As Spring Will Surely Come 3/10

[silver_sun]

Part 3

The mill is dark and silent. The only sounds are those of nature; the soft rippling of the mill stream, the whispering of the rushes and willows along the water’s edge and the occasional call of night birds somewhere further out on the river.

It is also bitterly cold now that the sun has set. The grass, rimed with frost, crunches beneath their boots as they leave the path and approach the river’s edge.

There is no immediate sense that there is a spirit there, and Wei Wuxian takes out his Compass of Evil. It is a newer revised version that he’d spent the long cold days of the previous winter in Gusu prefecting; his restless, inquisitive mind needed something to pass the time.

The needle moves sluggishly until it points upstream from the mill. It doesn’t come to a stop however, it drifts and wavers, not able to pinpoint an exact source of the energy that it is sensing. There is no doubt in Lan Wangji’s mind that the device is correct; he has absolute faith in Wei Wuxian’s skill both at constructing it and in reading it.

The temperature seems to have dropped still further as they approach the area indicated by the compass. There is no other sign however that the spirit is present, and Lan Wangji wonders if they should have waited until an hour before dawn as Lan Xiuling had done. It was possible that the spirit was only present at a certain time of day.

It might still work in their favour, he decides. The spirit may well still be able to speak even if it cannot manifest. With sparse information about the spirit and the reason for its presence speaking to it would be vital if they were to attempt to liberate it. If it would not or could not answer, they could look at suppressing it or as a last resort eliminating it.

With no precise location looking more likely than another, Lan Wangji sits down on the trunk of a fallen tree and unwraps his qin from its travel bag. When he looks up he sees Wei Wuxian standing right at the very edge of the river looking into the water.

The water is relatively slow moving and he knows that Wei Wuxian is a strong swimmer, far better than himself, yet it worries him all the same. Lan Xiuling and Lan Chunyue had only survived because they were able to draw on their golden cores for survival while trapped underwater. Wei Wuxian’s new golden core, formed in Mo Xuanyu’s old body, is strengthening rapidly, but isn’t strong enough yet to give him more than a couple of minutes extra. “Wei Ying, keep watch here.”

“There’s nothing there,” he says as he walks over to him. “The river hasn’t frozen yet, but if it gets much colder it will.” He pulls his hands back into his sleeves. “And so will I. Why is it so cold here? When we’re done here you’ll have to be a good husband and warm me up.”

“I will.” Lan Wangji knows very well what kind of warming up Wei Wuxian is wanting, and he is only too happy to provide it. “Now keep watch.”

The music ripples like the starlit surface of the river, the notes of Inquiry as crisp and clear as the frost.

The spirit is listening. Lan Wangji is certain of that. It is listening, but it is either unable or unwilling to answer. So far their experience has mirrored what Lan Xiuling had told him. He hopes that the similarity will end there.

Given the apparent age of the spirit, more than a century at least, it could be that it is too ancient to reply. The thoughts that it once had are too degraded and dispersed by the passage of time that it cannot comprehend the question or form answers.

He asks it again, giving it time to reply. ‘What is your name?” “What happened to you?” and “What do you want?”

“For a spirit that tries to get people’s attention by knocking them into the river, it’s not very talkative, is it?” Wei Wuxian says. His breath mists in the increasingly cold air, and he blows on his hands and then rubs them together trying to keep them warm. “Shall I try? It will have to answer me.”

It would be a solution, but Lan Wangji is unwilling to try it unless it becomes absolutely necessary. The more Wei Wuxian redevelops his golden core the more ill effects from using demonic cultivation occur.

Sometimes it might be coughing blood briefly as the growing core clears the ill effects, but other times it will be pain racing through his meridians for hours afterwards or sudden exhaustion that causes him to collapse and sleep for the rest of the day. The hope is that once his core develops further he should be able to negate some of these ill effects. The alternative is that the ill effects worsen further and he will have to make a choice between the traditional path and the one that he carved for himself out of desperation and lack of other choices.

It is one of the fears that Lan Wangji has. One of many that he will not speak of less he burdens anyone. The fear that Wei Wuxian will choose to stop developing his golden core rather than lose demonic cultivation is a real and awful one. His own core is already at a point where it will, excluding injury or other harms, guarantee him very long life. The idea that he might outlive Wei Wuxian by decades or more, that he might have to watch him age and lose him has woken him in the night more than once.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian pokes his cheek. “Did you freeze solid? Did you hear what I said?”

“Foolish.” He catches Wei Wuxian’s hand and holds it, warm it. “I will ask again.”

“If you don’t want me to try, just say,” Wei Wuxian replies. “But it really isn’t a problem if I do. Speaking to it isn’t so hard. What about if I put up a few attraction flags? That should catch its interest. Maybe it’ll reply to you then?”

With speaking to the spirit having been unsuccessful it is a reasonable course of action. If they can trap or isolate it, perhaps then they might be able to find out who it was and what it might want. At worst, if they can do neither of those things, and the spirit remains a danger they could destroy it and make the river safe once more.

Using the spirit attraction flags is a good compromise. Lan Wangji nods his agreement and releases his hand. “If this does not work we will try again before dawn.”

“Before dawn?” Wei Wuxian says with mock horror. “What a cruel husband I have, keeping me awake all night.”

“You object now? You did not before. You begged for more.” Lan Wangji is well accustomed to his teasing now, and enjoys pushing back, seeing Wei Wuxian flustered by it.

“That…that isn’t the same thing! How can you say that out loud, what will people think?”

“Truth should be spoken aloud.” He hands him the pouch containing the spirit attraction flags. “Also, they are not the ones in my bed.”

Leaving Wei Wuxian to place the flags and hide his blushes, Lan Wangji takes up his qin once more to ask the spirit its name again.

Still there is no answer, but it is no longer silent, there is a sound like faint, muffled laughter.
It is a strange response as much as it is unnerving. If a spirit chose to speak it would have to tell the truth. Yet laughter is neither speech nor silence.

It is possible that there is so little of the human mind left of the spirit that it can no longer reply in any meaningful way, its consciousness too fragmented and eroded by the long passage of time. The laughter and what could be an ill judged prank of knocking someone into the water could indicate that the spirit was that of a child, one that was too young to understand the serious consequences of its actions.

Yet that didn’t seem to match with what Lan Xiuling had told him. The abnormally strong current and iciness of the river beyond what should be expected seemed to indicate that the spirit wanted those that it pulled into the river to come to harm. It didn’t preclude it being a child. The anger and confusion of a child spirit that had met a sad end, perhaps even through neglect or bullying could be a terrifying thing.

“The flags are up!” Wei Wuxian calls over. “Ah Lan Zhan, it’s so cold! Let me call it out now and then we can go back to bed and you can get me all warmed up.”

Turning to him, Lan Wangji has every intention of saying something that will leave him flustered and blushing once more.

Before he has had a chance to speak he is falling.

In the brief moment of turning round so that he is no longer facing the river something utterly silent and lightning fast has looped itself about his ankles. In barely a second it pulls them together, unbalancing him, before wrenching him sharply backwards into the river.

The water is icy, far colder than it should be able to be and remain a liquid. The shock of it makes him gasp, water rushing into his mouth, denying him breath.

There is no sense of up or down as he is dragged, feet first, through the water. Ink-dark, the bright winter’s moon and starlight don’t penetrate the unnatural gloom. Muscles cramping from the biting cold, he ignores the pain and kicks out, trying to free his legs and break free. The loop about his ankles tightens the more he struggles, bruising the skin and muscles beneath.

The water rushing past his ears sounds like mocking laughter. Not just sounds like, Lan Wangji realises, this is the spirit itself, laughing at him.

There is nothing playful about it. It’s mocking and cruel, the feeling of its malice filling the water as it delightly in his unsuccessful struggles.

There is no possibility to swim against it, to fight the current - the spirit seems to be using the weight of water in the whole river against him. His lungs burn, the need to take a breath growing more urgent.

He can’t allow himself to panic, even if it is a normal response. He knows his core will sustain him past the point where anyone without one would drown. Remaining calm is the only way he’ll free himself.

The great wheel of the watermill is only a short way down stream. If he can catch hold of it, as Second Young Master Gao had done, he has a good chance of escape. He doesn’t want to think about the consequences of not being able to, of being swept out to where the Luhe widens.

The heavy winter cloak that had been useful while on land tangles about him, and Lan Wangji pauses in trying to free himself from the spirit to unfasten it. The cold and lack of air make his fingers feel uncoordinated, and after two attempts at untying it he gives up and rips it loose. It can be repaired or replaced as long as he survives.

He spreads his arms, giving himself the best chance of coming into contact with the wheel. A few more seconds, a minute at most and he is sure he’ll reach it.

It is not his hands that make contact with it first.

His lower back collides with bruising force against one of the submerged buckets on the wheel, pain blossoming up and down his spine. Despite his plan, Lan Wangji finds that there is no opportunity to catch hold of it and pull himself free as the spirit drags him down.

Ankles still bound together, he’s dragged feet first beneath the great wheel, until he is pinned beneath it. Chest pressed down against the stoney river bed, his back scratched and scraped against the wood and iron of the buckets as they try to move in the current.

He’s trapped.

Even if there were air, Lan Wangji doesn’t think that he could draw a breath, his chest is so tightly compressed against the stones. His lungs burn from lack of air, while his heart pounds, until he can feel it beat in his ears.

What choices are left to him? His mind feels fogged from not being able to breathe. He can lay still, try to conserve what little air remains and hope for Wei Wuxain to rescue him or he can struggle and try to break free, but will use up that last precious air much faster.

He can’t let Wei Wuxian face the spirit alone. What if he was already in the river too? What if he had also been dragged in? His barely formed core wouldn’t give him much extra time.

Fear sets in now. The utter terror that spirit could be taking Wei Wuxian from him while he lays there powerless to stop it.

He has to free himself. He has to get to Wei Wuxian. He has to protect him. He promised he would. He can’t let him die.

Frantic, he struggles, not caring how the wood tears into his back and shoulder, old scars ripped open. He had to get free. His head pounds in time with the increasingly erratic beat of his heart.

He’s going to die.

He’s going to die and Wei Ying is going to die. He is going to die and even if Wei Ying survives he’ll be alone.

He’s going to die and leave family behind. His family who need him. His sect which needs him. He’ll leave Sizhui behind, who has lost so much in his young life. Half orphaned yet again.

Pushing up against the wheel doesn’t work. Trying to pull himself free, while fighting the current doesn’t work. Trying to let the current pull him all the way under the wheel, so he can emerge, untrapped on the other side doesn’t work; his shoulders are too broad to go through the narrow gap.

Up is the only choice left. If he can grip the mill wheel perhaps he can pull himself up. Even if it isn’t fully out of the water, if it is enough to break the surface and draw a few breaths it will mean he can keep fighting.

The angle is awful, a painful stretch on top of already stained muscles, but Lan Wangji manages to twist his right arm round far enough behind him that he can grip the edge of the wheel.

All the time the water has echoed with the spirit’s cruel laughter as it gleefully revels in his struggles and suffering. Then, abruptly, it ceases and an eerie quiet descends, only the creak of the mill wheel and the rush of water.

Wei Ying.

He wants to call out. To tell him to be careful, but there is no way he can warn him from underwater. Perhaps now while the spirit is distracted he can free himself. And if he can get free he can keep Wei Wuxian safe.

Lan Wangji kicks out, finding that his ankles are no longer bound together. He can feel the wheel start to turn now that the spirit isn’t actively using it to keep him pinned beneath it. As it turns his arm is pulled up and back, further and further, the angle too acute now for him to withdraw it.

He’s so close now, but the continued lack of air is making him dizzy, consciousness hanging by an increasingly thin thread, his struggles to break free weaker. Still though he is caught beneath the wheel, chest and shoulders wedged between the wood buckets and the river bed.

One last chance. Breathe out as much as he can and hope that with no air left in his lungs his chest will compress enough that he can get free. If it fails, he doubts he’ll be conscious long enough to worry about it for long.

It’s an effort to get his body to comply, the bubbles of air escaping from his mouth only seeming to fuel the fear that is about to drown. Years of meditation, including in the cold ponds in the Cloud Recesses have given Lan Wangji a level of control few others possess.

All the same, there is a moment of utter despair when it seems to have failed, then he is moving, his bruised and torn back no longer pinned beneath the water wheel.

Three things then happen simultaneously. A wave of energy filled with resentment and anger floods across everything as the shrill notes of a dizi fill the air. Lan Wangji’s head breaks the surface of the water, allowing him to breathe one more. And his right arm, still trapped in the wheel, is twisted up and back, until the muscles and tendons in his shoulder can’t take any more and with an agonising burst of pain it dislocates.

Barely conscious after having been deprived of air for so long, Lan Wangji hangs limply from the waterwheel as he drags in ragged gasps of air, half choking on them as the unrelenting pain in his shoulder spikes with each breath.

Through the haze of pain, Lan Wangji can see Wei Wuxian standing on a tree branch that leans out low over the water. Clothes billowing in a wind that seems to blow nowhere else, he has Chenqing raised to his lips,

It is for a moment like seeing him as he’d once been, a living nightmare for the Wen sect, a demon on the battlefield who spared no one, ruthless and implacable, who would not only kill, but would raise those corpses to kill for him.

Tonight he only has one enemy.

The spirit hangs in the air in front of Wei Wuxian, a dried out shrivelled thing that looks more like an ancient piece of driftwood than anything that might once have been human. It is no longer laughing, it wails as the dizi becomes faster and shriller. Then finally with a desolate shriek it breaks apart, disappearing on the night breezes like ash blown from a hearth that’s gone cold.

The last notes from Chenqing linger in the frosty air, then all is still, only the gentle sounds of the river at night remain.

They have survived. They are going to go home. He is going to hold him again.

“Lan Zhan! Hold on, I’m here!”

There is a splash as Wei Wuxian leaps into water and swims over to him. “You can let go now, I’m here. Let’s go back to the inn.”

“Stuck.” Lan Wangji’s voice sounds disconnected, faint, even to his own ears. “My arm. It’s…” he trails off, vision starting to tunnel as consciousness begins to slip.

“No going to sleep here,” Wei Wuxian says, patting his uninjured shoulder. “You know the rules. You need to wait until we get back to the inn, you can’t sleep until you’re in bed.”

Rules. Which rule was it? Disorientated, Lan Wangji finds he can’t bring any relevant one to mine. Ones that don’t apply at all fill his head. Do not adorn yourself with things that make noise. Do not be wasteful. Do not use vulgar language. Do not…

“Lan Zhan! No falling asleep here.”

Wei Wuxian sounds distant. Although he cannot be as his hand is on his shoulder. He wants to be good for him. To behave.

“This is going to hurt, but you can’t stay stuck here.”

It already hurts, Lan Wangji thinks, still too dizzy to focus. It doesn’t matter.

“I know.” Wei Wuxian pats him gently again. “But I’m here Lan er gege. I’ll do this as quickly as I can. Hold onto me while I get your arm out.”

Even the smallest movement caused by Wei Wuxian supporting his arm sends shocks of pain down it, burning and tingling from shoulder to fingertips. Lifting it clear spikes the agony higher still, and the darkness that had been lingering at the edges of his vision rushes in and swallows him whole.
 

Part 4 - https://silver-sun.dreamwidth.org/272835.html#cutid1