There's a familiarity to this that Wei Wuxian feels like a knife in his marrow, and he looks from the Lan Zhan who isn't, with a small nod of his head: once, I said that if any were to strike me down, I wished it would be you. Now, I would never burden you with that pain. Hears the Wei Ying from Lan Zhan's illusioned lips, and swallows it down with the air he uses to play.
Bichen, drawn, is not unknown. He lifts his gaze, focussing instead on the storm, the chaos of Chaos's creating. Grief, so much anger, so much pain. Not wanting to accept, wanting to be the sacrifice that brings it all back.
If music is the voice Chaos will speak to with him, then he can pour his emotion into that, can turn the melody into an acceptance of the anger, an acceptance of the grief, an acceptance of the injustice, and a way to breathe with all of it constricting his chest.
The song reaches its natural end, and he takes that pause to lower the flute, to look back to the Lan Zhan that Chaos has provided him with as a distraction, a warning. Speaks to him, who doesn't exist, for the one that does, beyond him.
"We would all give ourselves to bring back those we've lost. There is no right or wrong in it; we grieve, we mourn, and the pain doesn't stop, it ebbs and flows like a river, through the seasons. I'm sorry for your pain, your heartbreak. I wish no one had to know it, but we do, don't we? Those who survive," he says, lifting his flute again, "We have to remember the pain, and the helplessness of what we cannot undo. But what we can prevent from happening again, those we can stop from creating the same harm, should we not try? For the sake of all we've loved, shouldn't we try?"
He resumes playing, and the song is the same as before, though somewhere in its middle it shifts, turns into the song that the illusion before him wrote in truth. The song of heartache and longing and hope and sorrow, of the world that changes, of the life and death written into it. Of singing, soaring, not bending to break before it, but to know, in waking, this is no dream.
no subject
Bichen, drawn, is not unknown. He lifts his gaze, focussing instead on the storm, the chaos of Chaos's creating. Grief, so much anger, so much pain. Not wanting to accept, wanting to be the sacrifice that brings it all back.
If music is the voice Chaos will speak to with him, then he can pour his emotion into that, can turn the melody into an acceptance of the anger, an acceptance of the grief, an acceptance of the injustice, and a way to breathe with all of it constricting his chest.
The song reaches its natural end, and he takes that pause to lower the flute, to look back to the Lan Zhan that Chaos has provided him with as a distraction, a warning. Speaks to him, who doesn't exist, for the one that does, beyond him.
"We would all give ourselves to bring back those we've lost. There is no right or wrong in it; we grieve, we mourn, and the pain doesn't stop, it ebbs and flows like a river, through the seasons. I'm sorry for your pain, your heartbreak. I wish no one had to know it, but we do, don't we? Those who survive," he says, lifting his flute again, "We have to remember the pain, and the helplessness of what we cannot undo. But what we can prevent from happening again, those we can stop from creating the same harm, should we not try? For the sake of all we've loved, shouldn't we try?"
He resumes playing, and the song is the same as before, though somewhere in its middle it shifts, turns into the song that the illusion before him wrote in truth. The song of heartache and longing and hope and sorrow, of the world that changes, of the life and death written into it. Of singing, soaring, not bending to break before it, but to know, in waking, this is no dream.