Number FIVE ☂ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
somebadnews) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
westwhere2021-04-09 09:28 pm
somebadnews) wrote in westwhere2021-04-09 09:28 pm
Entry tags:
these days the years thin till I can't remember
WHO: Five and OPEN
WHEN: Days 5/7/8 (choose your own adventure)
WHERE: All around Sa-Hareth (Merchants Arena/House of Dew/etc.)
WHAT: Dealing with unforeseen events, briefcases, and adorable wanted posters
WARNINGS: PG-13 / will update as needed
Day 5
These are strange days.
From the beginning it didn't feel like your typical time travel. Despite the similar symptoms -- the jet lag, the headaches -- it became clear early on that he's facing a far more complicated problem than simply having to avert an apocalypse that he had the foresight to predict. Part of him still expects doomsday to pop up out of nowhere, at any moment, and the other part wonders if this is just a new version of it. One where even the dead can survive. (An army of the undead. He'd almost love it if he could blame it all on his brother polluting the timeline, or at least... whatever, it's a pipe dream to think Klaus of all people would be able to deal with them.)
His obsessions are what they are. When he can't figure something out, he tends to forgo all other distractions until something starts to make sense. That gave little time to attempt to make an honest wage, like so many of those that came with him seemed inclined to do. Once his abilities recovered, Five didn't have any trouble taking what he needed, which was minimized somewhat with the ever-helpful handouts from servants at the brothel. Those who he rarely corrected when they mistook him for a child. It is what it is. For his part, he reigned in his temper enough that he hadn't yet offended the entire staff.
He took down names he could gather from the others, where they came from, what they had to offer. He talks to himself whenever he's by himself, which is honestly what he prefers.
Those things he saw stay with him long into the night. Like so many things that keep him awake, as he hunches in the far corner of some room in the servant quarters while the rest were going about their lives like none of this was at all unusual. He hasn't stopped looking for any signs that his family is still out there, but for now, he's alone in solving what happened to them. Not like he wasn't used to doing everything himself, if need be, but what he wouldn't give for a day...
--
Day 7
Haltham had, surprisingly, been true to his word. The Academy uniform showed up at the brothel days ago. Just when he was losing sight of home. The pockets were of course empty, and it has a certain musk to it, but he quickly traded it for the ill-fitting garments he was first handed. At least the layers give him better protection against the cold, although... he needs to do something about the shorts.
Though he dared to hope when every delivery came in, he hadn't really expected to get anything else back. So when a cart showed up with a familiar briefcase nestled in amongst the flour and spice barrels, he thought he was seeing things. In a blink, he grabbed it and disappeared through a ripple of space to the nearest closet. About damn time.
He barely made a note of how fast his heart was racing. It should have struck him immediately that it wouldn't have been here if they'd so much as looked inside, but he managed to get caught up in the possibilities anyway. Traveling through time could be disastrous if he did it on his own, but with the briefcase, he could get back to exactly where he left off. Warn them never to fall into this trap.
Moments later and he's noting the busted corners, the scuffs, the dents. Shit.
"No no no no....," he mutters as he undoes the clasps and the truth slowly settles in. There's a reason they tell you never to let these things out of your sight; for all their technology, one bad drop can fry the whole thing. And damned if he knows how to fix it. "Come on I told them to be careful."
Nobody could blame him for the tantrum that follows; and he's fortunate for the bustling noise outside that masks the sounds of something breaking. Several things. The briefcase lands in a heap of his endless frustrations, perfectly useless. Why is nothing ever easy? Clenched fists glow in a wavering blue light as he tries to swallow his desire to just throw caution to the wind and see how more screwed up he can make this.
A while later and he's sane again. Back to square one.
--
Day 8
The raids the previous night has him on edge. While he kept from causing a stir, it's becoming increasingly obvious that he can't afford to stay in one place any longer than he needs to.
Five sits on the briefcase in the dirty alleyway, finally having found something to use it for, taking notes about the structure in front of him. One thing about being in a smaller body is how easy it is to disappear behind almost anything. Despite his frustrations, he prefers to focus on his advantages when he can, like maybe he hadn't made such a careless mistake. He'd lost the servant who had followed him out in the crowd, but if need be, he knows where she went whenever he needs a cover.
He used to call this working. Back when his job was surviving day to day, bringing Dolores news of whatever victory he deemed worth celebrating. And it was work. He knows how to survive on his own better than anyone, so he should be able to handle this with or without help.
But it became apparent after those initial days that he's eventually going to have to work with the others. From what he's gathered, they might have something strangely in common with him. Whatever that means. Abilities that can be useful as long as they have a common goal. That means going ahead with their plan to travel away from here for answers. Which in turn, means pushing them along so they actually stand a chance.
He's on his way back to their little safe house when he notices some new posters decorating a wall and slowly comes to a stop. They're crude, but he can pick out some of the features, including one that looks just like... well. That's sort of unflattering.
"Son of a bitch." When he looks up, he can see at least three merchants looking his way. Quickly, he turns a corner, then teleports to the next alley over. He gives a brief glance over his shoulder to see if anyone notices, then briskly continues on, briefcase in hand.
--
ooc :: will action spam or prose so don't even worry about it
WHEN: Days 5/7/8 (choose your own adventure)
WHERE: All around Sa-Hareth (Merchants Arena/House of Dew/etc.)
WHAT: Dealing with unforeseen events, briefcases, and adorable wanted posters
WARNINGS: PG-13 / will update as needed
Day 5
These are strange days.
From the beginning it didn't feel like your typical time travel. Despite the similar symptoms -- the jet lag, the headaches -- it became clear early on that he's facing a far more complicated problem than simply having to avert an apocalypse that he had the foresight to predict. Part of him still expects doomsday to pop up out of nowhere, at any moment, and the other part wonders if this is just a new version of it. One where even the dead can survive. (An army of the undead. He'd almost love it if he could blame it all on his brother polluting the timeline, or at least... whatever, it's a pipe dream to think Klaus of all people would be able to deal with them.)
His obsessions are what they are. When he can't figure something out, he tends to forgo all other distractions until something starts to make sense. That gave little time to attempt to make an honest wage, like so many of those that came with him seemed inclined to do. Once his abilities recovered, Five didn't have any trouble taking what he needed, which was minimized somewhat with the ever-helpful handouts from servants at the brothel. Those who he rarely corrected when they mistook him for a child. It is what it is. For his part, he reigned in his temper enough that he hadn't yet offended the entire staff.
He took down names he could gather from the others, where they came from, what they had to offer. He talks to himself whenever he's by himself, which is honestly what he prefers.
Those things he saw stay with him long into the night. Like so many things that keep him awake, as he hunches in the far corner of some room in the servant quarters while the rest were going about their lives like none of this was at all unusual. He hasn't stopped looking for any signs that his family is still out there, but for now, he's alone in solving what happened to them. Not like he wasn't used to doing everything himself, if need be, but what he wouldn't give for a day...
--
Day 7
Haltham had, surprisingly, been true to his word. The Academy uniform showed up at the brothel days ago. Just when he was losing sight of home. The pockets were of course empty, and it has a certain musk to it, but he quickly traded it for the ill-fitting garments he was first handed. At least the layers give him better protection against the cold, although... he needs to do something about the shorts.
Though he dared to hope when every delivery came in, he hadn't really expected to get anything else back. So when a cart showed up with a familiar briefcase nestled in amongst the flour and spice barrels, he thought he was seeing things. In a blink, he grabbed it and disappeared through a ripple of space to the nearest closet. About damn time.
He barely made a note of how fast his heart was racing. It should have struck him immediately that it wouldn't have been here if they'd so much as looked inside, but he managed to get caught up in the possibilities anyway. Traveling through time could be disastrous if he did it on his own, but with the briefcase, he could get back to exactly where he left off. Warn them never to fall into this trap.
Moments later and he's noting the busted corners, the scuffs, the dents. Shit.
"No no no no....," he mutters as he undoes the clasps and the truth slowly settles in. There's a reason they tell you never to let these things out of your sight; for all their technology, one bad drop can fry the whole thing. And damned if he knows how to fix it. "Come on I told them to be careful."
Nobody could blame him for the tantrum that follows; and he's fortunate for the bustling noise outside that masks the sounds of something breaking. Several things. The briefcase lands in a heap of his endless frustrations, perfectly useless. Why is nothing ever easy? Clenched fists glow in a wavering blue light as he tries to swallow his desire to just throw caution to the wind and see how more screwed up he can make this.
A while later and he's sane again. Back to square one.
--
Day 8
The raids the previous night has him on edge. While he kept from causing a stir, it's becoming increasingly obvious that he can't afford to stay in one place any longer than he needs to.
Five sits on the briefcase in the dirty alleyway, finally having found something to use it for, taking notes about the structure in front of him. One thing about being in a smaller body is how easy it is to disappear behind almost anything. Despite his frustrations, he prefers to focus on his advantages when he can, like maybe he hadn't made such a careless mistake. He'd lost the servant who had followed him out in the crowd, but if need be, he knows where she went whenever he needs a cover.
He used to call this working. Back when his job was surviving day to day, bringing Dolores news of whatever victory he deemed worth celebrating. And it was work. He knows how to survive on his own better than anyone, so he should be able to handle this with or without help.
But it became apparent after those initial days that he's eventually going to have to work with the others. From what he's gathered, they might have something strangely in common with him. Whatever that means. Abilities that can be useful as long as they have a common goal. That means going ahead with their plan to travel away from here for answers. Which in turn, means pushing them along so they actually stand a chance.
He's on his way back to their little safe house when he notices some new posters decorating a wall and slowly comes to a stop. They're crude, but he can pick out some of the features, including one that looks just like... well. That's sort of unflattering.
"Son of a bitch." When he looks up, he can see at least three merchants looking his way. Quickly, he turns a corner, then teleports to the next alley over. He gives a brief glance over his shoulder to see if anyone notices, then briskly continues on, briefcase in hand.
--
ooc :: will action spam or prose so don't even worry about it
no subject
For one, he can see that sword he carries. It's obvious to him that he must have been out during the raids. Five has some questions about that, but after a quick assessment, he grabs the cloak that's offered to him and drapes it over his shoulders. Apparently he's still willing to take handouts from poor souls who don't know any better. Besides being a convenient disguise, it practically swallows him and helps with the cold air hitting his knees.
And then there are the merchants, who he actually wasn't expecting to keep up the chase after him. They seem awfully motivated all of a sudden, but even without the posters and the raids, he has been pilfering from their stalls for days now. He expected trouble.
His attention goes back to his new companion when he pulls out that tired line. It's amazing how many times it's worked so far, but it won't be long before they start wondering how many mothers and fathers one boy can have. When the man holds out his hand for him to take, Five gives him a dull stare and instead takes a pointed step to the side, away from any attempts to shield him.
The hand on the briefcase flexes, his only weapon on hand. Maybe he wants to push it just a little further. See what happens.
"You heard him. Nothing to see here." Five calls out to them in a loud and perfectly pleasant tone. Almost daring. "It's best you just walk away, hm?"
no subject
This child accepts sanctuary in deed, but not in name. Defies the calm expectation of Wangji's hand, the diplomacy of swift withdrawal. And he Wangji never been ambassador to more than chaos, not him, descending of the Lans, and yet, he is for half the heartbeat, his brother's heir, the chief cultivator — arm snapping to fill out the small lower curve of his back. Shoulders righting, a rigid collection of whip cracks.
The boy wants nothing of him. Lan Wangji intends to deliver him alive. They are at difference, but not odds.
"He bids fair tides and farewell," he cuts like ice shrapnel, pellets and graupel. Lets his right hand descend where years of educated caution carry it, sweet mother over Bichen's hilt. A polite unsheathing, no more than the glint of her blade — silvered, cold carrying. A sword immaculate, her purpose plain. In days of plenty, she is the mouth of lifeless hunger.
No need to threaten further — only to drift his eyes past the merchants, where the distant smoke of waking households flares and knots into itself, tightens. A morning, coming alive. His robes billow and rustle with last night's frost still a dead anchor. He walks — nods for the child to come along.
"We leave." This, for the boy, more than his intruders.
no subject
His attention follows to the man with the sword, noticing the subtle warning, and then... and then nothing.
Tension hangs in the air as he lingers there while his new personal bodyguard retreats with an order to follow. He flexes his jaw and casts one last look towards the end of the alley, then he starts after him. They still seem to think he needs protecting. And for once he thinks that most of them probably have entirely noble, if completely misguided, intentions. It's almost enough to make him want to come clean.
"I've seen you before." He doesn't expect that he's after a conversation, but once they're out of earshot of those they left, he decides that he might as well. He thinks he can identify most of the people who came in around the same time as him anyway, if nothing else from what he overhears on that bizarre network they use.
"There's posters now. Did you see them?" He scoffs and shakes his head. His first 'wanted' poster and he hasn't even done anything to earn his reputation here. "They're not pretty, but they're out there. When did they get our descriptions?"
no subject
Only the lushness of snow undisrupted in dead-end alleyways lightens Wangji's step, carries the glide. He craves warmth like moth does fire light, born of habit, fatigue. The body yearns, mind milling. One step, the next. Mind the child's flank, when it peers in the corner of his eye, do not misconstrue the rare carelessness and weight of his pace for a stranger's attack, on impulse. This is no war. This is no war to call his own.
Two shadows, clotting like incense smoke, north west. The merchants do not flinch after, only him behind them, trading their conspiracies. Still, Lan Wangji guides the boy —
"Before me." Easy instruction, the tip of his sheathed sword whispering direction, steps ahead. They will both walk easier if Lan Wangji's broad back shields the child as arriere garde, where he lacks vantage. Concentrate on this, on the long trek home. Third step, fourth.
"We were captives." He has glimpsed the sketches, wet charcoal on thinning, snow plastered paper. In his sleeve, a scroll of Wei Ying's latest likeness sleeps, diligently removed. Let the Yiling Patriarch see himself for his new public face. Let Wei Ying choke that he seems to have gained 20 years for the loss of one eye. "They may have recorded names, attributes, likenesses."
They were bared and guileless before their captors, starting at constant disadvantage. Best to swallow that bitterness now, and spew their own venom back later. "Be at ease."
no subject
It's when the man insists he walks behind him that Five can feel his temper flare. He's played along, but turning his back seems for a moment a step too far. He casts a warning glance in his direction and his grip on the briefcase tightens, but after a few beats he wrestles back his instincts and continues his pace. (There's laughter in his ear, but a quick look around proves that he's the only one who hears it. A woman's voice, usually warm, but gently mocking in his memory. She doesn't need to be here to tell him that she doesn't approve.)
He could have teleported again. There really is nothing stopping him from doing it now, just to put an end to the charade. But so far he's done everything alone and found himself embarrassingly empty handed. Only recently has he considered the benefits of getting to know the others, and for that he keeps marching forward.
Usually he might keep his thoughts to himself, but with only the sound of footfalls to keep track of the man behind him, he picks the conversation up where he left it. 'Be at ease.' As if he ever is.
"That's the thing. A place like that is somewhere you'd send someone to rot. And yet they act like we escaped from their highest security prison." It's odd enough to mention. For one thing, usually anyone who went after him would have been actively trying to kill him by now. Wanted posters are almost polite. "Just seems like a lot of trouble for a few more soldiers in an undead army."
The things that come out of his mouth.
He's quiet as they pass another merchant. They should be closing up shop soon. Once they're a few steps ahead, he casts another glance behind him, observing the way he carries himself. "... You were out during the raids. Right? Looking after your own?"
I'M SO SORRY.
But Lan Wangji has earned nothing here, not comfort, not answers. In the gentle, sweet-diffused shaft of light that scratches the core of the alleyway, bleeding into the open market, he is an accessory — the boy's borrowed custodian, honouring his role. Stepping aside, when vendors volunteer themselves forward, to pitch candies and bound stone toys. Primitive, but sturdy.
Habit strikes before he can constrain it: the boy is grown, toeing the line between innocent childhood and the kindling needs of adolescence. Yet, stripped of home, family, defences. Reduced to wandering the cold.
The tally: two days before, two coins wasted on the flourish of a red string. Since, the tepid, dishonoured sale of a handful of hastily sketched out warming talismans, to keep a travelling merchant's horses pleased for his journey. Now, Lan Wangji tracks more expense, passing a piece to a vendor's stall for the gain of a small, coarsely chiselled wooden spinning top.
He stills, barely enough to make his payment, then offer the toy to the boy. "You are my own."
DON'T be he deserves it...
He bought him a toy.
For what seems like minutes Five stands there, looking at his outstretched hand, absolutely tense in fury. He can perfectly imagine Dolores telling him that he brought this on himself, and that doesn't help. He knows he did, but after being denied his previous outlet, the rage he's been swallowing inside finally consumes him.
He barely restrains himself from smacking the top from his hand, instead turning on his heel with a curt backwards wave. In three steps he pulls open the space in front of him and disappears in a ripple of light without a single care if any onlookers notice.
A few seconds later he reappears, having thought better of it. He circles back on the man, making sure to meet his gaze before he starts.
"I don't need your help or your pity. Got it?" The briefcase he's been handling jostles at his side as he moves in, its weight like the burden of his failure, and he unsuccessfully tries to keep his voice from rising. What he manages is a shout-whisper, as if that won't draw attention. "I'm not a child who needs protection, so you can go ahead and save your energy."
no subject
...for its diminutive merits, subtle and sleek and warm, despite its listlessness. His fingers round it, wood grazing flesh, just as the boy materialises once more, to venom and the careless wave of his firm satchel. He circles like a minor predator, and Lan Wangji, pivots with him, instinct overwriting reason to face an opponent, no matter his proportion.
No help required. No child to have earned it. Soft-eyed, he seeks out the spinning top, once more. Was the toy at fault? No fault to its quiet, thick, fir skins. No beauty, but no flaws of execution. Only the unassuming elegance of something precious and small.
The first rule of rearing, no matter Wei Ying's misconceptions: do not reward tantrums. Lan Wangji coaxes the toy to his sleeve, where it burdens the silk lining in a quick roll, then, finally, "Who raised you?"
Wangji must have words with them, fire and storm.
no subject
What he gets is disappointing at best.
If he were calm, he'd do more to note how little reaction was given to his sudden reappearance, but he's had a very long day. He's been trying to work with all of them. Going out of his way when he really didn't have to look after anyone but himself and his family -- wherever they're lost at the moment, which he's counting on having to fix along with everything else. So being treated like a misbehaving child at every turn is really starting to wear on his last nerve. (That one fucking miscalculation...)
"Oh, he doesn't deserve all the credit." He leers up at him, taking ownership of the insult. No, his old man couldn't be blamed for all of what he turned into.
That thought sticks with him while his smile strains and he holds his gaze. He breaks it with a scoff and a shake of his head as he turns back around. No teleporting this time. If he wants to keep following him out of the kindness of his heart, well, that's his funeral.
no subject
Lan Wangji's manner stays gelid, slow. He trails after the child like every bird searching the road for seeds, distracted. Thinned, greyed slush soaks his boots, sneering at formal leathers. Had he been — borrowed from the Cloud Recesses with forewarning, he might yet have furnished himself for the road. Forewarning. Forearming. The day before, nostalgia for the gentle resistance of white rice, over the quiet abdication of millet. Lan Wangji ridicules himself with expectations.
He fills out, one arm rounding to the small of his back again, its brother wayward, the spinning top still captive. Play escort, but know the part well. Rehearse and enact it with discipline. And he says, once a passing cart's kicked stray gravel into a rolling susurrus of gliding into sewage ways:
"I have a son." What is his truth, in a dying temple? Or before the blank gaze of another boy, fatherless here, reduced to anger? Nothing. Now, ever. And yet Lan Wangji persists, "He has nothing of your likeness." This is no accident of misplaced sentiment, no projection of affection for another, elder boy. "I wish him the kindness of strangers."
no subject
Apparently snapping had more of an effect on him than his bodyguard. He stops fishing for information that might have been gathered among a friendlier group, and he doesn't make any move to attract more attention to himself. In fact, he does his damndest to ignore everything around him so he can retreat back into his thoughts. Before he'd been interrupted, he'd been focused on something much larger and more important. The weight of the briefcase seems to grow heavier as he walks and he's reminded. There's a lot left to figure out and time is always working against him.
Hearing the man's voice again nearly makes him pause in his steps and his attention shifts back. It sounds like an explanation, or maybe an excuse. He has a son. Of course he's not like Five, because no one is like him, but he wouldn't be surprised if that plays a factor here. That parental instinct that some people seem to have.
For a while he doesn't respond, because he doesn't really need to, but he finds he's sufficiently distracted the more he thinks about it. Finally he looks skyward and lets out a sigh.
"Yeah?" Still sounding a little exasperated, but there's less bite. At one point he had meant to learn more about him, if he can stand to be civil. "How old is he?"
no subject
Lan Sizhui will rise, never to meet battle a victim once again, and the shiver that courses Wangji's back wrecks his form, suspends him.
"He was young, once." All sons survive their childhood. He speaks truths known, with an indulgence Cloud Recesses would incriminate: perhaps to weigh the steeled measure of his voice, to partake of nostalgia. To taste its bitterness and bile and know the swallow tense, a cat's shifted toy, moving his throat in petty undulations.
"Cared for toys." The same piece that grazes the warm belly of his palm now, rejected by the boy beside him would have gladdened every Wen remnant, irrespective of age. Refugees do not decline charity. They hardly deny themselves anything.
no subject
So he has an adult son.
Five doesn't really want to bring up the past, or the memories of his childhood that he clung to in the decades he spent trying to get back. Not with a stranger following him like he's still in desperate need of a father. But he can tell that he offended him when he didn't accept his gift. He only has no idea who he offered it to, because people see what they want to see.
"It's wasted on me." He thinks he might have told him he wasn't a child before when he lost his temper, but of course he didn't understand. Children say that all the time, and somehow part of him doesn't have the heart to tell him again. "That's not your fault."
As close to an apology as he can manage.
no subject
The boy gives his reasons, if not his excuses. They will do, for a gift inflicted like a summer sickness. Arched, the tumble of the spinning top, relieved from Lan Wangji's hand, down the seemingly nebulous, endless repository of his sleeve. A wretched habit, ruining the form of his silks. Uncle would disapprove.
Uncle is not present.
Another will take it. The pinkened girl Mina, the boy Eleven. There are options in their small contingent, despite the refusal of the most pertinent, the plainest recipient. "Fault is mine. You made no request."
But bore the indignity of a stranger's gift with something resembling aplomb.
"My friend will accept it." Twice the boy's age, but Wei Wuxian never did refrain from... small, shiny, moving things.
no subject
"I'm glad that's settled." That comes out dismissively, with a one handed gesture to the air beside him. It really is starting to drive him crazy that he's refusing to walk beside him. He's left in a vulnerable position, no matter how little the threat actually is. Another irritation he has to shoulder to keep from burning bridges.
A few more steps and he shakes off the feeling. There's something interesting in what he said. It's not that he hasn't picked up on familiarity between some of those who arrived, but he hasn't outright asked any of them.
"Do you have a lot of friends here?" That question could be misinterpreted, so he clarifies: "People you knew before."
no subject
Enough to miss, to lack, to hurt. To look at the precious privilege the likes of Lan Wangji has been awarded, without earning, and covet. No. Better for Wangji to still and slow his step and settle beside the child, better to raise his sheathed sword now and then and intercede between him and careless passers-by, inserting a barrier. Better to divert.
Bichen snaps back beside him, true to form, like the arc of a winding toy. "You gave no name."
One matter to refuse Lan Wangji's alms. Another, to deny him the dregs of courtesy. And true, in Cloud Recesses, a child would be introduced by his elders, presented for his name and feats and honoured relations. They are deprived of coal and cloth and the warmth of fresh-stretched linens on their beds here, let alone the iron grasp or protocol.
Let the child name himself. They share the intimacy of their quarters, Wei Ying says, in a house of pleasures. Only fitting for a boy of that shelter to lay claim to his own father, to pave his own path.
no subject
A thought occurs to him then. And with that thought, the pull of nagging paranoia as his companion moves around him again. Five makes it a point not to trust anyone outside of his family, and even they were consistently unreliable. Going to this level of care, protecting him from the looks of any harmless pedestrian, is worth noting.
He keeps a steady gaze on him before he decides to answer his question.
"Number Five." He doesn't usually throw in the 'number' bit, but it is his real legal name. There's part of him that's always waiting for recognition when he gives it. Some clearer sign of the enemy who has so far managed to get the better of him. However unlikely, there's not one of them in their group that he's ruled out entirely.
"You didn't give me your name either." That comes out more casually, like he wasn't contemplating anything along the lines of what he's done to people who decide to follow him in the past. Although none of them tried to disarm him with toys and plays of sympathy. If this is an elaborate plan to lower his guard, he's good. "I was going to check my notes later, but you could save me the trouble."
no subject
Around them, walls of worn brick strain, and the winds smack and gust, and the cold breathes between them. Here, it takes life and becomes as the villagers mill, a known and inescapable entity, like their swollen sea of iced tide, their aching salt. In this citadel, no man walks alone, or unharmed, or easily. Every shadow's whipped by winter's whispers.
"Wangji, sect Lan." Lord chief cultivator, a Twin of Jade, his excellency the Light-bearer. Verbal pittance. Better still, gaze dark and slanted, "You keep records?" A pause. "How old? And deep?"
Share them, he need not ask, because a child's work cannot be thieved from his hands, and the boy Five might not have yet mastered the viscera of ink and his calligraphy, besides. Perhaps he is not yet suited, prepared to display the intricacies of his work.
The world does not wait on wayward vanity.
no subject
Much like this man shouldn't be a concern. Usually by now Five would have dissuaded anyone from showing him sympathy, and it's become apparent that he's faced with some limitations based on historical and cultural beliefs that aren't so easily overcome.
Being underestimated should be a benefit. As little as he knows about any of their motives, passing for a child gives him an undeniable leeway. Five has fed into that with his silence about who he is, but there's a limit to how long he can go without snapping again. Two steps and he stops to turn towards him, leaning in. He can't do much about his height, but he can still make an effort to be imposing. No matter how capable the opponent appears.
"Deeper than you could hope to comprehend." On a whim, he fishes out the book he'd been scribbling in before and holds it out. It's not the first that he's filled at this point, and he'll need to find another one soon. There are some notes that are in English. Names and dates in particular stand out, but the majority is filled with complex equations and probability calculations that stretch on for pages. The most recent entries include times and movement around a certain building, but he's only showing it now to make a point.
"Knock yourself out." In this weather, he's counting on him taking one look and handing it back to him. On the off chance he understands the significance of it, well, that tells him something too. Highly unlikely, but he's always prepared to be surprised.
no subject
The boy Five has gone through no indifference of trouble to amass his knowledge, however eerily illustrated, and Lan Wangji celebrates it with a nod, then the soft perusal of his thumb and fingers where fresh rows start, as if physical contact with paper might acquaint him better with the content, a blind man learning his lover.
She would not be well pleased with him — by the end of the first page, he is as ignorant of the book as the boy may intend him. By the third, brows pinched, he drowns in restless confusion, the same symbols that had plagued the previous copy now reunited in a different sequence.
Not cipher, then... a different manner of writing?
No matter. They are exposed, and the boy stubborn in his vulnerability, ill dressed for the occasion despite the battered correction of Lan Wangji's cloak. They occupy too much space on an open road for passing horses or any sentinel that's ever watched Wangji's step to appreciate their loitering.
He calls the book closed — "Thank you." — and carefully deposits it in the endless chasm of his burdened sleeve, restarting their walk.
"Returned to you within the sennight." If Lan Wangji is ill matched for the task, Wei Ying may yet meet it.
no subject
It's in those extra moments standing there that he can feel the wind whipping through him, and he shivers despite himself. He hasn't experienced winter since reverting to this body, not counting the phenomenon surrounding the barn in 1963, and he's quickly reminded of his own shortcomings. Any victory at the reaction to his work can be squashed by a display of weakness, and he shifts the briefcase awkwardly so he can fold his arms to keep still.
The cold is forgotten as Wangji tucks the book away. He makes no word of protest, just a raise of an eyebrow and a shrug of his shoulders. Only a minor inconvenience to find something else to write on until it's returned, and he can remember where he left off. It's kept him occupied, awake most nights, but it's almost a compulsion at this point. He hasn't had a breakthrough.
"Call it a work in progress," he mutters without prompting as they resume their walk. Apparently his mood swings are still acting up, because he's back to conversational in no time at all. Like he's offering a reward for making the attempt. "Deconstructing our situation is the key to reversing it, but it's... a complex problem. Too many variables."
That's all he says. No reason to go into specifics, but on the off chance he shows that to someone, well. They can get an idea of what they're looking at.