Cold water for an overheated mind.
Mar. 10th, 2021 03:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thesecondjadeThey are here for Wei Ying's sake; this does not mean that Lan Zhan does not have needs of his own that he has to tend to. Research has been done, cursework researched, rest sought. He has seen another world in person now, if not the glittering spectacle that is Paris like Wei Ying did. But there are distractions. Frustrations born of absence and difference.
Wei Ying's face is gone, and there is now a new man in his place, with his mannerism, his mode of speech, his accent. A man who can't tolerate spices, who lags behind a mere mortal when he runs. A man with little Cultvation, who remembers...
What does he remember, anyway? Best not to ask.
Practicing swordforms by twilight is one way to reach for peace and pattern, for the things that are right in his life. His brain can turn off from the ceaseless question, the what ifs, that plague him. The motion keeps him limber, till he aches from exertion, and then the thoughts come pouring back.
Eventually, he finds himself in need of the Cold Spring Pond, and he cannot reach it here. So he finds a remote part of the lake, strips to the waist, and finds a comfortable point among the rocks where the water is shallow and sits down to soak in the cold water. It's just sideways from being right, just like everything else is these days. He tries not to think on that. He tries not to think on anything.
After meditation, Lan Zhan dresses and takes his usual place by the door; he has worked his arms till they ached, soaked his muscles until they froze, and now he plays quietly for no one but himself.
For the first time in forever, since he took on the widower's white, he finds himself composing again.
Wei Ying's face is gone, and there is now a new man in his place, with his mannerism, his mode of speech, his accent. A man who can't tolerate spices, who lags behind a mere mortal when he runs. A man with little Cultvation, who remembers...
What does he remember, anyway? Best not to ask.
Practicing swordforms by twilight is one way to reach for peace and pattern, for the things that are right in his life. His brain can turn off from the ceaseless question, the what ifs, that plague him. The motion keeps him limber, till he aches from exertion, and then the thoughts come pouring back.
Eventually, he finds himself in need of the Cold Spring Pond, and he cannot reach it here. So he finds a remote part of the lake, strips to the waist, and finds a comfortable point among the rocks where the water is shallow and sits down to soak in the cold water. It's just sideways from being right, just like everything else is these days. He tries not to think on that. He tries not to think on anything.
After meditation, Lan Zhan dresses and takes his usual place by the door; he has worked his arms till they ached, soaked his muscles until they froze, and now he plays quietly for no one but himself.
For the first time in forever, since he took on the widower's white, he finds himself composing again.
