by a small, gentle crane with a most un-Lan-like taste for spicy fish with radishes and absolutely no head for water travel.

(They were working with Lan Sizhui on that. He lived in the Jiang sect now; he couldn’t spend his whole life being seasick!)

“What does that make you, then?” Jiang Cheng asked when Lan Wangji – after incessant prodding – mentioned his thoughts on the subject of their growing nest. “Master Rabbit?”

Lan Wangji glared, but didn’t object to the characterization; regardless of his personality, there was good reason to make the association. This was largely because Lan Xichen had recently embarked on a mission to capture the rabbits Lan Wangji had been – not raising, precisely, because pets were forbidden in the Cloud Recesses, but feeding on occasion when he had the time. He had brought them to Lan Wangji’s new “residence” at the Lotus Pier as a housewarming gift.

(Lan Wangji had no intention of moving out of Wei Wuxian’s bedroom, of course, but Jiang Cheng had long ago exercised his authority as sect leader to clear out the rooms just beyond it to create a small additional courtyard for him, in which he could exercise and meditate without being too far from the main quarters of the Jiang sect leader. As a result, the only change involved in his new, public, and above-board decision to reside in the Louts Pier was adding a new entranceway to make it appear as though they lived in separate albeit adjoining houses rather than living together in just one. Of course, it being the Lotus Pier, the new entranceway involved constructing not only a gate but a new bridge…)

“What exactly are we supposed to do with a bunch of rabbits?” Jiang Cheng had demanded at the time, staring down at them - there were rather more than Lan Wangji had remembered there being, but he supposed that was the nature of rabbits.

“I have no idea,” Lan Xichen had replied, smiling broadly. “But Wangji likes them.”

Lan Wangji had pretended that neither of them existed, and also that he was urgently needed elsewhere.

Later, Jiang Cheng had cornered him, demanding an explanation or else the rabbits would be sent down to the kitchens to be repurposed, and Lan Wangji had reluctantly confessed that they were from the burrow first established by the two wild rabbits Wei Wuxian had caught for him all those years ago.

Naturally there was no more talk of repurposing after that, and three sets of rabbit coops – far more than the rabbits Lan Wangji actually possessed required – mysteriously appeared in his small courtyard the next day.

“Wouldn’t want the stupid things to drown,” Jiang Cheng had grumbled when confronted with the evidence of his sentimentality. “If they attacked your garden and tried to burrow down they’d only hit water, and then where would we be? Awash in bunny corpses, that’s where, and that’s just unsanitary. I have a duty as sect leader to preserve the public health, you know.”

Lan Wangji had initially had some difficulty determining what type of animal Jiang Cheng was. He was as prickly as a porcupine, as standoffish as a hedgehog, as fickle as a cat, as graceful and vicious as an angry goose…

Recently, however, Lan Wangji had met a merchant from the south who had been selling a type of bird he called zishuiji, or purple swamphens – the merchant claimed that they were descended from the famous zhanniao, the poisonfeather zhen bird noted for their purple bellies, scarlet beaks, and deadly venom. Although Lan Wangji was moderately certain that the man was exaggerating for the sake of a sale, he had found himself compelled to purchase several sets to house in one of the empty rabbit coops, now moved to be placed in the main courtyard, nominally to be nearer to the waterways but mostly so that they’d be easily accessible to everyone - and, of course, to subtly harass Jiang Cheng.

It turned out that zishuiji could apparently be treated in much the same way as chickens. They were highly adaptable, but thrived best near water; they were generally shy around humans, but vicious in defending their territory, capable of biting and mobbing when provoked; and they preferred to raise their eggs with company –

Truly, he had found the right bird for Jiang Cheng.

(Not to mention the euphonious imagery of a purple hen strutting around with its purple lighting, zishuiji with zidian...truly, a picture meant for the ages. Lan Wangji determined at once to make a painting of it and insist Jiang Cheng hang it on some wall. Maybe even one of the ones in the main hall, where strangers could see.)

“Some of these are getting used for food,” Jiang Cheng insisted with a glare. “Some of the rabbits, too. There are no rules against the killing of livestock here, you hear me?”

Mo Xuanyu fell in love with them immediately – Jiang Cheng’s theory was that he was entranced by their iridescent feathers, while Lan Wangji’s view was that he recognized the innate Jiang Cheng-ness of them – and quickly took charge of their care, although Lan Sizhui and Jin Ling routinely assisted in collecting eggs.

Jiang Cheng reluctantly admitted, after some time, that the purchase had been a good one, if only because it served to settle their little awkward duckling into place, finally allowing Mo Xuanyu some sense of stability, as if having some type of small duty for which he was responsible was all he needed to believe that he wouldn’t be forced back to Lanling or to Mo village, his original place of origin, which he somehow feared even more than the backstabbing snakepit of Koi Tower.

(“You need to stop calling him a duckling,” Jiang Cheng said, quivering with laughter. “Do you know that could also mean…no, I’m not saying it. Anyway, he’s such an impressionable brat. Did you see what he did with that make-up he bought? He really does look a bit...”

From this, Lan Wangji inferred that the nickname was both extremely apt, extremely unfortunate, and had permanently stuck.)

In fact, despite initial concerns, it had been surprisingly comfortable to bring Mo Xuanyu into their lives at the Lotus Pier.

He was grateful and happy to be there, which helped; Lan Sizhui was welcoming, and Jin Ling somewhat reluctantly accepting, each for their own reasons, which helped more.

Best of all, he was at just the right age to be a regular disciple, and the current Jiang sect was especially welcoming to outsiders, having been cobbled together from a wide range of previously rogue cultivators and the small handful of survivors of the previous sect’s massacres. It improved Mo Xuanyu’s mood tremendously to be around boys and girls his own age, doing the same thing as them, without the weight of Lanling Jin’s expectations on his shoulders even if he sometimes wore their colors.

“He’s never going to be the most martially inclined,” Jiang Cheng opined after a small period of observation. “But he might make a decent administrator.”

Lan Wangji glanced at him sidelong in silent question, since Mo Xuanyu had not displayed any especially notable scholastic talents either. He had started cultivating fairly late, although obviously not as late as Jin Guangyao, but he lacked the other man’s genius for organization and management. Moreover, while his studies did admittedly exceeded the low bar set in Lan Wangji’s mind by Nie Huaisang’s miserable performance, that was a very low bar indeed.

(Nie Huaisang wasn’t stupid, he reminded himself once again. He was in fact extremely clever. And yet, even knowing what he knew, it was so easy to forget…)

“He’s kind and thoughtful of the well-being of others,” Jiang Cheng said, averting his gaze and pretending his cheeks weren’t tinting red. “Calligraphy and math, people skills, that can all be learned, but at least he has the important part down…I told you to stop doing that.”

Lan Wangji ignored him and continued to smile.

“Freak,” Jiang Cheng muttered, then shook his head. “I can’t believe anyone actually listens to you. Least of all me!”

Lan Wangji rolled his eyes. That part was Jiang Cheng’s own fault – he’d been using Lan Wangji as a sounding board more or less from the beginning, and started making him do some of his paperwork as soon as he’d been regularly awake for more than a shichen at a time under the barely plausible claim that it was good for him to exercise his hands. Now that Lan Wangji was officially out of seclusion, Jiang Cheng had promptly shoveled even more work at him – despite the fact that they were supposedly at each other’s throats.

The Jiang disciples that had not been in the loop – most of them, to Lan Wangji’s mild surprise – adjusted quickly, especially after they noticed the long-suffering expressions on the faces of Jiang Cheng’s immediate deputies. They had remained wary for a while, possibly expecting Lan Wangji to seek to implement the Lan sect rules at any moment, but after a time he had managed to win their confidence through his efficient administration and respect for their customs.

He did…rather a lot, actually. He reviewed the sect’s accounts along with Jiang Cheng, managed certain negotiations, oversaw the continuing reconstruction efforts, reviewed submitted proposals –

All things that the Lan sect did as well, but which had never come to him before. Lan Wangji suspected that in many cases, they did not even come to his brother or his uncle, who were nominally in charge of such things; the Lan sect disdained such worldly affairs, while the Jiang sect embraced them.

Although while he was on the subject of being above worldly affairs, it occured to him that he had not had an opportunity to take Bichen out recently, and it would be good to do so. He would need to come up with some excuse to insist on Jiang Cheng accompanying him for a night hunt sometime soon, some reason that would stand up to scrutiny from the outside.

As for convincing Jiang Cheng himself, however, that would be no problem.

“We are going night-hunting soon,” he informed Jiang Cheng, who looked appalled by the very thought.

“You’re joking, right?” he demanded. “Do you know how much work we have to do? The yearly update with the dyer’s guild is –”

“Not for another two months, and preparation typically takes only two weeks.”

“Reconstruction –”

“Does not require constant supervision at this stage.”

“The – there’s training –”

Lan Wangji attempted to convey his feelings on the validity of that excuse entirely through his facial expression, and it must have worked because Jiang Cheng crumbled at once, grumbling to himself.

“Who’ll we leave the children with?” he tried. “Especially with Xuanyu being so new – oh, all right. It’s weak and I know it, you don’t have to give me that judgmental look of yours.”

“If Jiang Wanyin believes that his skills have gotten so rusty that he would be unable to keep up…”

“I’m going to break your legs,” Jiang Cheng hissed at him. “I’m going to – to – oh, wait, actually, there is a reason we can’t go just yet. We’re expecting honored guests!”

Lan Wangji arched his eyebrows.

“You wouldn’t have seen the report yet, it’s still on our desk,” Jiang Cheng said. “You know of the Baixue Temple, right?”

Lan Wangji looked askance, indicating that he had of course heard of the temple, a renowned place of learning, but that he presumed that that was not what Jiang Cheng meant and also that perhaps Jiang Cheng would like to get to the point at some time before their deaths from old age.

“Fuck you too,” Jiang Cheng said conversationally, having learned the nuances of Lan Wangji’s expressions by now. “It was attacked recently, and rumor has it that it was Xue Yang that did it. Yes, the same Xue Yang who did the Chang clan massacre, the one the Jin sect was protecting before they washed their hands of him.”

Lan Wangji frowned.

“They made it through with relatively minimal casualties,” Jiang Cheng assured him. “Out of luck, mostly – when Xue Yang disappeared before his trial, the Nie sect made sure word got out everywhere, and Lianfeng-zun, who might’ve quashed it, even helped spread them, instead. From what I understand, Xiao Xingchen and Song Zichen returned to Baixue Temple to make sure it wouldn’t be attacked over their part in Xue Yang’s initial arrest, as it later turned out to be - truly, evil is mundane and predictable. They led the defensive efforts and saved many lives.”

Xiao Xingchen and Song Zichen –

Lan Wangji had heard Jiang Cheng speak of them before, of course. Rogue cultivators of considerable fame, who had refused all offers to join any of the sects, major or minor, but instead professed a desire to start a cultivation school of the old-fashioned sort, valuing affinity and merit over blood relation.

Not that that was what had caught the attention of Lan Wangj, or of Jiang Cheng for that matter.

Rather, it was said that Xiao Xingchen was a disciple of Baoshan Sanren, the famous immortal that lived secluded on the mountain. That made him Wei Wuxian’s martial uncle, and both of them were shamelessly interested in all things relating even tangentially to Wei Wuxian, however indirectly.

Jiang Cheng had sent several invitations for a visit back when the Chang clan disaster had happened. None had been accepted, which was probably all for the best – he had had to stop inviting them on account of how they’d angered the Jin sect over the matter.

(It had caused Jiang Cheng no end of nightmares, the feeling of complicity in a massacre just like the one that had destroyed his own sect sending him into a spiral of self-hatred, questioning his own morality and righteousness, wondering if his ancestors were judging him and finding him wanting, wondering if Wei Wuxian was –

It had not been a good time, a thankfully temporary reversion back to the bad days closer to the start. But Jiang Cheng was better now.)

“Why accept an invitation now?” Lan Wangji asked.

“They’re planning on hunting him down, I think, and having learned a little bit from last time, they want to get as many allies on board as possible in advance,” Jiang Cheng said, and shook his head at the depressing need to account for worldly politics when seeking to live a righteous life. A lesson hard-learned, for both of them. “They wrote to me first, this time. In return, I plan to indicate that they are welcome to come to the Lotus Pier to try to convince me – we’ll agree to help them, of course, but it’ll be nice to share a meal with them. Maybe some stories.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji said. “And entertainment, of course.”

Jiang Cheng looked at him.

“We should take them night-hunting,” Lan Wangji elaborated, and Jiang Cheng scowled at him.

“There are oxen less stubborn than you! Donkeys! Geese!”

Lan Wangji was not a goose. A crane, perhaps, like Lan Sizhui – gentle and graceful and well-educated, with a sharp beak that most people overlooked.

He suspected Jiang Cheng would argue instead for the goose.

“I will write to my brother,” he said, opting to change the subject. “Xue Yang is a sensitive subject for his sworn brothers, as you know. It would be best to prepare him should they resume their fight with each other.”

“Oh, that’s just what we need,” Jiang Cheng grumbled. “Lianfeng-zun and Chifeng-zun at each other’s throats again…did I tell you about the series of small but extremely irritating disasters that happened that time I was at Koi Tower? The room flooding, the too-thick incense, the – the thing with the cat –”

“I also recall you coming back from a night-hunt with Chifeng-zun with an expression suggesting that someone had put the fear of death into you, yes,” Lan Wangji said.

“It’s Chifeng-zun. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you avoiding any circumstances where he could have the same talk with you!”

Lan Wangji did not deny it. As he was not a sect leader, he could avoid such things with much greater ease than poor Jiang Cheng – who was glaring again.

“You should try harder to get along with him,” he remarked, and Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrowed even further. “You have many things in common –”

“Lan Wangji. You are, as A-Yuan’s father, permitted to set up as many playdates for him as you’d like. You are not permitted to do the same for me.”

Lan Wangji nodded, indicating that would give that all the consideration it deserved, namely none.

Jiang Cheng made a sound not unlike the whistling of a boiling pot.

Lan Wangji decided that a triumphant but timely retreat was appropriate.

#mdzs #lan wangji #jiang cheng #mo xuanyu #my fic #my fics #delight in misery

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spacedlexi · 3 years

Text

violentine fic snippets 😳🍊💜 pls i need someone to read this

the last few paragraphs are now basically an unintentional direct middle finger to skybound

Violet and Clementine were tasked with fishing duty. The snow crunched under their feet as the two made their way out quietly towards the old shack. Although the both of them had become close during the ordeal with the raiders, a certain silence always seemed to settle upon them when they went down to the river, when they saw that busted up old truck. They both missed Brody, but it still hurt to think about her, and so they said nothing.

Clementine looked up towards the heavy clouds that hung above their heads, and her face twisted. These kinds of clouds once made her excited this time of year, but now it really only ever brought a sense of dread. Nothing good ever happens when it snows anymore.

The silence between the two was only broken once they finally made their way inside the shack, the both of them shivering as they stomped the snow off their boots.

"Fuck," Violet cursed as she rubbed at her arms, trying to generate some heat. Clementine was already making her way to the back of the small, cluttered room where the gear lay against the wall. Violet quickly joined the other girl's side, leaning down to grab one of the buckets.

As she did so, she kept her eyes averted from the carving in the wall that she was all too aware of.

That one hurt to think about too.

---

"Shit, Clem, I- I can't see anything!"

The girls both held their arms across their faces, trying to shield their eyes against the snow. They had tried to head for the school, but Clementine was still new to these woods, and if Violet couldn't tell where to go...

Frustrated, Clementine turned back, following their fresh tracks before they began to disappear. "Violet, we have to go back to the shack, we can't just stumble around out here." Just because walkers were slower in the winter didn't mean they couldn't still be a threat. She was getting wet from snow and sweat and it was chilling her to the bone.

"Fuck...fuck..." Violet quietly berated herself as she relented, turned and hurriedly caught up to Clementine's side, keeping close as to not get separated. She couldn't believe how quickly this weather had set in, and how much it obscured her vision. Violet had never been caught in such a storm before.

But it was not Clementine's first bad storm, and as the two trudged together through the snow, she wished they had just left with the few fish when they had the chance. Walking around, lost in the woods, in the snow and the blinding fog... It brought back dreadful memories.

---

Clementine still watched the other girl from the corner of her gaze, smiling in slight amusement at the frustrated pout on Violet's face. Her hair was slowly melting and it dripped off of her hands, soaking into the already damp fabric of her long sleeves.

Clementine would be lying if she said she didn't have deeper feelings for the other girl, but she had seen that heart carved deep into the wall. She knew what, or rather who "V+M" stood for, and she told AJ it meant they must've been a couple. Girlfriends...

After everything that had happened with the raiders... with Minnie... Clementine wasn't sure what Violet was feeling about that whole situation, and she didn't want to make the other girl feel like she had to talk about it. There's plenty of her own past that she'd rather not think about.

So Clementine kept her distance, even though she only wanted to be closer.

"You look like a wet cat." She finally piped up, trying to break through the last bit of tension.

"...Shut up..." It was a weak response behind a tiny, amused smile. Violet tried to hide it, turning her head away, but Clementine could see it, could hear the laugh in her voice.

---

She wasn't the most skilled at the craft, but Violet managed to cut the meat off of one of the fish, then used the bucket to fry their meal over the fire.

"I know it's been, like, practically a decade, but eating food like this sucks..."

Clementine laughed at that. "Trust me, there are worse things people are eating out there right now."

Violet gave a short laugh in return, "Oh yeah, didn't you say you ate a dude's leg once?"

"Hey, I said I was joking about that," Clementine playfully pushed Violet's shoulder with her own, and they both laughed. "I /almost/ ate a dude's leg once." But Clementine's laughter died down as the events of that evening from so long ago began to resurface in her mind.

There really weren't many happy memories left.

---

As Violet set the buckets by the fire, she noticed Clementine had removed her prosthetic. It rested now against the side of the hearth, its rabbit hide absorbing the heat. She looked at it fondly, the familiar leather strap and red lace making memories resurface in her mind.

"I still can't believe AJ and Willy really asked Lou and I to help them get your boot back," Violet said as she went to sit back down where she had been earlier, a tired smile on her face.

Clementine let out a short laugh as she watched Violet come back around. "Honestly? I can't believe you both said yes."

Violet was too embarrassed to say that she didn't even hesitate at their request, so instead talked about the others. "Well, Louis wasn't exactly /thrilled/ about the idea... Ha, you should've seen his face once we found it. And AJ just went over and picked it up like it was nothing." She adjusted her voice, trying to mimic the young boy, "He was all, /What? I cut it off, didn't I?/"

The story made Clementine laugh, at least a bit. It also made her unable to look away from the empty space where her left foot once belonged. She sighed, "Yeah, he's a brave kid..."

Then the room fell silent, and Violet began to worry if maybe she shouldn't have said anything. Clementine nor AJ had told the rest of the kids the full story of what happened to them out in the woods, but she doubted that it brought back any good memories. Before she could worry too much, Clementine spoke up once more.

"If he had listened to me... Well, let's just say, you don't know /how/ relieved I was when I woke up in my bed."

"Me too." The words left Violet's mouth before they even had a chance to filter in her brain, and she tensed. "Uh, I mean-" she scrambled to save face, "we all were, Clem..."

Violet remembered that night clearly. She remembered barely making it back to the school herself. She remembered that awful, sunken feeling in her chest when she realized Clementine and AJ were still somewhere out in the woods. She had wandered the old safe zone, too nervous to rest and too ashamed of herself to be around the others. She had just left them on the other side of that chain link fence. Clementine was injured and Violet had just... left her there.

"I just..." Violet hesitated, knowing something stupid was about to come out of her mouth, but she couldn't stop herself. "There were just so many times that night that I- uh..." she swallowed her stutter. "We were just so afraid that we'd never see you again..."

Clementine looked up at that, the words reminding her of ones she heard during that night in question. Tennessee had confessed to her just how lost and scared they had been on their own, and when Clementine turned to lock her eyes with Violet's, she could see that fear that Tennessee had talked about.

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere."

#violentine #twdg #the walking dead game #ok i see a number of you are awake ahah OK FINE HERE you better give me feedback then!!!#i can just....boost it later if i want......#the last snippet is the last thing i have written besides my notes #i just keep editing it as im writing it like an IDIOT #i GOTTA write more #my notes for the rest of it are basically ?? done??? so i have no excuse now #it speaks #UHH ive never posted a fic on tumblr before i dont have a tag for this #it doesnt even have a name yet.....

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darkpoisonouslove · 3 years

Text

The Light in You Is Shining in My Eyes

Summary: Robin is annoyed with the conditions of the nature hike she’s on when she falls through a hole in the ground to discover the domain of a nymph. The short encounter changes her life when she’s touched by Alice’s spirit and kindness.

Special credit to the guest stars of this fanfic - mosquitoes. They are playing a very important role in the lives of our leading ladies. XD

For @intothewickedwood. I wish you all the best and many, many smiles!

The leaves rustling in the wind were drowned out by the laughter of large friend groups taking selfies and screaming children on family hikes but the cloud of mosquitoes surrounding Robin buzzed in her ears over all of that. Waving her hands to chase them away was like sticking them in the beast's mouth. Mosquito bites covered her like a map of her blood flow and the thin flannel shirt over her tank top only stuck to her skin with sweat to irritate her rather than protect her.

There was an unusual presence of mosquitoes at the spot where she was growing roots as if to taunt her. Killian had left her there to the annoying and hungry insects to follow up the fox tracks he'd spotted. Walking away was an option but the worst one. Having a phone on him didn't do much when Killian was a technological disaster so she had to wait around if she didn't want to lose him. Her mom would kill them both over the phone at the smallest mishap. Even the little pricks preying on her blood were preferable to never being let out of her room again, let alone Storybrooke.

A mosquito landed on her arm where she'd pushed the shirt off her shoulder. Robin got it before it could bite her smearing it over her skin. Her face twisted in disgust as her fingers brushed it away and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other as if that could help her escape.

She froze at a loud crack under her feet but to no avail. She plunged through the crumbling ground.

Great! Down the rabbit hole was the last thing she needed. Underground roots tugged at her hair and whipped at her hands when she raised them. There was no avoiding the hard soil under her weight or the sharp-edged stones poking her but she could protect her face and her glasses. Her heart pounded in her ears over her own screaming.

Her feet hit the ground to send the impact rattling up her bones. She was thrown forward, down into a pile of damp leaves. The smell of decay hit her from the heap of brown, yellow and red to give her a boost.

She pushed herself up on all fours. She was a breath away from a thick trunk in front of her. A few more inches and she would've face-planted into a tree. A very peculiar tree.

A woman's face was carved into it, though it could hardly be the work of a human hand or mind. Every line and curve was one with the tree bark as if shaped into it from the inside of the trunk rather than hacked into it with a blade. The woman's features were detailed despite the gentility with which they were imprinted in the tree and made her look ethereal. Like a work of art brought to life.

Robin squinted at the faint light trying to make out more before she lifted her head to look for the source. She'd fallen underground but all that was above her head was a thick net of intertwined tree branches that formed the ceiling of a tunnel. The light was coming from somewhere above, golden-white like a whisper of sun rays. It was far from bright or sufficient.

Robin pushed herself up to her knees to fish her phone out of her jeans' pocket. In the light of the screen a scratch on her hand caught her eye. She hadn't felt it through the rush of adrenaline but it wasn't the only one. She was covered in shallow slashes on her exposed skin and where her jeans and shirt had ripped. One of her bracelets had torn off as well from the fall but she ignored them. She could only have them tended to once she was back on the surface.

Focusing on her phone left her rolling her eyes at the different notifications from social media waiting for her before she'd even unlocked it. She'd told her so-called friends she was taking a hiatus on all her platforms while traveling to distance herself from the routine of Storybrooke. Yet her phone was still a receptacle for gossip that bored her to death and performative acts of friendship.

She swiped aside the notifications to get to the flashlight. It shined light into the endless darkness of the tunnel and Robin raised it towards the face in the tree.

"Hey! Stop that!" a loud voice sent her hurtling back, phone dropping in the pile of dead leaves while her heart pounded all around her in the black absence of her flashlight.

"What the bloody hell?" Robin groaned as a sturdy root poking from the ground stabbed her in the small of her back.

The tree bark stretched in front of her to shape the rest of the woman and fell back into a normal trunk when she phased out of it. "Oh, no, none of that in my park."

Robin shuffled backwards, mouth gaping open. "Wh-what are you?" her fingers dug in the ground, the pain rushing through them doing nothing to snap her out of... whatever this was. If she had to guess, she'd hit her head in the tree and had dreamed up everything after that. Either that or she'd breathed in something highly questionable rummaging around Killian's boat.

"What? What? What a rude question! I am not a what," the woman spoke fast, her diction and tone the embodiment of time if Robin had ever imagined what it would sound like. "My name is Alice and I'm a tree nymph and guardian of this park."

Robin had read about nymphs in a book her mom had borrowed from her sister. All she could recall was that they were nature spirits that lived in trees. That was true enough but she had no idea whether she should work on returning her heart back in her chest from her throat or yelling for help with all the might of her lungs.

"I-I'm sorry," she stuttered. She swallowed quickly under Alice's calm gaze. "You just startled me." She wasn't menacing but that didn't mean she wasn't dangerous.

"Well, you were shining that flashlight in my eyes."

Right. Her phone. She'd have to grope around for it since the leaves had swallowed its light. Or she'd broken it.

"You're familiar with phones?" Robin's eyebrows rose high on her forehead.

"Thousands of people come here every day and they all bring phones with them. It would be impossible to miss it. I'd have to turn away from the park. Were you looking at your phone when you missed the hole in the ground?"

"No." Robin patted her hands down on her jeans. She'd already destroyed those. She could leave all the dust on them to keep it away from her glasses and hair. "I was trying to get rid of a mosquito."

"You failed in that," Alice was staring at her like she could see not just the outside of her in the dark but also the inside. "There's still some of it left on your arm."

Robin's face contorted again at the proof of Alice's words as she swiped her fingers over her arm. "How did you-"

"I told you. I'm the guardian of this park. I'm connected to all life here. I felt that mosquito die as you squashed it," her voice quieted and a gleam of light reflected in the wetness in her eyes. It was deafening in the aura of strength she exuded. As if all life stopped to pay its respects to a little insect.

"I'm sorry," Robin fiddled with the loose ends of her shirt. She hadn't meant to do that. She hadn't meant to disturb her.

"Don't apologize to me. It's the mosquito you wronged but apologies won't bring back its life."

Robin frowned. "It was going to bite me."

"That's what mosquitoes do. Would you kill a person for eating food or drinking water?"

"But it's... different," Robin faltered under the power of Alice's resolve. She'd never raised her voice. It just echoed around them like it reached every inch of the park, like it was a part of it. "Mosquitoes aren't-"

"They aren't important? And what is important? Not the mosquitoes, not the bees, not the sea turtles, not the melting ice caps, not the rain forests, not the ozone layer, not Earth, not anything," her voice sped up with the anxious energy seeping into it. She wasn't angry. She was distressed.

Robin's mouth hung open as her eyes filled with tears at her loss for words. Someone who was one with nature was so shaken from the things that Robin closed her eyes to when she didn't have the power to change them singlehandedly. And Alice for all her understanding and care for life couldn't change them either.

"Robin," Killian's voice dropped from the hole like a lifeline to grab on to before she or Alice could break down. "Are you down there, lass?"

Robin looked up the hole she'd fallen through. There was nothing but darkness as all the twists and turns got in the way of the light coming in. "Yeah, I'm here, Killian," Robin yelled back, chest moving easier with the relief that he'd found her.

"I'll get you out of there. Do you think you'll be able to get out if I let down a rope for you?"

"Yes, that should work." There was no other plausible option even if neither of them knew how deep she'd fallen. Killian had tons of rope on his boat. The question was how quickly he'd be able to carry them over. It wasn't a short distance to the docks on the route they'd taken.

Robin turned back to Alice to find a question clearly etched on her face. "He's a close friend of my mom and aunt's. He instantly agreed to take me on his trip when I asked to join him." It was a miracle she'd convinced her mom to let her go.

Alice nodded. "Sounds good. But you won't be able to climb up like that. Your ankle's sprained. Can't you feel it?"

Robin stared at Alice's face. Her constant concern with all life around her should have carved deep lines in her skin but it only lit her eyes up like stars in the dark tunnel. Maybe she was the source of the dim light, though if it were her, there would have been a shine brighter than the sun above.

Robin tried her ankle at the reminder of the climb awaiting her. "Ow!" she whimpered at the charge of pain shooting through her. "You're right. I won't be climbing up that hole."

"Hold still," Alice knelt down next to her slowly as if to keep from scaring her.

In the proximity Robin's eyes caught on the material of Alice's dress. She'd assumed it was somehow her hair twisted and braided around her body due to the similar color but it was strands of dry grass instead. A summer coming to an end.

"I'll heal it," Alice startled her back to reality.

Robin opened her mouth to ask how but Alice was already rolling her jeans up. She locked her hands around the exposed skin to pour energy into it. A ring of waves closed around Robin's ankle, each washing away the pain and swelling little by little.

"How do you do that?" Robin gasped, her chest barely moving in the delicate balance of the magical process even if there was nothing fragile in Alice's concentration.

"Nymph magic."

"Whoa!"

"You don't believe me?" Alice looked up at her, eyes so blue she could have captured the whole ocean in them.

"I do. That's the thing." Robin could feel the magic working its... well, magic. And even if she couldn't, she'd believe whatever Alice told her. She was genuine in a striking way that didn't cancel out her gentleness. There wasn't the rawness of cynicism and jadedness Robin had seen in her mom and aunt and anyone else who used the truth to slap you in the face with it. Alice was just honest because it was her nature just as empathy and tenderness were. All that was left a mystery was what she wanted with Robin. For someone so genuine she sure wasn't easy to read.

"Why are you helping me?"

"I've always liked robins." Alice smiled, more to herself than to Robin. "Though, you're the most prickly one I've met."

"I'm not... I'm not prickly." At least she wasn't trying to be. "And I'm not a robin." All she could make fly were arrows.

"Humans are a part of nature, too. And all nature is beautiful and needs preservation." Alice looked up at the tree branches–or were they roots?–or what lay above them. "It pains me to see the direction in which the human race is driving the entire planet. It didn't use to be like that. People were one with nature. Now they're trying to escape from it and sacrifice it in the name of progress. When nature is progress, it is growth, it is life."

"How would you solve the problem then?" Robin had always been put off by the radical notions of exterminating humankind to let Earth heal. And leaving behind her environment hadn't worked for her on a personal level either.

"By being kinder and valuing the life of every person, every animal and every plant. By respecting nature and working with it, not against it. By giving it in return as much as you take from it. It is a powerful force but it is not unlimited, you know?" Alice's hands retreated from Robin's ankle and she buried them in the leaves around them. The perfect proof of her words. Her domain along with all nature above ground and even her outfit were cycling through different seasons to replenish their energy. "It needs tending to and someone to take care of it once in a while just as it takes care of everything and everyone."

Alice pulled her hand out of the fallen leaves with Robin's phone clasped in it. The flashlight was still on and blinded Robin as Alice handed it to her. She understood Alice's frustration from before.

"How old are you?" she asked, fingers curling around her phone desperately It was only Alice's face in front of her that kept her eyes away from the screen in pursuit of some clue to the answer.

"You really are a rude one, aren't you?" Alice teased, a grin from one ear to the other on her face. She probably didn't get a lot of company.

"Wow, that old, huh?" Robin chuckled. "Well, you do look spectacular for your age." She was a vision. Robin was lucky she hadn't hit her head and missed all of this. A dark and humid underground tunnel that was the home of the kindest soul she'd ever met.

"The light comes from the trees above," Alice explained when she noticed her staring at them. So those were roots then on the ceiling of the tunnel. "They spare some of theirs for me and my tree. Just enough to let me live," Alice smiled brightly even as she was starting to fade. Her energy came from the light and there wasn't that much of it as the sun must have started to set.

"Robin," Killian's voice reached her again. "I got the rope. Here you go."

Dirt fell from the hole as the rope skidded down before it unrolled in Robin's feet. There was even some length to spare as Robin scurried to turn off her flashlight and shove her phone back in her pocket to grab the rope.

"Thank you," she looked to Alice. "Looks like I have to go. At least if we want you to stay hidden." That had to be the reason why her tree was in the tunnel of roots with barely any light reaching it.

"Goodbye," Alice clasped her hands in front of her before raising one to wave stiffly.

Robin would abandon the rope and run into her arms to remain tangled in the tree roots if it wouldn't alert the world above to Alice's existence. She nodded and climbed into the hole.

"Take care, little robin. You can do more than you know," Alice's voice had the rope slipping in her sweaty palms.

Robin craned her neck back for a last peek but Alice was gone, retired to her tree. Her face was the only thing showing in the bark, her eyes staring upwards into the mellow glow of light coming from the roots of her park.

Robin pulled herself up, arms wailing as she climbed. She had to press her back to one end of the hole and her feet into the other to push herself up. She was an archer, not a body builder. Her back would be bruised from all the roots and stones poking it on her way up and she chaffed her palms on the rope.

She must have fallen into the very core of the Earth with how long it took her to make her way out The hole was cramped and claustrophobic and the only thing that kept her going was the certainty in the pit of her stomach that there would be no Alice to heal her if she plummeted back down. Nearly losing her glasses as she glanced down convinced her to train her gaze on the passage above her and light finally hit her eyes.

Killian grabbed her hand and then her arms to pull her out. All her muscles burned as she sprawled on the ground.

"Are you okay?" His concerned face blocked out the trees above her.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Robin heaved out while her senses adapted to the brightness and loud noises along with all the different smells.

A mosquito landed on the back of her hand. She winced at its bite but left it to its devices. It was only doing what was natural for mosquitoes.

"Here, you dropped your bracelet," Killian handed her the offensive thing in blue and white. It was from a girl she'd never liked and belonged in the trash. She'd worn it to keep up appearances because it'd mattered to her whether the people that were hardly her friends liked her or not. It'd mattered until she'd fallen down the rabbit hole.

Looking at her hand, the mosquito was gone to differ from the bracelets. They were the real parasites. Out of the twelve she still had on only one or two called smiles to her face. The rest were coming right off.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Killian asked as he watched her tug on them like she'd lost her mind.

"I'm fine," she repeated. Better than ever. The mist in her head was clearing to leave her with ideas. All the followers she had on her social platforms keeping up with her archery achievements would be the perfect audience for a new ecological lifestyle she wanted to start. That would be the meaningful thing she'd been looking for all along to expand her consciousness and her world. And she had only Alice to thank for opening her eyes. Thank goodness for phones and flashlights you could shine in a tree nymph's eyes.

#once upon a time #ouat #robin mills #alice jones #curious archer #killian jones #wish hook #(he's kind of an amalgamation of the two)#fanfiction #my fanfiction #my writing #happy birthday becky!

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amethystpath-writes · 3 years

Note

I loved your recent drabble Dragged by the Ankle! Do we maybe get to see some of Villain's training in the woods? ~tears-and-lillies

Aw shucks! Thank you; glad you liked it! It was a little less training and a little more surviving ;) Very long, but I think it's appropriate to be so. Slight gore warning: animal attack, can see the bones, mention of blood, survival (in the woods) situation- whump of minors

Continuation of this

******

"I'm thirstyyyyyy," one boy complained as the group continued walking.

Villain wondered how long it'd been since they'd been outcasted. He recalled the way Hero's face changed; from worried and scared to...to stone cold, emotionless. He didn't think he'd ever forget that face, the face of indifference, as if Hero didn't even care about him anymore.

How could that happen? How could they have been so close, been so happy being brothers, all for Hero to just...abandon him? Walk him out in the woods with a group of other kids and say 'Fend for yourselves. And if you live through two weeks, you can come back'?

Villain couldn't understand why his older brother suddenly didn't care at all. He knew Villain wouldn't survive out here in the woods like this. He'd been housebound for several months, taking care of their deteriorating mother. Any muscle Villain once had was nearly gone. He wasn't skin and bones per say, but he couldn't wrestle a bear, that was for sure.

"Quiet, now. I'm going to teach you all something." It was an older boy, maybe sixteen, whereas Villain was fourteen. This boy had been a captain's son. Guess he wasn't living up to the Captain's standards. "Sh, sh. Listen, alright?"

The boys went silent. Most of them were under the age of ten. It was ridiculously unfair they had been sent to the woods. It was unfair that any of them had been, but who could send a child to fend for itself in the woods, somewhere far away from civilization, far away from help? 'Strength in numbers' Hero had said before setting them off. 'Stick together and more of you will live as opposed to if you split up'. A true soldier's lesson. These boys weren't soldiers though. They were just boys.

"You hear that flow of water?" A collective nod of heads. Villain stood nearby, but also a little separated from the group, leaning against a tree. "Which direction do you think we need to walk to find the water?"

One kid began humming in question, but the eldest put a finger to his lips, whispering again, "Listen. You have to be quiet in order to listen."

Another boy raised a hand.

"Not yet. Let the others think of an answer themselves." The oldest hummed himself, and the boy from before nearly corrected him before the former finished, "When everyone has thought of an answer, put a thumb up, alright? Then we'll all point where we think."

***

"You're really good with them," Villain said. "The younger boys."

The sixteen year old shrugged. "Thanks, I guess." He gave a small laugh. "I'm not used to interacting with them in that way. I guess it's just the way I always wanted to be treated."

"In any way, you're good at it."

He nodded, muttered another small 'Thanks'.

***

They were on their fourth day. Villain considered the sixteen year old a friend. He was closer to his own age than anyone else. He was kind and he was a good leader. Villain aspired to be him in some fashion. Not entirely, because Villain liked his own identity, but he wished he was stronger, more capable like Friend.

It was night now, and Villain couldn't sleep as everyone else did. He kept thinking about Hero, about how much he missed his older brother.

They had always been so close. When Father returned home, Hero would always take Villain out to the cliff edge. There, they would forget about the day's stress and aggravations. Sometimes they'd throw what little sand they could find at one another. Villain smiled at this memory, smiled at remembering the way they laughed together and the way, when he began to tire, Hero would lie down and Villain used him as a pillow. They'd watch the sun set over the waters then walk home.

There was a groan, and Villain looked over at the group of boys with raised brows. Friend sat up and Villain nodded, having figured out who it was.

Friend stretched before asking, "Have you slept at all?"

Villain shook his head. "Restless mind, restless body."

"You haven't been sleeping very much. It's going to catch up with you." He stood, stretched, and walked over to Villain before slinking beside him against the trunk of a tree. "What would help you sleep, huh?"

Villain shrugged at Friend. "Nothing that can actually happen."

"What is it?"

"I want my brother to be here with me."

Friend hummed. He did that a lot. "I could be your brother. Wouldn't be quite the same, I know, but if you think it would help..."

Villain huffed. "Don't force a relationship on my behalf. I'll get over it."

"You're angry," Friend observed aloud. "Your brother let them take you away, didn't they?"

Now Villain laughed. It was an ironic laugh, one that presented his anger further. Really, he didn't know he was angry until Friend said it. But it was true. He was angry with Hero, not just saddened by him. "My brother is the one who led us out here."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

***

Several more days passed and Villain was struggling. His thirst was quenched; the boys traveled upstream, always having water on hand as long as they could make a fire, and they could. The lands were dry, though not so dry as to start a forest fire. A general campfire was easy. It was the hunger, though, that dug at Villain.

There were seven boys in the group, including Villain and Friend, and it was only those two that were successful in capturing rabbits, squirrels, and fish, but it happened so seldom that Villain hadn't even had anything to eat. He gave it all to the younger children. Friend did the same, except he had one fish for himself, in the middle of the night once, to maintain his strength.

***

Another day. Another night.

The boys were walking, all of them a bit tired from the journey, but persevering nonetheless. They were going to settle in a bend of the river, a 'comfy spot' the younglings said. Villain knew it was because it reminded them of the hugs they missed from their mothers.

Friend held a hand up, shushing the group. There was a howl somewhere in the distance, but if they could hear it, it meant it was too close. They'd never had to fight a predator before, even after a full week.

"Wolves," Friend said. "They don't travel alone; they travel in packs, like us." Villain liked this comparison. They weren't boys, were they? They were all wolves, too. But which pack was stronger?

The boys scrambled about, crying with worry of death. Friend did his best to calm them down, but ultimately it was Villain who succeeded in doing so.

"You don't want to be wolves, do you?"

Some still crying, the majority shook their heads. Others just listened.

"Did you ever hear about these creatures called monkeys?" They nodded. "They don't live around here, but we can make them exist. You want to?" Again, they nodded. "Good," Villain smiled. "Good. Monkeys climb in trees, alright? So that's what we have to do."

One boy, the youngest, asked, "What noise do they make?" He was one of the few who hadn't been crying. He seemed to not understand what was going on around him. He played with a twig in his chubby hands.

"Noise? Oh no. They don't make any sounds. That's a myth."

The boy squinted, but accepted it.

More howls sounded. They were getting closer. Villain looked to Friend. He felt very terrified all of a sudden.

Friend said, "Up you go, in the trees." The boys began jumping for branches, but weren't able to reach. Before helping them, Friend said to Villain, "Genius thinking, brother." He clapped Villain on the back before helping the smallest up a tree first.

That hollowness Villain felt as his fear increased settled just the tiniest bit. He smiled at Friend. Not a forced relationship, after all. They were brothers and they would continue to be after this second week was over.

Villain moved to help some of the others as well. They'd nearly all gotten up, except for the middle child in the group of five younglings. And, of course, Villain and Friend were left as well.

Helping the last up, Villain heard a low rumble. At first he thought it came from his stomach, but then the rolling continued, and a quick snarl made itself heard. Slowly, he turned his head, and as he did so, his eyes stung. There, between the trees crouched a beast of grey and brown fur. Villain froze. He wasn't even sure that he was breathing. Could he breathe? Would it trigger a fight response in the wolf?

Friend, having already finished with his group of kids, tiptoed as slowly as he could manage to Villain. He whispered, and it made the pit in Villain's stomach double in size and despair, "Get him up there, slowly, quietly. No sudden movements, you hear me?"

Villain said nothing, but began to nerve strikingly push the child up through the air. The wolf howled and Villain's shoulders and arms tightened. He felt tears building up in his eyes before they slid down his cheeks. He didn't bother wiping them away, afraid- again- that the action would cause the wolf to attack. I don't want to die. Please don't let me die.

Another howl. The wolf was calling the rest of the pack, telling them that it found food. A shudder traveled through Villain and he flinched. I thought wolves stuck together at all times.

"Go up the tree, Villain. You're going to be okay. We'll get out of this."

Villain's watched the wolf's ear twitch as it heard. It began taking slow, cautious, and predatory steps closer to them. Every time Friend spoke, it would approach faster. Their voices were a taunt to the beast.

Nodding, Villain reached up, grasping a thick branch before pulling himself up, but he wasn't strong enough. His body jerked down as his arms gave. The wolf let out a startling bark, pounced forward a bit.

"Shit," Friend spat out, grabbing Villain under each arm. "Grab it," he said, panicked. "Grab the branch!" Villain did as he was instructed, and this time Friend helped push him up.

Several howls followed Villain as he climbed up. He spotted the boy he helped up as he tried looking for whatever wolves were approaching. He'd forgotten it wasn't just him and Friend who were facing death.

Villain looked down just as the first wolf lunged at Friend. "No!" Thankfully, Friend had rolled out of the way before the wolf's teeth could sink in.

"Come on! I'll pull you up! I'll pull you-" Friend's hands grasped one of Villain's while the other held the branch he jumped up to grab. Not in time, though. The wolf clenched its jaws on Friend's calf, yanking him with one vicious pull to the ground.

"Friend!" Villain could hear the grunts, the hollers, the snarls, and the rips. Villain couldn't watch. He couldn't watch. There was blood and- and no. No, that's not a bone. Friend screamed again and again, sometimes at the wolf, sometimes at Villain.

"Stay in-" Scream. Punch. Thrash. "Stay in the trees!"

Don't die. Don't die. Don't die, don't die,don't die-don'tdiedon'tdie. Please don't die. Villain couldn't handle both of his brothers disappearing from his life. And not like this. Not like this.

A massive wave of fury struck Villain in the next moment. If it weren't for Hero- he let out a holler of frustration. If it weren't for Hero, he wouldn't be in these woods. Friend wouldn't be in these woods. None of these kids would be in the woods, hiding in trees to avoid being eaten by wolves. Villain was willing to bet Hero had never seen a wolf before, much less fought one.

The screams stopped. Villain screamed, cried, punched the branch he sat on with both fists until they felt swollen and bruised. And then he fell asleep, exhausted, and not willing to think of the horror he just witnessed.

***

The boys slept in the trees. The wolves left. After Villain had fallen asleep, the other wolves arrived, scratching at the trees, whimpering that they couldn't reach the delectable bags of flesh and meat stowed away, hidden behind leaves.

When Villain woke, he saw two piles of clothing, each stained with blood, both containing hard and thin objects called bones. Two piles- so one of the children had fallen prey, too.

Villain threw up in the stream over and over, pouring himself out, tears and stomach acid alike. "I can't do this," he gasped. "I can't do this."

But he could. And he would. Because Hero needed to pay, and Villain would be the one to collect.

******

Part 3 here

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eyelinerda3euro · 3 years

Text

The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction

In the temperate and tropical regions where it appears that hominids evolved into human beings, the principal food of the species was vegetable. Sixty-five to eighty percent of what human beings ate in those regions in Paleolithic, Neolithic, and prehistoric times was gathered; only in the extreme Arctic was meat the staple food. The mammoth hunters spectacularly occupy the cave wall and the mind, but what we actually did to stay alive and fat was gather seeds, roots, sprouts, shoots, leaves, nuts, berries, fruits, and grains, adding bugs and mollusks and netting or snaring birds, fish, rats, rabbits, and other tuskless small fry to up the protein. And we didn’t even work hard at it — much less hard than peasants slaving in somebody else’s field after agriculture was invented, much less hard than paid workers since civilization was invented. The average prehistoric person could make a nice living in about a fifteen-hour work week.

Fifteen hours a week for subsistence leaves a lot of time for other things. So much time that maybe the restless ones who didn’t have a baby around to enliven their life, or skill in making or cooking or singing, or very interesting thoughts to think, decided to slope off and hunt mammoths. The skillful hunters would come staggering back with a load of meat, a lot of ivory, and a story. It wasn’t the meat that made the difference. It was the story.

It is hard to tell a really gripping tale of how I wrestled a wild-oat seed from its husk, and then another, and then another, and then another, and then another, and then I scratched my gnat bites, and Ool said something funny, and we went to the creek and got a drink and watched newts for a while, and then I found another patch of oats.... No, it does not compare, it cannot compete with how I thrust my spear deep into the titanic hairy flank while Oob, impaled on one huge sweeping tusk, writhed screaming, and blood sprouted everywhere in crimson torrents, and Boob was crushed to jelly when the mammoth fell on him as I shot my unerring arrow straight through eye to brain.

That story not only has Action, it has a Hero. Heroes are powerful. Before you know it, the men and women in the wild-oat patch and their kids and the skills of makers and the thoughts of the thoughtful and the songs of the singers are all part of it, have all been pressed into service in the tale of the Hero. But it isn’t their story. It’s his.

When she was planning the book that ended up as Three Guineas, Virginia Woolf wrote a heading in her notebook, “Glossary”; she had thought of reinventing English according to her new plan, in order to tell a different story. One of the entries in this glossary is heroism, defined as “botulism.” And hero, in Woolf’s dictionary, is “bottle.” The hero as bottle, a stringent reevaluation. I now propose the bottle as hero.

Not just the bottle of gin or wine, but bottle in its older sense of container in general, a thing that holds something else.

If you haven’t got something to put it in, food will escape you — even something as uncombative and unresourceful as an oat. You put as many as you can into your stomach while they are handy, that being the primary container; but what about tomorrow morning when you wake up and it’s cold and raining and wouldn’t it be good to have just a few handfuls of oats to chew on and give little Oom to make her shut up, but how do you get more than one stomachful and one handful home? So you get up and go to the damned soggy oat patch in the rain, and wouldn’t it be a good thing if you had something to put Baby Oo Oo in so that you could pick the oats with both hands? A leaf a gourd shell a net a bag a sling a sack a bottle a pot a box a container. A holder. A recipient.

The first cultural device was probably a recipient.... Many theorizers feel that the earliest cultural inventions must have been a container to hold gathered products and some kind of sling or net carrier.

So says Elizabeth Fisher in Women’s Creation (McGraw-Hill, 1975). But no, this cannot be. Where is that wonderful, big, long, hard thing, a bone, I believe, that the Ape Man first bashed somebody in the movie and then, grunting with ecstasy at having achieved the first proper murder, flung up into the sky, and whirling there it became a space ship thrusting its way into the cosmos to fertilize it and produce at the end of the movie a lovely fetus, a boy of course, drifting around the Milky Way without (oddly enough) any womb, any matrix at all? I don’t know. I don’t even care. I’m not telling that story. We’ve heard it, we’ve all heard about all the sticks and spears and swords, the things to bash and poke and hit with, the long, hard things, but we have not heard about the thing to put things in, the container for the thing contained. That is a new story. That is news.

And yet old. Before — once you think about it, surely long before — the weapon, a late, luxurious, superfluous tool; long before the useful knife and ax; right along with the indispensable whacker, grinder, and digger — for what’s the use of digging up a lot of potatoes if you have nothing to lug the ones you can’t eat home in — with or before the tool that forces energy outward, we made the tool that brings energy home. It makes sense to me. I am an adherent of what Fisher calls the Carrier Bag Theory of human evolution.

This theory not only explains large areas of theoretical obscurity and avoids large areas of theoretical nonsense (inhabited largely by tigers, foxes, and other highly territorial mammals); it also grounds me, personally, in human culture in a way I never felt grounded before. So long as culture was explained as originating from and elaborating upon the use of long, hard objects for sticking, bashing, and killing, I never thought that I had, or wanted, any particular share in it. (“What Freud mistook for her lack of civilization is woman’s lack of loyalty to civilization,” Lillian Smith observed.) The society, the civilization they were talking about, these theoreticians, was evidently theirs; they owned it, they liked it; they were human, fully human, bashing, sticking, thrusting, killing. Wanting to be human too, I sought for evidence that I was; but if that’s what it took, to make a weapon and kill with it, then evidently I was either extremely defective as a human being, or not human at all.

That’s right, they said. What you are is a woman. Possibly not human at all, certainly defective. Now be quiet while we go on telling the Story of the Ascent of Man the Hero.

Go on, say I, wandering off towards the wild oats, with Oo Oo in the sling and little Oom carrying the basket. You just go on telling how the mammoth fell on Boob and how Cain fell on Abel and how the bomb fell on Nagasaki and how the burning jelly fell on the villagers and how the missiles will fall on the Evil Empire, and all the other steps in the Ascent of Man.

If it is a human thing to do to put something you want, because it’s useful, edible, or beautiful, into a bag, or a basket, or a bit of rolled bark or leaf, or a net woven of your own hair, or what have you, and then take it home with you, home being another, larger kind of pouch or bag, a container for people, and then later on you take it out and eat it or share it or store it up for winter in a solider container or put it in the medicine bundle or the shrine or the museum, the holy place, the area that contains what is sacred, and then next day you probably do much the same again — if to do that is human, if that’s what it takes, then I am a human being after all. Fully, freely, gladly, for the first time.

Not, let it be said at once, an unaggressive or uncombative human being. I am an aging, angry woman laying mightily about me with my handbag, fighting hoodlums off. However I don’t, nor does anybody else, consider myself heroic for doing so. It’s just one of those damned things you have to do in order to be able to go on gathering wild oats and telling stories.

It is the story that makes the difference. It is the story that hid my humanity from me, the story the mammoth hunters told about bashing, thrusting, raping, killing, about the Hero. The wonderful, poisonous story of Botulism. The killer story.

It sometimes seems that the story is approaching its end. Lest there be no more telling of stories at all, some of us out here in the wild oats, amid the alien corn, think we’d better start telling another one, which maybe people can go on with when the old one’s finished. Maybe. The trouble is, we’ve all let ourselves become part of the killer story, and so we may get finished along with it. Hence it is with a certain feeling of urgency that I seek the nature, subject, words of the other story, the untold one, the life story.

It’s unfamiliar, it doesn’t come easily, thoughtlessly, to the lips as the killer story does; but still, “untold” was an exaggeration. People have been telling the life story for ages, in all sorts of words and ways. Myths of creation and transformation, trickster stories, folktales, jokes, novels....

The novel is a fundamentally unheroic kind of story. Of course the Hero has frequently taken it over, that being his imperial nature and uncontrollable impulse, to take everything over and run it while making stern decrees and laws to control his uncontrollable impulse to kill it. So the Hero has decreed through his mouthpieces the Lawgivers, first, that the proper shape of the narrative is that of the arrow or spear, starting here and going straight there and THOK! hitting its mark (which drops dead); second, that the central concern of narrative, including the novel, is conflict; and third, that the story isn’t any good if he isn’t in it.

I differ with all of this. I would go so far as to say that the natural, proper, fitting shape of the novel might be that of a sack, a bag. A book holds words. Words hold things. They bear meanings. A novel is a medicine bundle, holding things in a particular, powerful relation to one another and to us.

One relationship among elements in the novel may well be that of conflict, but the reduction of narrative to conflict is absurd. (I have read a how-to-write manual that said, “A story should be seen as a battle,” and went on about strategies, attacks, victory, etc.) Conflict, competition, stress, struggle, etc., within the narrative conceived as carrier bag/belly/box/house/medicine bundle, may be seen as necessary elements of a whole which itself cannot be characterized either as conflict or as harmony, since its purpose is neither resolution nor stasis but continuing process.

Finally, it’s clear that the Hero does not look well in this bag. He needs a stage or a pedestal or a pinnacle. You put him in a bag and he looks like a rabbit, like a potato.

That is why I like novels: instead of heroes they have people in them.

So, when I came to write science-fiction novels, I came lugging this great heavy sack of stuff, my carrier bag full of wimps and klutzes, and tiny grains of things smaller than a mustard seed, and intricately woven nets which when laboriously unknotted are seen to contain one blue pebble, an imperturbably functioning chronometer telling the time on another world, and a mouse’s skull; full of beginnings without ends, of initiations, of losses, of transformations and translations, and far more tricks than conflicts, far fewer triumphs than snares and delusions; full of space ships that get stuck, missions that fail, and people who don’t understand. I said it was hard to make a gripping tale of how we wrested the wild oats from their husks, I didn’t say it was impossible. Who ever said writing a novel was easy?

If science fiction is the mythology of modern technology, then its myth is tragic. “Technology,” or “modern science” (using the words as they are usually used, in an unexamined shorthand standing for the “hard” sciences and high technology founded upon continuous economic growth), is a heroic undertaking, Herculean, Promethean, conceived as triumph, hence ultimately as tragedy. The fiction embodying this myth will be, and has been, triumphant (Man conquers earth, space, aliens, death, the future, etc.) and tragic (apocalypse, holocaust, then or now).

If, however, one avoids the linear, progressive, Time’s-(killing)-arrow mode of the Techno-Heroic, and redefines technology and science as primarily cultural carrier bag rather than weapon of domination, one pleasant side effect is that science fiction can be seen as a far less rigid, narrow field, not necessarily Promethean or apocalyptic at all, and in fact less a mythological genre than a realistic one.

It is a strange realism, but it is a strange reality.

Science fiction properly conceived, like all serious fiction, however funny, is a way of trying to describe what is in fact going on, what people actually do and feel, how people relate to everything else in this vast stack, this belly of the universe, this womb of things to be and tomb of things that were, this unending story. In it, as in all fiction, there is room enough to keep even Man where he belongs, in his place in the scheme of things; there is time enough to gather plenty of wild oats and sow them too, and sing to little Oom, and listen to Ool’s joke, and watch newts, and still the story isn’t over. Still there are seeds to be gathered, and room in the bag of stars. by Ursula K. Le Guin

#ursula k leguin

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remmushound · 3 years

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Curse of the Clans part 15! @scentedcandlecryptid @hoshisoul

Several more days; maybe four? Leonardo lost count. However long it was, Leonardo was running out of time. The only thing he had to tell him the right way to go in this new, yokai-filled world was the night map Usagi had given to him; it laid out the nighttime routes Leonardo was supposed to take, and he had to fill in the daytime path on his own. More than once, he had found the path he had selected was unfollowable for one reason or the other, and he had to take a detour. The only positive was, without the wagon slowing them down, they could move a lot faster. However, the lack of wagon also involved tugging around a seven-year-old who made every attempt to resist the slightest bit of progress.

Leonardo stabbed his odachi quickly into the water. The clear stream ran red, and Leonardo beamed as he pulled out a decent-sized fish.

“YES! Oh, finally!” Leonardo almost ate the still-moving fish raw right there, but bit his lip to resist the urge. He had to at least cook it first! The fish still on his odachi, Leonardo went the short distance back to the small campsite that was simply a fireplace surrounded by a small ring of melted snow. Nuriyuki was sitting beside the fire, wet up to his waist from walking in the snow, his fur still dazzled with the white frozen flakes that fell from the sky.

“I’m tired of fish.” Nuriyuki frowned when he saw Leonardo return with the salmon, holding it over the fire still skewered on his odachi. “Can’t we get something else?”

“You got McDonalds money?” Leonardo scoffed.

Nuriyuki tilted his head. “What’s McDonalds?”

“Exactly.” Leonardo slowly rotated the fish like he had seen Michelangelo do on their camping trip.

“I want Usagi…” Nuriyuki pouted, crossing his arms and sinking down into his body.

Leonardo ignored him and focused on cooking the fish. It was the biggest one he had caught so far, enough to feed both him and Nuriyuki! Did the cub not realize that Leonardo was also tired of the disgusting, pungent taste of the fish? Did he not understand it was preferable to starvation?! Then Leonardo looked back down at the cub and felt immediately guilty for the violent thoughts in his head. Of course this cub didn't know any better! Until just a few weeks ago, he had been living in royalty. Fed what he wanted when he wanted. Been catered to. Spending his life in the warmth and splendor of a castle seemed a world away from the snowy nights and hungry days. And now the only comfort he’d known in this new life was gone too. Leonardo could almost imagine how that felt…

Leonardo pulled his sword off of the fire and the fish off of the sword, using his odachi to cut the fish in portions. The bigger slice was given to Nuriyuki.

“Here, eat.” Leonardo encouraged. “Then we have to get moving again.”

Nuriyuki took one look at the fish. “I! WANT! USAGI!” He tossed the fish away.

“Hey!” Leonardo lunged, bouncing the fish between two hands before he was able to catch it. Then he pulled back close to the fire, hugging both portions of fish closely. “Usagi isn’t here! And if you won’t eat the fish, then I will!”

Leonardo made a show of bringing the portion close to his mouth, opening his mouth slowly and pretending to take a bite. Nuriyuki’s expression changed completely and he gasped, jumping forward to snatch the fish back from Leonardo and immediately scarf it down. Leonardo smirked at the victory and started to eat his own half of the catch.

Nuriyuki had cleaned his fish in seconds, and then pouted once more when it was gone. “I want more.”

“There isn’t any more.” Leonardo said, taking another bite of his fish and savoring the warmth; it was cooked so unevenly that some parts were burnt while others were almost raw, but he didn't care. Food was food and it filled his belly.

“Give me yours.” Nuriyuki demanded, and before Leonardo could deny him, the cub had snatched the fish from his hands and already devoured it.

“HEY!” Leonardo snatched what was left, but it was only bone by that point. He gave a loud growl and turned an angry eye to the thief, who only crossed his arms and puffed out his chest to appear big and bad.

“This is stupid!” Nuriyuki scrunched up his nose and squeaked furiously. “You suck! I miss Usagi. At least Usagi could catch different kinds of fish!”

Leonardo wanted to scream. He wanted to yell and lash out at something as the rage tickled his throat trying to escape. His eye twitched, and he was sure his face was several shades darker with the heat that couldn’t escape. He knew that if he tried to say something, even something as simple as a scolding, the volcano in his stomach would erupt and spew out hatred. He hated the snow, he hated the taste of fish, he hated the emptiness in his belly! He hated having to take care of this cub that he didn't want but had an obligation to, he hated all of it!

Then a blanket of coolness washed over him, snubbing out the fire and making him feel sick and frozen in its place. This child didn't want this either. Of course the cub wouldn’t want to be out here in the cold, just as hungry as Leonardo was. Just as tired of the taste of fish. Just as angry but without the filter developed to stop it from coming out. He was in the same position as Leonardo, except with years less experience and no way to express how unhappy he was. All Leonardo did was stand up and kick snow into the fire to put it out.

“We have to get some ground covered before nightfall.” Leonardo said, looking to the horizon and the sun that was starting its descent across the sky. He grabbed Nuriyuki’s paw and lifted him to his feet against the badger’s wishes.

“My feet hurt.” Nuriyuki whined.

“We don’t have a cart.” Leonardo tried to explain in an even voice, but the slightest hiss escaped, “And I can’t just be carrying you everywhere.”

Nuriyuki waddled after Leonardo but he wasn’t happy about it. “Usagi would carry me if he was here.”

“Well that’s too bad, because he isn’t here.” Leonardo’s chest felt tight; he was just as concerned for the wellbeing of the samurai as the rabbit’s ward was. “So you can either walk or get left behind and eaten by wolves.” It probably wasn’t the best thing to say, but Leonardo couldn’t care at that point.

Nuriyuki pulled away and scrunched up his nose. “There are no wolves in Japan.”

Leonardo saw an opening and he locked in on it. It was always a great feeling when he could put his obscure knowledge to use. “You mean you don’t know?” Years of living with Donatello taught Leonardo how to perform, and how to perform well. At least, it was well enough to fool an inexperienced young Daimyo.

“Don’t know what?” Nuriyuki tilted his head, eyes twinkling with curiosity and apprehension.

Leonardo turned around to kneel in front of the cub and get his full attention. “You don’t know about the Honshu wolves and the Ezo wolves?” His mouth dropped open and he sucked in a gasp. “How could you not know?”

“W… what are they…?” Nuriyuki asked softly, his face withered with fear

“They’re wolves, of course.” Leonardo stood up again and motioned behind them to the forest they had left behind. “They live in the forest during the day, but at night they come out into open fields just like this one. Wolves of black and brown with glowing red eyes. And you know what they do when they come out at night?”

“No…” Nuriyuki’s lip quivered and tears formed in the corners of his eyes.

“They come and steal disobedient children and they gobble them all up!” Leonardo rubbed his stomach and licked his lips dramatically for a moment before turning back to the badger cub. “Do you wanna be all gobbled up?”

“Noooo!” Nuriyuki ran forward, hugging Leonardo tightly and burying his face in the turtle's side. “Don’t let them eat me, Lenardo!”

Leonardo pretended to think about it, bringing a finger to his chin and clicking his tongue, “Well, alright. But you have to promise to behave from now on.”

“I will!” Nuriyuki insisted, “I’ll do anything!”

“Then start walking.”

#ah #yes #scare the child

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ecoamerica · 1 month

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youtube

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

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yandere-wishes · 4 years

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Payment // Twisted Wonderland Yandere! Azul Ashengrotto x Reader//

Just in time for the Octavinelle chapter! I felt like making Azul suffer for a little so there is a bit of angst in here, also thank you so much to the anon who requested this story!

=========================================================

The knocking on his door jolted Azul awake from his nap. His head sprung up eyes wide surveying the layout of his office. When had he fallen asleep? The clock read 6:30 in the afternoon, yet from what he could see the moon had already risen illuminating his office with a ghostly glow. He pinched the bridge of his nose standing up and sighing. How improper of him to fall asleep while reviewing contracts as well as his school work. The knocking continued, it began to echo around the room reverberating off the insides of his skull wedging its self into his brain. louder louder!LOUDER! He marched over to the door ready to send whoever it was on their way. He was too fatigued for pleasantries and politeness. He pulled the door wide open, mouth ajar ready to yell....he never did.There stood (Y/N), eyes bloodshot fresh tear stains tattooed over her cheeks. "I want a contract right now!" she yelled pushing past him, stomping into the office and plumbing down on one of the satin white couches. Her shoulders were slumped, she looked so weak and vulnerable. Azul quickly followed behind her, headache and unfinished work long forgotten. He slipped into the seat beside her, gloved hands gently rubbing her back. Upon the physical contact, she quickly straightened her back. The popping of joints and bones roared over the quiet room. She tried to wipe away her tears, trying to keep the new ones at bay. "He..hesaidhe... he" Her words slurred together, sticking into an incomprehensible phrase. What had happened to her? Azul's mind started falling down a sprawling rabbit whole, listing all the possible horrible things that some mongrel could have done to his precious, innocent, sweet (y/n)...No..they weren't his...they'd never been his...Azul continued rubbing circles over (y/n)'s back, his warm touch sent a caused (y/n)'s sobbing to an almost full stop, her posture relaxed practically melting into his touch. An easy silence blanketed the office, Azul's heart began to speed up. He'd never been this close to her, never touched her before. The moment felt perfect, like the gentle tide washing over his body on a bright sunny day...yes this was just like those rare blissful days back at the Sea of Corals when he'd been permitted to leave his lonely cave. "I want a contract...." Your brittle voice fragmented the irie hush. Azul's blue gaze dropped to the tiled floor, why were you so insistent on that tonight. What could you possibly want so badly that you were willing to make a deal with the devil? Azul's gesture stopped, arm dropping to the couch. "....Why?" It was unlike him to question why someone wanted a contract, he would just provide the pen and paper and smile his signature glowing grin. But something about you made him act like a dame fool. "I-I want..." You couldn't utter a single word without tearing up. What was going on! "Please" Azul leaned over, taking your small hands in his "Just tell me" his tone was too caring unfit of a sea which such as himself. "I want Malleus to love me!" You blurted out, a sharp edge engraved in your tone. Azul's heart sped up ready to break his ribcage, wanting to leave his body and beach it's self like a depressed whale. You loved...Malleus, Malleus of all people! The moody always complaining prince of the fae. The prized child of NRC. Azul never cared much for the admiration and praise that everyone threw at his feet, but hearing that the dark fae had stolen your heart shattered his. Malleus had everything so why did he have to take the only thing Azul loved? WHY!He was desperate to say no, to shout it, to scream it until his throat went raw. He wanted to tell you that he loved you, that he would always love you. Unlike that arrogant fae who never thought of anything but himself, who was always in a bad mood for the most ridiculous reasons! But alas, Azul's mouth was a graveyard the words dying on his tongue before they got to breathe an ounce of air. His grip tightened hoping that his touch might just relay what he wanted to say. "Azul" his dishearted gaze rose to meet yours, it was his turn to look frail and broken in dire need of assistance. "Can you please make senior Malleus fall in love with me?" It hurt, it hurt so awfully! It felt like a thousand piranhas were biting every inch of his flesh, some had even infiltrated his skull, munching off chunks of his brain. He closed his eyes and sigh "I...I don't know...it could take a few days to find everything...I'll let you know by tomorrow..." The answer would still be no by tomorrow it would always be no. But he couldn't tell you that tonight not when you where so beaten and sad...when you couldn't utter a word without breaking down in tears. You quickly wrapped your arms around him, hugging him tightly as you buried your face in his chest, soaking up the sea salt scent that he dragged everywhere. Azul stiffened, lazily curling and arm around your back and patting it. "Thank you...Thank you so much" your tears began to flow again staining his powder blue vest. In his mind, Azul noted to never wash that vest again.Early the next morning Jade found his dorm leader passed out on the couch in his office. His glasses had fallen on the floor somehow still intact. His short silver hair was a mess. His school jacket had been discarded over his desk along with his shoes, one being placed neatly under the table while the other rested on its side over his jacket. "Boss?" The older twin was dumbfounded by the sight in front of him. Azul Ashengrotto, the well-kept deal maker of the school looked like a pathetic manta ray. "Boss!" Nope, nothing. With a sigh, Jade walked over to the couch, he grabbed the sweaty fabric of Azul's white button-up and forcefully swung him forward. "Azul!!" this was the loudest sternest tone he'd ever used on his dorm leader, the fear of what he may do to him washed over Jade causing him to break into a nervous sweat. Gradually the silver-haired second year's eye blinked open, he ran a hand over his face as he groaned loudly. "Time" He grumbled while cracking his neck from side to side. "Past eight am, classes start in ten...god what the hell happened to you last night?" For a minute Azul's mind blurred, the events of last night too distant and foreign to properly recall. The then it hit him like a typhoon, everything (y/n) had said, how she'd been such a mess, how she'd ask her help on the only matter he wished she hadn't."(Y/N)? The first-year who's in the ramshackle dorm?" A crease formed between Jade's brows, his mouth morphing into a scowl. "Is she refusing to pay? I'll send Jade to have a little chat with her, if that's the case." His fingers dove into his pocket fishing out his cellphone, he scrolled through look for his twin's number. "Put it away" Azul ordered, he slowly pushed himself to his feet, mumbling a couple of curses. "BUT!.." Jade's eyes widen, why was Azul acting so weird today? "Look.." The silver-haired man grabbed his coat slipping from under his right shoe. "It's not that she wasn't paid, heck she hasn't even signed the dame contract yet and frankly I don't want her to!" The older leech twin stiffened, his mismatched eyes surveyed the office look for any signs of alcohol or party pills. That was the only reasonable explanation for why Azul was being so uncharacteristic. Azul marched back to the couch after having slipped on both shoes, he flopped down on his stomach dramatically letting out a high pitch cry. He angled his head to the side to stare up at his dormant, ocean blue eyes fogged with grief like a kicked seal. "I...I think...I love...her" even Azul couldn't believe the words coming from his mouth. He was notorious for his scheming and cunning nature being capable of getting whatever he wanted. Yet here he was moaning and groaning over a girl, a simple magicless darling girl.Jade was beginning to get slightly irritated, his dorm leader the great and powerful Azul was acting like a lovesick school girl. Reluncity he took a seat next to the Cecaelia, he began patting his back the way one would a small child. "The way I see it, you have the advantage here." Jade paused waiting for his words to sink in. Azul simply shifted his orbs to stare directly into Jade's golden ones. "How so" he murmured. "Why not provide her with a love potion. They are simple to come by and rather cheap in the noir market. In return for your services, she'll provide you with a pact to her soul. That way it wouldn't matter who she's in love with, she'll always have to return to you." Azul rolled over, curling his lips into a sly smirk.Excitement bubbled inside of you as you ran towards the Octavinelle dorm. You were so close to finally getting your happily ever after! So close to your true love! You pushed the decorative wooden doors open with all your force. "Azul!" Your cheerful voice bounced off the walls of his office reverberating back to you. Your shimmering eyes scanned the large room trying to find the man that held the last key to your happiness. Your sight finally landed on the silver-haired businessman man sat smugly at his desk, head leaning forward on entwined fingers. "(Y/n)! you finally made it my dear." He seemed to perk up upon seeing you a charming smile grazing his lips. You quickly ran over to the organized desk, slamming your hands on the oak wood you joyously yelled"Do you have it?!" "Yes right here--"You ripped the contract parchment from his hands and, using a golden fish skeleton pen you found on the desk you started to write the first letter of your name. 'Wait!" Azul reached out gripping your wrist tightly to prevent you from continuing. "Maybe you should read the fine print..." His voice trailed off never before had he wanted someone to read the fine print before heck he'd talked all so many people out of reading it! "No, no it's fine I'll pay whatever it takes!" You tugged your wrist from his fingers and rapidly scribbled the last few letters. You stood up straight reaching your hands out to Azul for him to drop whatever contraption he had conjured to help Malleus accept your confession. The sea witch tossed you a tiny glass bottle with a sickening pink like liquid inside. "Mix that into some chocolates or a drink or whatever you are going to give him, just make sure he eats it." You laughed as tears of joy slipped from the corners of your eyes. Spinning on your heels you dashed the door before Azul's voice stopped you dead in your tracks. "Aren't you forgetting your payment?"You turned with a frown on your face. "I-I um didn't bring anything with me, just tell me what it is you want and I'll go get it!" but Azul just shook his head and signaled with his finger for you to come back. Disheartedly you walked back to the desk, as you did so, Azul slipped a reflective colored oval into his mouth. As you stepped closer he grabbed your upper arm leaning you over his desk as his lips pushed upon your own. His teeth bite harshly into your lip causing you to which and open your mouth a bit, just enough for him to slip his tough in. Your mouth overflew with the taste of salt as something scaly slipped down your throat. As soon as you had swallowed the invasive object, Azul retracted. He clutched your chin with his fingers, tilting your head up. "Jade proposed I charge you a soul-bonding spell, in which your soul would become mine." Upon his words your eyes widen, a cold sweat broke over your body. "But being the saint that I am, I chose to charge you something else." You prayed in your mind that your payment would only be the kiss that whatever he had slipped into your mouth would have just been a joke, but your hope died down as he continued "I chose an attachment spell instead, much more effective and beneficial for the both of us. You can't step further than 12 meters from me or your body will start to morph into that of a tiny little fish. Really it's a gift it aids me in keeping you safe! "Once again tears started to fall from your eyes just like the night before. You're happily ever after shattering before your eyes. Azul let go of your chin and walked over from his desk. He laced his finger with your own and practically dragged you to the door, only stopping to retrieve his hat from the coat rack. "I believe we should get started on those chocolates from Malleus don't you agree? After all, he too should get a taste of what it feels like to want something yet for it to be so out of reach!""But not to worry you, poor unfortunate soul! Now that I have you in my clutch I'm NEVER letting you get away!"

#azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland azul ashengrotto #twisted wonderland azul ashengrotto x reader #twisted wonderland azul ashengrotto x you #yandere azul ashengrotto #yandere azul ashengrotto x reader #yandere azul ashengrotto x you #twisted wonderland jade leech #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yancore

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slasherbeachbitch · 4 years

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Are you ok with a hc of Bo Sinclair and female s/o with their twin baby boys?

Okay this has been in my inbox for MONTHS and I'm so sorry for not doing it until now, so to try and make up for it I'll give you headcanons and small drabbles for all three Sinclair boys!

Bo Sinclair

Bo is first of all, very scared

He is second of all very thrilled, especially if it's two baby boys

He probably names them like a week after they're born because he can't think of a name, but I think he'd like something kinda like Alex or Hayden.

Other than the initial fear and the time it would take for him to get used to being woken up at 2 a.m., I think he'd be a good dad

He'd certainly give all sorts of piggy-back rides and when they're old enough he'll teach them stuff about cars or play some sort of sport with them

Is definitely the dad that gets pissed at his kids sports games and it's a little embarrassing when his S/O tells him to calm down

Though even if his boys aren't into that stuff, he'll still love them.

Also he probably thought he was going to get one baby since I'd like to think his S/O wanted it to be a surprise and he almost fainted when he found out there were two

"Bo?" You called from the kitchen. You could've sworn you heard him, or someone at least, enter the front door in a hurry. You hoped you didn't give yourself away to any trespassers or potential victims, but you were sure no one came into town today. A little giggle coming from the doorway tipped you off that it was not in fact your wonderful Bo, but your even more beautiful and mischievous munchkins. A small smile took form on the corner of your lips, "Hayden? Dalton? Is that you two?" Just more giggles answered your call until you felt a large hand clamp down on your shoulder, making you let out a small shriek of surprise and your children let out a chorus of laughs while their poor mother had a heart attack. There was Bo, standing before you, looking the happiest he's ever been and in that moment everything seemed right in the world.

Vincent Sinclair

Honestly a fucking super dad

He adores his two little boys and probably had a ton of names picked out for when they arrived

He likes names like Maxwell or Thomas, something nice sounding or even after an artist

He paints their room to be a starry night sky surrounded by a pretty forest and he thinks that it's only his second best piece of art

They're his first of course

He definitely helped with all his S/O's cravings and made sure she was comfy, but not overbearingly so

He loves to watch the boys play and just be kids

He really hopes that he can give them a better life than what he had

So he's always supportive of what his kids do, and will accept them no matter what they do

He won't let them in on the process of the wax figures until they're like teens, but he'd kinda hope maybe one of them would follow in his footsteps, or at least be interested in art

But he won't be mad if they don't

He was probably terrified that the babies would be conjoined like he was to Bo so he probably made sure that you two got a few ultrasounds and he was so relieved everything went well and they were healthy

One thirty in the morning is when you'd be woken up nowadays, with no more peaceful nights for the foreseeable future. With a great heaving sigh you glanced over to see that Vincent was already hopping out of bed and slipping his mask on. "Vince, honey I got it, you've been on night feeding duty for a day or two now." You yawned out and he waved you off.

You frowned a bit before shrugging, it was too early and too stupid to push. Instead you slipped out of bed and followed him to the nursery that was just a room away and helped him get the boys settled down. He looked so lovely with his hair in a frazzled bun and gingerly feeding Max before rocking him. He looked so peaceful and so happy, you couldn't have asked for a better man to be your partner. When you two put the boys down again, you both trudged to your room and plonked down onto the bed. He wrapped his strong arms around you, and you fell asleep to the thought of what the future would hold for your wonderful family.

Lester Sinclair

Lester is a good, if not a bit of a disaster dad

Like he loves his kids and does his best to take care of them

But like he's also basically the least responsible person and would definitely be the type of dad to let his kids shoot off fireworks in a drainpipe. Of course, telling them to not blow their fingers off

Definitely is the type of dad to be like, "so long as no one gets hurt, I don't care if you blow up Mt. Rushmore" and then hands his kids the firepower needed to blow up a small army

Also says stuff like, "I did that as a kid, and I turned out just fine"

Helps his kids collect bones and stuff and honestly he loves hearing them talk about how they're doing

Since no one ever really listened to him as a kid and he doesn't want his kids to think he doesn't care

He likes it when they talk about school or their friends and is always just so proud of his boys

He might name his boys something like Buck or James

He honestly would stick to more naturey kind of naming schemes, or just after people he's met

Takes his kids out fishing and hunting when they're old enough and teaches them everything they need to know about the wilderness

They often stay out camping for a few days when the boys get older and it's such a good bonding experience for them all

He is only ever nice and sweet to his boys and will always love them, even if he is a bit unorthodox in his parenting

"Momma look!" Your son excitedly babbled as he ran up to the porch where you were enjoying a nice cup of lemonade, his brother and father trailing behind.

"I caught a rabbit Momma, a nice one. Can we eat it tonight?" Sloane held up his rabbit and waved it around wildly. You couldn't help but chuckle a little at how much he resembled his father sometimes.

You gave it a quick once over and nodded before giving him a quick kids on the head and saying, "Go put that on the counter and I'll get to it quick. You go wash up, you're all dirty."

He nodded quickly and fumbled into the house, accidentally slamming the screen door shut and leaving you with Buck and Lester.

Buck was not as happy, as he had caught nothing on the trip and his father had two rabbits with him. Buck ran over to you and gave you a quick hug. He looked like he'd been crying a little, only pulling away when Lester gave you a quick kiss and a look that said, "Will you take care of these?" Before handing you the rabbits and patting his son on the shoulder.

You went inside, and kept an ear out for what they were saying.

"Dad," It was Buck and he was sniffling and hiccuping up a storm, "I'm sorry I didn't get anything. I promise I'll get something next time."

You could practically hear the frown in Lester's voice as he calmed his son down, "Buck, it's okay if you don't get anything, you're new to shooting and I don't expect you to get in on the first try."

A cry left the boy's throat, "But Sloane always gets one!" There was a pause and a small sigh, "I just don't want to let you down or be the worse twin."

"Son you listen to me. You could never ever let me down. I don't care if you're not good at hunting as Sloane is, because you're good at other things that make me just as proud of you. I don't want you to compare yourself to your brother, because you're not him and you should never try to be him, just your own man."

They stayed there for a while and soon came inside when you were done skinning and bleeding the rabbits, and that night Buck seemed much happier than he had been in the morning. You were proud of all your boys, and you wanted nothing more than for all of them to be happy.

#bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair #lester sinclair x reader #lester sinclair #vincent sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair #house of wax #i spent an hour on this #and I hope it shows #ask and you shall receive

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academyguide · 2 years

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wangxiangiftexchange · 3 years

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Winter Solstice Gift for lanerose23

This is super self-indulgent but hopefully entertaining too. I’ve tried to not stray beyond the cultural lanes established in the drama, but if I’ve erred or overstepped, please let me know so I can be better. Also, I obsessively watched the show on, like, five different platforms with five different sets of subtitles, so this is sort of a medley of names/translations that seemed to flow best in this tale.

For @lanerose23 for the Wangxian Winter Solstice Gift Exchange. I tried to come through on bunnies, fluff, happy endings, and "safe, sane" sexy times! Happy holidays! <3

Read On AO3

*****

The Great Bird's Promise

Inside his shell, he heard the promise. The great bird said that she would deliver them to families who would love them.

Her wings spanned the width of the sky, beak as large as the sun, as she flew with a basket in her talons. Within the woven bamboo jostled the eggs of every living species on Earth—humans, still new and learning to walk upon the soil; fish and lizards and snakes and the old species who had made this world their own.

A heavy wind blew from a mountain that had not been so tall the day before, for they were growing, too. It shook the bird’s massive feathers, shuddering her expansive wings. She dodged the gust, greeted the new mountain, and didn’t notice when a single egg dropped from her basket.

This one lonely egg plummeted through empty sky and landed in the thatch of a pine tree. The branches reached out from the cliff, sparse and cascading. The egg trembled and began to hatch.

The creature inside, naked, blind, heart beating fast with what could be called excitement and what could be called fear, was called a rabbit.

The huge unblinking eyes of a snowy owl watched the eggshell fall away to expose the fragile form inside. The tiny hairless thing that was called rabbit did not, right now, look like one. He shivered in cold mountain breezes. “Will you love me?” the rabbit asked, for he had heard the great bird’s promise.

The snowy owl pondered this. “If you’re silent,” he answered, fluttering on his perch, “and always stand tall and elegant and do just as I do.”

He would, the rabbit vowed inside. He would forever and ever.

___________

The silences of Cloud Recesses were all wrong. Wuxian turned fitfully on the fine bed with its fine pillows and missed the sounds of Lotus Pier, the insects chirping and fishermen casting nets with soft splashes. Plus, he wasn’t tired. It was barely night and already everything had been shut up tight. He was tempted to break out, perhaps sneak to Nie Huaisang’s quarters and invite him into some mischief, but thoughts of Shijie’s disappointment kept him inside this time.

He wondered where Lan Zhan slept; he was probably already deep asleep in twenty layers and rigid from head to toe, pretty and perfect as an ice sculpture. He’d heard that Lan Zhan played guqin and he’d heard Lan Zhan was already one of the best. Wuxian wanted to hear him play and see what he could learn from the methods. Or maybe he just wanted to watch him play, elegant and handsome and stone-faced.

Wuxian turned onto his back with a groan. It was annoying that Lan Zhan was so attractive. It was annoying that Wuxian couldn’t stop thinking about him. Surely, Lan Zhan would be so boring to touch, he thought, surely it would be like kissing a dead fish, but he couldn’t really believe it because he’d seen Lan Zhan fight. He was fierce and intense and intelligent and appealing, so obnoxiously, effortlessly appealing. If they could have fooled around weeks ago like he’d wanted, Wuxian wouldn’t be in this situation. He grumbled and turned onto his stomach again.

“Wei Wuxian! Go to sleep,” Jiang Cheng growled from his bed. “I can’t sleep with you flopping around!”

Wuxian pouted at him in response, but he tried to lay still. He closed his eyes, settled his head on his pillow, and tried to sleep. He tried to not think of Lan Zhan.

Courtyards away and hours later, Wangji sat poised in meditation, incense a lazy curl of smoke around him. Today’s lectures would begin soon. Today, as every other day, Wangji vowed to be the example Uncle expected of him.

Back straight, hands atop his knees, he breathed evenly, a rhythm as familiar as Inquiry. He appeared as placid as a frozen lake in winter.

Inwardly, he thrashed. He tried to focus on the thrum of his golden core, but instead thought of a bright toothy smile and a laugh that echoed off the Cloud Recesses quiet walls. Wei Wuxian, who broke all wards. Wangji wanted to fight him. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to silence him. He wanted to hear his every thought. He wanted him to leave and never come back. He wanted him to stay and never go. He wanted to avoid him. He wanted to find him.

He wanted. He wanted. He wanted and he hated wanting. Wanting opened a cavern inside him that he couldn’t fill. Wanting stoked hungers he had no intention of feeding. He would extinguish them forever if he could. He wanted to look upon Wei Wuxian, his smiles, his talents, his body, his brilliance and rebellion, and feel nothing. Instead, the gaping wound of want split open inside him, spilling desire all through him, melting the ice of him. Filling him with want.

Outwardly, Wangji’s little finger tremored on his knee.

___________

The rabbit felt so proud when his fur grew in white and downy as owl feathers. With the owls, the rabbit stood as tall as he could and thought how striking they must look together, though he was still quite small.

But when the owls took to the air, he couldn’t follow. When they returned with beaks full of creatures that were no bigger than he, the rabbit felt queasy. The elegant snowy owl blinked knowing eyes at him and the rabbit understood.

He carefully descended the towering pine tree, the only home he’d known, and began searching for where he belonged.

Soon, the rabbit found a little gathering of field mice. Hope bloomed inside him. They were even smaller than he was! They couldn’t fly through the air and wouldn’t return with beaks full of meat.

“Will you love me?” he asked, gazing into tiny black eyes. The mouse’s nose twitched a little like his, whiskers bouncing as she looked him over.

“If you stay small,” the field mouse answered, “and you never scare us and you never, ever get angry.”

The rabbit eagerly nodded. He never felt anger and he was so little, with no wings or beak, so how could he ever be scary?

___________

Wuxian felt pride and embarrassment in equal measure as he led Lan Zhan around the settlement built by Wen hands and the wards forged with his blood. He’d seen the difficult scrabble of pulling together even these comforts, to make gardens of graveyards and homes among bones. But with Lan Zhan, Hanguang-Jun, beside him so bright and so beautiful, it was impossible not to see it through new eyes. How gray and horrible all this must seem to one raised in the glorious Cloud Recesses. How repulsed Lan Zhan must feel, he thought.

Wangji was not repulsed, but his heart ached, for this did not seem a way for anyone to live. Yet the grayness of the landscape did not scare him like the grayness of Wei Ying’s skin.

“Let’s go,” Wei Ying said, voice on the wind. “I’ll walk you down the mountain.”

They moved side by side back toward the crumbling entry enforced by fearsome power. The infrequent bump of their shoulders reminded Wuxian of happier days spent pretending they were like Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen, bound only by their shared ideals. He wondered, though, if they shared ideals anymore. No regrets, they’d pledged; to live with a clear conscience. Wuxian had no regrets, not really, and he felt cursed by that. He was rigidly ruled by his own unflinching moral compass. He longed sometimes to be someone who could turn away. Life would be simpler, he was sure, if he could only close his eyes and fall into the shared delusion of clear lines, protect our own and only our own, and the black/white thinking of others. Instead, he felt trapped awake, eyes open, poisoned by the horrors hidden within those comforting platitudes. He felt terribly, achingly alone.

“Is there anyone who can give me a bright future path that is easy to go on?” Wei Ying asked and Wangji had no answer. He didn’t understand why Wei Ying had abandoned the sword, but he could recognize now that the power granted him by this disturbing path was immense, more immense than even a prodigious swordsman like Wei Ying could accomplish with Suibian. And immense power was needed to protect the Wen against the clans.

“Let yourself judge what is right and what is wrong, let others decide to praise or to blame, let gains and losses remain uncommented on,” Wei Ying said sadly, certainly. “I know what I should be doing. I also believe I can control it.”

Behind his eyes Wangji felt the press of tears. He wanted to weep in a way he’d not done since he was a child and had never done with any witness but his brother. That radiant, infuriating boy who had lodged himself in Wangji’s heart was bleeding himself dry for others and Wangji could do nothing but admire him for it. It felt thick in his throat, like any word out of his mouth might come carried on a sob.

“Brother, Brother.” A weight, now familiar, crashed against his legs. “Brother, are you not going to stay and eat with us today?”

Wangji looked down at A-Yuan’s bright eyes and soft cheeks. How could he argue with anything Wei Ying did to protect this boy? How could any action to that end be wrong? The questions burnt and knifed inside him against 3,000 rules he knew like his heartbeat. Three thousand rules that conflicted with one another and yet screamed that he should not be here and he should not care for Wei Ying.

Wei Ying lifted the boy into his arms, making Lan Zhan’s excuses for him. “A-Yuan, this brother here already has food waiting for him at home. He won’t be staying.”

“But I heard a secret earlier,” A-Yuan said. “They said that there was lots of good food today.”

“A-Yuan,” Wuxian scolded, but then fell silent. He had never given much thought to being a parent, but the weight of a child in his arms resonated with something primal inside him. It made him feel gentle and fierce. And to see A-Yuan take to Lan Zhan stirred something else inside him, something he was scared to name because he could never deserve it.

Wei Ying turned to him. Wangji expected him to repeat his explanations, give his silence words as he so often did, but instead, Wei Ying looked at him with an expression he’d never seen before. He wasn’t joking, flirting, arguing, or cajoling. He was just...open, holding a child and looking at him, hopeful.

“I’m leaving,” Wangji said and pulled himself away from that look on Wei Ying’s face. He would wonder until the end of his days what might have been different if he’d stayed.

___________

The field mice adored him, for a time. That he was small made them feel safe. That he ate only green things gave them comfort. But not always, and not enough. They were afraid because he was still bigger, mistrustful because he’d lived among owls, and it wore on the rabbit. He tried to never be angry, even when their suspicious looks made him feel that way.

“You have to leave,” the little mouse told him one day, the same one who’d once allowed him to stay. “Your jumping is too scary and we told you not to be scary.”

He only jumped like that when he was happy, but the rabbit didn’t try to explain; he just left.

After days alone, the rabbit awoke to a vibration, like the world might split open beneath him. It came in slow, steady beats—thump...thump...thump. He hopped to investigate and saw enormous grey-bellied elephants with long trunks and huge flapping ears that swatted the flies away.

They’re so big, the rabbit thought with joy. They’d never be frightened of me.

The elephants settled around a watering hole to drink their fill. Some lounged in the water, washing away the dust coating their thick hides, and the littles ones who were still so much larger than the rabbit played silly games that made him smile.

He politely ventured close to an old matriarch with wise eyes. “Will you love me?” he asked.

She turned in his direction, searching the empty air until she found the tiny origin of the tiny voice. She took in his twitching ears and quivering whiskers. “If you don’t get scared,” she said, “and you help us to lift big trees, find tall grasses, and always stay loyal.”

The rabbit nodded because he wanted to be and do all those things.

___________

Uncle saved his life with his punishment.

He was meant to suffer and reflect on his wrongdoings. And Wangji did suffer. He did reflect. But the flayed flesh on his back was nothing compared to the flaying in his heart. In fact, it was comforting, somehow, to hurt as much on the outside as he did inside. It put Wangji’s pain somewhere it could bleed.

The Yiling Laozu fell with only one hand reaching out to him, and that hand reached out too late. Too late. Too late to change anything.

He cared for A-Yuan, but selfishly the boy wasn’t enough. Wen Yuan had a clan now, he would be safe and fed without Wangji around. Wangji didn’t want to be around. He wanted to be free of this hurt, of this loss, of existing in a world without Wei Ying, surrounded only by those who had betrayed him. Including himself, including the beating heart in his chest.

The pain gave him focus. He read the rules and found those he’d violated. He found those he wished he had. He reflected. He reflected. He reflected and accepted that he was in love with Wei Ying, he always would be, and he should have been by his side. The recognition came in a wave, followed by a soul-deep exhale, like the release during meditation or a gasp after almost drowning.

The Cold Pond Cave cooled the fires of him, but not the way Uncle intended. Wangji didn’t regret his misbehavior, only his inaction. He didn’t regret his words, only his silences. And when he accepted these truths, the turbulence in his mind froze clear and solid. He’d loved Wei Ying. He’d failed Wei Ying. He’d wanted to protect Wei Ying. He could protect A-Yuan. He could love A-Yuan.

As the truths solidified in his heart, power thrummed in his core like a yoke had been thrown off. Energy filled him from toes to fingertips to the ends of his hair. The world perceived his affection for Wei Wuxian as his only weakness. Wangji learned in that moment that his love, immortal and infinite, was his strength.

___________

The rabbit had promised to not be scared, but he felt so afraid dodging heavy elephant feet that could crush him. When he rode on their backs, he felt scared to be so high for he remembered the flying things that ate little things like him. He couldn’t help lift big trees, or even the small ones, and they lost him when they strode in tall grasses. The matriarch scooped him up in a mouthful and nearly ate him, even though elephants don’t eat rabbits.

He didn’t stay long with them, though he loved the silly games of the babies and the huge flapping ears of the elders.

He wandered and soon met a tortoise, its thick skin familiar from the elephants, its size just right—not so big as the elephants, not so small as the field mice. “Will you love me?” he asked the tortoise with his hulking shell and narrow eyes.

The tortoise sniffed at him. “If you can keep up,” he said, and continued on his path.

The rabbit happily hopped beside him, only to discover he’d left the tortoise far behind. Oh, dear no, thought the rabbit, this won’t work at all. He thanked the tortoise for his kindness and continued on alone.

___________

When he left the cave, having lost three years with A-Yuan, he let the regret scatter like leaves in the certainty brought by this new, engulfing spiritual power. Three years earlier, he would have met the boy full of ferocity and self-destruction. That was no way to love a child.

Wangji had been raised beside someone’s anger; he would not wish that for A-Yuan, his Sizhui, who looked plump-cheeked and happy in his pale Lan robes. In the mornings, Wangji combed his hair and helped him fasten his ribbon across his smooth forehead. Sometimes, tongue poking out in concentration, Sizhui helped Wangji with his in turn.

Wangji couldn’t decide if it was blessing or curse that Sizhui, Xian-gege’s A-Yuan, had no memories of him. It left Wangji alone to grieve the dreaded, well-dead Yiling Laozu, Wei Wuxian. But left him alone to bear that bittersweet pain, too. To wish memory on a boy who’d already suffered felt selfish. Better that Sizhui start here in the embrace of GusuLan, in Wangji’s embrace.

Sizhui sat on his lap, even when he was too old and too tall for it. Wangji allowed it. The boy tugged on the strings of his guqin and giggled at the trembling twang. It seemed they both needed this, an extended autumn of youth after a parched summer; forging—or perhaps re-forging—a bond made one magical afternoon that only one of them remembered.

At 12, Sizhui was proper, good looking, and hard working. His aptitude with the guqin gave Wangji stirrings of fate—would this talent have been discovered in a Wen? he wondered. Wangji traveled often, on quests he could barely admit to himself, and when he returned, his first visit was always from Sizhui, even before his brother or his uncle. The boy would seek him out, no matter the hour he returned. It was an indulgence Wangji couldn’t deny either of them.

The sun had just crested the horizon, spilling into the rebuilt shadows of Cloud Recesses.

“I don’t know how we’re meant to obey all of them all the time,” Sizhui admitted softly. The steam from the teapot caught the sunlight like smoke around his young face, carefully schooled to hide his agitation. Wangji knew Sizhui’s face better than his own.

He thought of the platitudes he was told when he’d made the same observation as a child. That the conflict was in him, in the human heart; the rules were to tame the conflict. That cultivation means control and great spiritual strength can only be achieved through harnessing one’s nature.

That is not what he told Sizhui. “They conflict with one another because they are not of equal value at all times,” he said, pleased by Sizhui’s steady hands as he prepared their tea. “Like strings on the guqin, from thick to thin, they can be played separately or together, depending on the melody of a moment.”

“So...we learn the rules so that we may know all the principles that should guide our actions.” Sizhui carefully extended his teacup toward him and Wangji felt a rush of affection for his perceptive, soulful boy. “Just as we learn all the notes we can play, even though not every song requires them?”

“Mn.” Wangji gave a slight nod and lifted his tea, breathing in the floral scent. “And indeed, not only do some songs not require them, but the wrong note—even when beautiful in another melody—would ruin the one before you, and to play every note at once would only create discord.” Wangji knew that discord well. He’d grown up in it.

Sizhui let out a relieved sigh that gave Wangji a tremulous feeling of success, like he’d done a bit of good parenting, even when he barely understood what that was. “That makes sense,” his lovely boy said. “Thank you, Hanguang-Jun.”

Wangji didn’t respond. He simply drank the tea prepared by his son, his Lan Sizhui, Wei Ying’s A-Yuan, and let himself feel a rare moment of peace in the sunrise.

Years later, in Yi City, Wangji would see himself in Xiao Xingchen, who died rather than continue in a world where he’d hurt his beloved—and also in Song Lan, who soldiered on, a ghost carrying memories of dead love close to his heart.

___________

In his travels, the rabbit soon came to wide water, so expansive he could not see its end. It rose and fell like great moving mountains. On the gray-sand shore were seals with big limpid eyes and sweet round bellies. “Will you love me?” he asked one, feeling so scared and so hopeful.

“If you stay close and always share your food,” the seal answered.

___________

Wuxian felt the pleading weight of Zewu-Jun’s words.

He walked in to see Lan Zhan with his hair down, sleeves held back gently as he prepared tea and poured wine, and he understood why Zewu-Jun told him more than he’d asked. Lan Zhan was a warrior, Hanguang-Jun, Lan Wangji, a jade of Gusu, and one of the most powerful cultivators of any generation. He was also a man in love. A man so deeply in love it had burned—burned him—for almost two decades.

Wuxian trembled beneath that weight.

“I don’t need anyone to save me,” he’d said years ago in the Burial Mounds. It took dying and coming back to understand that what he’d meant was I’m not worth saving. Lan Zhan had never agreed, no matter how Wuxian tried to convince him.

The plink and shiver of the guqin brought the tingle in his limbs to his awareness, like the growl in his empty stomach breaking through the excitement of an invention. That physical attraction he’d had to Lan Zhan in their youth had never gone away. It had just been papered over by battles, separation and second lifetimes, unworthiness and the paradoxical belief that he could not love someone so profoundly and also desire him. His eyes trailed over Lan Zhan’s long fingers on the strings, his soft mouth; his eyes, those remarkable, unforgettable eyes, and—

“I want to kiss you,” he blurted out.

Lan Zhan’s playing stilled and he looked up. They stared at each other in silence. Lan Zhan’s expression was gentle, accepting, and silent. Wuxian laughed—the silence should be no surprise; this was Lan Zhan, after all, who would answer direct questions with silence, who would offer no information, even when it was demanded. Wuxian had no intention of demanding. “Oh, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” he said, entering the room. “I want to kiss you, but do you want to be kissed?”

Lan Zhan simply nodded, as if Wuxian had asked about getting dinner. But the rosy tips of his ears gave him away. “Only by you,” he added. And oh, Lan Zhan’s other great skill: to say so little and still say more than Wuxian knew how to believe.

Wei Ying lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged to Wangji’s left where he still sat rigid, back straight, hands flat to still the long-gone vibration of his guqin. He’d imagined kissing Wei Ying—and more, so much more—for so long. The passion inside him felt always dammed behind an insufficient barrier. So, to release it...he imagined embracing Wei Ying like a tidal wave, overwhelming, undeniable, claiming him with lips, tongue and teeth, smashing their bodies together with the force of his want.

The reality was somewhat different. Wangji’s passion was no less extraordinary, but the dam restraining it now was love, not self-domination. What did Wei Ying want? How much did Wei Ying want? His passion could be like a wave gently lapping shore, if that’s what Wei Ying needed.

Slowly, Lan Zhan turned to face him, fingers moving to rest in his lap. Their knees touched as Wuxian scooted just that small bit closer, movements young and eager. Lan Zhan looked up to meet his eyes and once he’d done that, Wuxian could almost never look away. He reached out to close a hand over Lan Zhan’s, heart thumping and feeling 16 years old with his mind full to brimming with the most beautiful boy he’d ever seen.

For once, he did look away from Lan Zhan’s eyes. Away from his eyes to his mouth, lips plump-pink and tempting. As soon as he looked, he touched, before the courage left him. The tension melted from Wuxian’s shoulders at a kiss returned.

Their hands bumped when they both reached for each other at the same time. Wuxian laughingly yielded, letting Lan Zhan cup his jaw and direct the kiss. It was honey on his tongue, a mouth moving against his, a pleasant buzz through his body. He let his own hand drop to Lan Zhan’s knee, the curve firm and intimate through layers of linens.

Hai hour settled heavily on Wangji’s shoulders. Childhood routine made his mind shift into a quieter state, lending a dreamy mist to the minutes spent blissfully kissing as the snow blanketed the world outside. “It’s time to sleep,” he said. He didn’t much care for himself, but Wei Ying was wounded, and battles loomed still to be fought. Wei Ying needed his rest.

Wuxian wanted to tease Lan Zhan like he used to, mock those rigid GusuLan traditions—if they weren’t going to defy them for this, then for what!? But Lan Zhan, his Lan Zhan; he’d spent so much time worrying and caring for him, he had to be exhausted. “Okay,” he relented.

But neither of them moved to stand or stop. They just kept trading kisses.

Wuxian laughed against Lan Zhan’s mouth and felt an answering smile that made his heart throb. He decided a few moments more couldn’t hurt. For a few moments more, they could be the lusty, carefree boys they could have been 20 years ago, if war had not arrived so early and maturity so late.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispered against his lips after several molten minutes more. He felt hot all over, from his knees tight against Lan Zhan’s to his throat where guqin-skilled hands stroked his skin and caressed his jaw. “We should sleep.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan agreed, but only kissed him again.

Wei Ying laughed and Wangji loved the sound. Loved the sound of him, loved the feel of him, loved the life in him. Wanted him endlessly.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying pouted sweetly, “who’s been taking care of me, hm? Who will take care of me if Hanguang-Jun is asleep on his feet?”

When Wangji opened them, his eyes were unfocused. He felt drunk, though he’d had no wine but what he could taste on Wei Ying’s lips and tongue. “Sleep with me,” he said.

Blushed cheeks and well-used lips complemented Wei Ying’s features well. He looked young and healthy. “Yes,” he answered, adding sternly, “but we have to sleep.”

Wangji nodded his agreement, amused to have Wei Ying making rules now.

They stripped to their underrobes and climbed into the bed, each fully intending to sleep as agreed, but the room had grown cold with the frost outside and there was so much warm skin, so many hot kisses still to give, so much uncharted territory on this path they’d just begun to walk together and now single layers that could be opened to allow palms to feel the firm planes of stomach and the exquisitely narrow rise of hip.

But they each had secrets, too: a boy asleep not far from where they lay and a golden core warming someone else in Yunmeng.

Lan Zhan felt so good and Wuxian didn’t want to stop even as his heart thumped for the wrong reasons when Lan Zhan’s fingers grazed his wrists. If they were to do the things he’d seen in Nie-xiong’s books, then surely Lan Zhan, the great Hanguang-Jun, would sense what he was missing. He wanted it as much as he feared it.

“Lan Zhan, is it okay – if we – if we don’t go any further – tonight – just not tonight,” Wuxian gasped, each phrase punctuated with more kissing, his hand tangling in Lan Zhan’s hair, his knee sliding over Lan Zhan’s hip.

Wangji gripped the knee curving around him to bring their bodies closer. He wanted to pull it firm against him and take this pleasure he’d been dreaming of for decades. But Wei Ying’s words. He was forever reckless with himself and he would keep going if Wangji pushed it because they wanted each other. Even that thought was a thrill. Wei Ying wanted him, and Wangji wanted to tell him.

But if Wei Ying approached Sizhui with the familiarity and fondness he almost certainly would if he knew, what terrible memories might that disinter? For as much love as had surrounded little Wen Yuan, he’d been living on a mountain of the dead and all his family had been slaughtered. Would returning those memories to his sensitive, happy boy be a kindness or a cruelty?

Wangji still wanted. He wanted to tell Wei Ying the one good thing he’d done, kiss him, hold him, cry with him, make love in a happy haze as though all the painful years had never happened, but no. No, the note he must play strongest now was for Sizhui, and he did not want his first joining with Wei Ying to be shrouded in secrets.

He called upon his Lan reserve to drag himself away from the delicious warmth of Wei Ying’s mouth. “We can stop,” he said, startled by the lust-roughness of his voice.

Wei Ying’s eyes drifted away from his lips. Wangji felt his steadying exhale against his skin. “You’re right, Lan Zhan, you’re right,” he said. “We should stop.”

“You said it first.”

Wei Ying let out a loud laugh, rolling away to throw his head back. Wangji wanted to cover that smooth neck with bites and kisses. When Wei Ying curled toward him again, his eyes shown with fondness and he reached between them to link their hands together, bodies at a safer, less enticing distance.

They talked, then, how they did any other night they’d shared a room in their travels. They compared thoughts about what they had discovered, expectations for what lay ahead, but it felt so new, whispering face to face, lips kiss-tender, voices crossing not an empty room but only the small expanse of the bed.

Wuxian wasn’t sure when they finally fell asleep. He remembered dawn peeking through the screens at the window and it seemed only seconds later that they had to wake and get dressed. He wanted to curl up and sleep for a day, but a wicked, immovable deadline hung over them for soon a murderer would come to Cloud Recesses.

___________

The rabbit had a delightful afternoon in the seals’ company. Their bodies bounced like his and they had whiskers like him and they bounce-bounce-bounced together, but then all the seals bounce-bounce-bounced into the waves where the rabbit couldn’t follow because he didn’t have flippers and his feet were not shaped like a paddles for pushing through water.

He stood alone on the beach for a long, stunned moment, then he turned and began searching again.

In the silent grasses, the rabbit came upon a leopard, its sleek, spotted body low to the ground, eyes peering straight ahead. Its backside wiggled the way the rabbit’s did sometimes. “Will you love me?” the rabbit asked.

“If you can keep up!” the leopard replied, bounding off on strong back legs after a sprinting deer.

The rabbit tried to keep up, but he lost her before the leopard’s voice had even faded from his ears. He continued on alone.

___________

The moment he saw that broken look on his brother’s face at the Guanyin Temple, Wangji knew his daydream of traveling by Wei Ying’s side had died.

To live with a clear conscience, without regret. An easy phrase that provided no guidance in how to weigh regrets against one another. He would regret watching Wei Ying walk away again. He would regret leaving GusuLan with one leader heartbroken and another too unyielding for the complex days ahead. He would regret forsaking a generation of Lan juniors to that unsteady guidance. He would regret abandoning the cultivation world to a power vacuum where evil and self-interest could so easily gain dominance. He wanted to be Lan Zhan. He wanted to be Wei Ying’s. But the world, for now, needed Hanguang-Jun.

But like so many deaths around the Yiling Laozu, Wei Wuxian, this death was not forever. One day, Wangji sat reading in the jingshi when a flute’s notes drifted in with the breeze. He heard a song he knew well and knew Wei Ying had come home.

It was strange to walk the paths of Cloud Recesses and realize it had started to feel like home. Wuxian found comfort in the routine, and could maybe—maybe—understand the appeal of a clearly defined schedule, up to a point. His 16-year-old self would never have believed it, but his 16-year-old self hadn’t yet had to survive in the Burial Mounds. His 16-year-old self hadn’t yet died for his convictions and mistakes.

Wuxian let out a breath as the sorrow passed through him, a familiar companion after all these years. Even that felt at home in Cloud Recesses with its stillness and meditative spaces. Here, Wuxian could grieve and find solace. He’d found love here. He’d found purpose and family. Even Lan Qiren surrendered some of his vitriol when he’d realized that Wuxian would not steal Lan Zhan away. At last, the old man recognized that Lan Zhan was the wise and filial leader he’d been trying to raise all along, even if they disagreed on the details.

Lan Zhan looked as beautiful as an art print among the rabbits in the back hills. The pure white fur and Lan Zhan’s robes, the earthy brown and green—it made Wuxian’s fingers itch for brush and parchment. Perhaps he’d do that tonight...or maybe tomorrow because he’d learned the expressions on the face so many others thought immobile. All morning, Lan Zhan’s eyes had been lingering on Wuxian’s throat, his lips. Their few touches outside the jingshi had been lingering.

The first night Wuxian returned to Cloud Recesses they’d had no early appointments and no deliberate secrets between them, only stories not yet told and endless days to tell them. That night, they discovered new things they could do together that were even more satisfying than fighting side by side.

“Lan Zhan,” he said casually, scratching a rabbit between its velvet-soft ears. “What do you want to do tonight?”

The rabbits on Lan Zhan’s lap were calmer, almost sedated by his familiar and predictable stillness. But then, rabbits couldn’t really read the way his eyelashes slowly lifted over a heated gaze.

Wuxian grinned as a lovely anticipation started to pool in his limbs. He’d always been attractive, but it wasn’t until all this started with Lan Zhan that he’d felt desired, even seduced. “Ah,” he said, and stretched out on his back, hands folded beneath his head. Leaves and sticks crunched beneath him and a few rabbits darted away, but Lan Zhan’s eyes traveled the length of him, just as he’d wanted. One day, perhaps, Wuxian would try to tempt Lan Zhan into kissing him here the way he did in the jingshi, all devouring and unrestrained.

“I want—” Wangji began, then silenced abruptly. He found himself disinclined to speak most of the time, but rarely did he want to express himself more than in these moments with Wei Ying, these rare moments when the intimacy of their relationship was in the fore and not buried beneath life-or-death politics and layers of the mundane. Wei Ying had gotten so good at reading him, but sometimes Wangji wished he didn’t have to.

“Yes?” Wei Ying curved toward him, head propped up on his bent arm. “What do you want, Lan Zhan?

In that eagerness, Wangji saw that sometimes Wei Ying didn’t want to have to read him either. He swallowed and tried. “The book you had.”

“Which book?”

“During the lectures. In the library.”

Confusion clouded Wei Ying’s handsome face and Wangji worried this would fall prey to his poor memory, but after a few seconds, clarity spread like a sunrise. “In the library. When I was having to copy all those rules and you were being so mean and ignoring me.”

“Mn.”

Wuxian smiled brightly. Funny how those days had a rosy shine to them now. Lan Zhan, his beloved Lan Zhan, his sweet stick in the mud who defied nearly every one of those rules for him. He’d been unimaginably attractive in that library, so cold and untouchable. How badly he’d wanted to touch. “What about it?”

Wangji swallowed. He turned his attention to the rabbits in his lap. They dozed, their red eyes closed into gentle lines on their white faces, noses twitching with dreams. They clearly didn’t sense the rapid heartbeat in the body beneath them. “The picture. I would do that with you.”

Wuxian’s mouth twisted. “Which picture?”

Lan Zhan looked up at him, exasperated.

“Ah-ah, Lan Zhan,” he sighed, one hand lifted in defense. “That book was full of pictures. I don’t know which one you saw. I gave it to you to tease you and you ripped it apart so quickly.”

Wangji looked back to his rabbits. One blinked awake and he slid a finger along its forehead as it yawned, cute big teeth on display. He let the subject drop. He would not be able to find the words.

But Wei Ying sat up, excitedly crossing his legs beneath him. “Could you describe it to me?” he asked.

Wangji didn’t reply, neither by words nor a shake of his head. The tightness in his throat frustrated him. The sentence wouldn’t form in his mind, his tongue wouldn’t lift in his mouth, his lips wouldn’t part. That he had these desires, he had accepted. That they were not shameful, he had learned. But to speak them was still beyond his strength.

Wuxian scooted closer until his knees touched Lan Zhan’s. He loved the warm-pink of his ears, but not the storm clouding the features beneath his pale blue ribbon. He reached forward to join Lan Zhan’s hands in petting the rabbits in his lap. “Maybe you could show me,” he said, letting his fingers glide over Lan Zhan’s in a way he was certain could be called shameless. “Tonight, Lan Zhan. You could show me what they did in the picture. You know how smart I am; I’ll figure it out.” Lan Zhan didn’t answer, but the pink of his ears deepened to red, the storm cleared in his expression, and Wuxian grinned. His clever mind liked a mystery and the rest of him liked touching Lan Zhan, so these evening plans were very welcome indeed.

But being Wei Wuxian they also slipped his mind. That Cloud Recesses felt like an embrace would have shocked his 16-year-old self. That he’d become a teacher would not have. Oh, he dreamed of being a rogue cultivator, and that lifestyle suited him quite well on his not infrequent night hunts, but Wuxian had always been someone who loved being surrounded by youth and happiness, laughter on lotus lakes and meals made by someone who adored him.

Those days couldn’t be recreated, not after so much damage, but with the Lan juniors, with Lan Zhan, and A-Yuan, visits with Wen Ning and even slowly, slowly something better with Jin Ling and Jiang Cheng... It suited Wuxian quite well to be Wei-laoshi. He liked guiding disciples in archery and sword forms. He liked the spark of delight in their eyes when they first mastered a talisman.

Wangji liked that others saw His Excellency in the company of the Yiling Laozu. It killed off the rumors explaining Wei Ying’s absence and their hopes that Wangji had “come to his senses.” He preferred when they could tell by sight that the cultivation world was now guided by a mind that had not been tamed. If they felt fear, Wangji assumed they were right to do so. Those who gave him small, secret smiles—they were right, too.

That evening, Wuxian sat on the edge of their bed and barely seconds later found himself with a lapful of Lan Zhan. He instinctively gripped him and blinked, confused, at the broad expanse of a silk-covered back before his eyes.

“It was like this,” Lan Zhan said, a low whisper.

Wuxian blinked once, and then once more. “Ohhh,” he breathed, as every piece of their earlier conversation came back in a rush. “Oh. Yes, Lan Zhan, we can do that.” And really, they’d already started. Lan Zhan’s hips circled in a way that made Wuxian shiver and forget everything else. He swept Lan Zhan’s hair over his shoulder to bare his neck to his kisses and reached around to start pulling the robes from Lan Zhan’s body, sliding his hands up the strong thighs parted atop his. “Did you want to do this that day in the library?” he asked.

“No... and yes.”

“Yeah,” Wuxian agreed. He remembered the messy jumble of yearnings back then. If they’d kissed as boys, Wuxian was sure he would have ruined it, laughing, callous and too scared to wade into the depths of his feelings for the boy who was everything he was not.

They kept small pot of gel by the bed next to a stack of bathing linens. Wangji still felt a bit embarrassed by the obviousness of these supplies, but it was worth it when he didn’t have to leave Wei Ying’s arms when the mood struck them.

When he was young and his body was rocked by desires he didn’t understand, he’d done what he always did: he studied, like curse victim seeking the counter-curse. And indeed, he’d felt cursed, the way his mind refused to stay on any topic but Wei Ying and his antics. He discreetly researched how men fit together, how they touched and satisfied each other. He believed knowledge would bring the counter-curse for surely he would see these acts were foul and undesirable. Instead, he learned, in detail, all the ways he could give pleasure to the vexing boy who had disrupted the peace of him.

The worst times were the fits of grief that took hold during those long years existing in a world without him. Even gone, his thoughts still turned to him. Even gone, he still wanted to touch him. In those dark hours, with smooth gel on his fingers, he’d give his body what it needed. He pictured the beaming smile that died long before the man, those clever eyes and slender hands full of power and strength. After the crest of climax, the tears would swallow him. He would cry into bed linens that would never carry Wei Ying’s scent, and search for the reasons to go on when all he wanted was to fall into darkness with him.

But his linens did smell of Wei Ying now, of his hair oils and the natural tang of him. His linens were their linens because his bed was not his alone anymore, would never be again, and that beautiful boy who had once vexed him let out a tense, blissful sigh when their bodies joined at last.

Wuxian touched his forehead to Lan Zhan’s warm back and tried not to move, though the pleasure made him want to. He kissed the juncture of neck and shoulder blade, gave a light scrape of teeth. “Is it good, Lan Zhan?” he asked. His voice and his legs trembled.

He didn’t immediately receive a response, not a verbal one anyway, but Lan Zhan shifted, adjusting angle and depth and clinging to Wuxian’s hands on his hips.

Soon enough Wuxian didn’t need his words. Soft sounds rumbled in Lan Zhan’s throat, small gasps of satisfaction that would, in anyone else, be loud wanton moans. Like the sort Wuxian muffled against Lan Zhan’s scarred skin, pressing hot, open-mouth kisses as they found their rhythm with one another. It felt so good, always felt so good to touch Lan Zhan, to have this closeness, this way to show with bodies the intensity of his feelings inside. Sometimes he felt obsessed; he wanted to breathe in Lan Zhan, drink him in, become one person and be done with this false separation, this ridiculous idea that there was a Wei Ying and there was a Lan Zhan when they were so clearly one soul, one heart, one person. Maybe if they had a hundred lifetimes together, they could cultivate a way to join their spirits and become one. But—gasping deep and human against sweat-damp shoulder blades as Lan Zhan rode him—Wuxian couldn’t complain about this method for now.

Finished, they collapsed to their sides on the bed, letting bodies cool and heart rates settle. Wuxian dropped kisses on Lan Zhan’s naked shoulders because the affection still bubbling from his climax needed somewhere to go.

After a few moments’ rest, Lan Zhan turned to him. Those who thought him beautiful had no idea, Wuxian thought. They’d never seen him flushed with color, limb-loose and sated, eyes cloudy with peaked pleasure.

Their couplings usually ended with whispered conversations and Wei Ying’s happy laughter, so Wangji didn’t expect the emotion clogging his throat. He didn’t realize tears had followed until Wei Ying’s thumb slid beneath his eyes wipe them away.

“Lan Zhan?” he asked, concerned. “Why are you crying?”

The cavern of want that once terrified him had expanded and burst, filled now with a shameful fantasy made joyful flesh; filled to brimming with a partner, a son, a healthy clan, a life he felt so grateful to be living.

“Thank you,” was all Wangji managed to say.

Wei Ying smiled, that achingly gorgeous smile that Wangji wanted forever. “For what?”

For killing my shame, he thought. For making Cloud Recesses feel like home again. For embracing my silences. For coming back. For staying. For—

“I love you,” Wei Ying said, when he didn’t get an answer, at least not one Wangji had consciously given.

For that, Wangji thought and welcomed his kiss.

___________

The rabbit traveled on, alone and desperately lonely, until he came upon a stranger munching green, green leaves. Hunger twisted in his tiny rabbit belly, but the ache in his heart was more.

“Will you love me?” The rabbit asked, but before the stranger could answer, he went on, “I may be too scary or too big or too small. I may not be elegant and I can’t help lift big trees, or even little ones. I may go too fast or I may go too slow, and I cannot bounce-bounce-bounce into the water. I jump when I’m excited, I sometimes get scared, and I may not be perfect at giving love back,” the rabbit said in a rush. “But will you love me?”

The stranger blinked with red eyes just like the rabbit’s after listening with long ears just like the rabbit’s. A whiskered nose twitched.

“I do,” said the stranger, for he’d been searching a long time, too.

___________

They stood together, watching the swirl of pale fabric as two juniors sparred. Blades glinted as they caught the afternoon sun. Wuxian couldn’t help smiling, feeling like a grandpa remembering his good old days. “Ah, Lan Zhan,” he said wistfully. “Do you think we’d still be equals if I had my core?” It wasn’t as hard to talk about now, between the two of them. It was a fact of Wuxian’s new body and his health; they had to talk about it to navigate a life lived together.

“We are equals.”

“Tsk. I mean with swords.”

“Still equals.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan, you know what I mean.”

Wangji did and he didn’t. “Wei Ying survived the Burial Mounds.”

Wuxian shrugged, feeling that ancient shadow whisper in his heart. “That’s just survival. If you’d been thrown there, Hanguang-Jun would have survived too.”

Wangji didn’t reply, but he also didn’t agree. He suspected that his unwillingness to use resentful energy—his fear of the discord already living inside him—would have meant his death. His spiritual power would simply have bled into the earth, more foul power leeching into the dirt. No, he was certain that none but Wei Ying would have emerged at all, let alone emerged more powerful than when he fell. “Wei Ying is gifted,” he said finally.

Wei Ying spun Chenqing in his hand. These days, it played music more than puppets. “Gifted in something evil.”

“That he uses for good.”

Wuxian snorted. “You have an answer for all of it, don’t you, Lan Zhan? You can’t clean me of all my mistakes.”

“I’m not trying to.” Lan Zhan turned to meet his eyes, countenance both stern and sweet in that way of his. “A golden core can be used for evil deeds,” he said. “You’ve demonstrated that resentful energy can be used for good ones. That is innovation. You saw what others could not. That is a gift. Core or no, you have always been my equal.”

“Lan Zhan.” Wuxian pouted. He’d wanted to flirt and reminisce about the days when an incredibly pretty fuddy-duddy had broken his bottle of Emperor’s Smile. Instead, Lan Zhan had cut at something naked and fragile inside him.

His eyes drifted from Lan Zhan’s, but he bumped their shoulders together to tell him that he wasn’t upset, not really. “Maybe,” he said. “But I want to know if I could’ve ever bested you and Bichen.”

Lan Zhan’s lips lifted in a sad, tiny smile. “Me too,” he agreed softly.

Wuxian wanted to kiss him. Instead—for the sake of the juniors—he just pushed their shoulders together more firmly, removing any lingering space between them. That sorrow could visit them, he decided, the sorrow of what could-have-been. It could visit, but not stay.

Wangji had more he wanted to say. Wei Ying was brilliant. The sort of brilliant that, at most, emerged once in a generation and sometimes not at all. Wangji felt gratitude to have met him, to have gotten him back after everything. But he could sense when Wei Ying wasn’t ready to hear such words. He would let his praise and admiration out in bits and pieces for the rest of their lives. He was okay with that, he decided, and let his weight lean just as firmly against Wei Ying’s as they watched the next generation fly.

#lanerose23 #wangxiansolstice20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

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