#阳关三叠 is one of the first pieces i learned on the guqin

[besanii]

shattered mirrors 49

WangXian ; 1729 words

The low table by the window catches his eye the moment he walks into the room. It stands a little over knee height and a metre in length, with flowing clouds engraved along the edges of the paulownia wood; the slip of light blue silk draped across the top is embroidered with silver characters he recognises as musical notations for the guqin. The instrument itself is missing, but he knows instinctively the owner of the instrument without confirmation.

He allows himself a small smile as he traces the notations on the silk until he hears footsteps in the corridor and retracts his hand quickly; moments later, Lan Wangji walks into the room. A young man follows a step behind, carrying the guqin in its white wrappings on his back. Wei Wuxian dips his knee in welcome.

“Wangye,” he says, lowering his gaze. “Welcome back.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji greets him in that stubborn way of his, refusing to call him anything but with the name he had long discarded. “Have you been well?”

Hands slide beneath his elbows to help him to a standing position; he raises his eyes to meet Lan Wangji’s through his lashes and offers a sweet little smile.

“Xian-er is very well today, thank you very much for asking, Wangye,” he replies demurely. “Please, have a seat. I’ll pour the tea.”

One of the large hands at his elbow shifts to his back, its gentle pressure guiding him over to the larger table in the centre of the sitting room. He shies away as Lan Wangji moves closer to help into the seat, masking the way his breath hitches with a soft laugh when his fingers trail over the sensitive skin of his palm, instead reaching for the tray at the centre of the table. Lan Wangji holds himself still as Wei Wuxian moves away, his fingers curling into fists and lowering back to his side; he sinks into the seat quietly and keeps his eyes fixed on the cup that is placed before him.

The sharp fragrance of the tea is immediately familiar, as is the light hue of the tea itself in the fine ceramic cup.

“Wangye seemed to enjoy the Longjing we served on your last visit, so I took the liberty of serving it again,” Wei Wuxian explains when he notices the focus of Lan Wangji’s attention. “I hope I have not been too presumptuous.”

“No,” Lan Wangji says. “Not at all.”

Wei Wuxian smiles as he takes his seat beside him, the folds of his pearl-grey robes settling around him with a sigh. It is not a colour he usually wears, but the material was a gift from one of his wealthier clients and he had been insistent on seeing him wear it—afterwards, well…it would have been a shame to waste a beautiful set of robes. He turns his attention instead to the young man hovering just inside the doorway, turned away from them politely, the guqin resting on the floor in front of him, held up between his hands.

“What have you brought with you today, Wangye?” he asks.

“I thought we might have some music,” Lan Wangji says, raising a hand. “Jingyi.”

The young man jumps at being addressed out of the blue and turns to Lan Wangji with a quick bow before carrying the guqin over to the small table. The care with which he unwraps the instrument is offset by the way his eyes dart back and forth between his task and Wei Wuxian with interest; Wei Wuxian inclines his head politely in his direction when their eyes meet and he flushes, fingers fumbling over the tassels as he sets the guqin on the table. The thud it makes is loud enough to make the poor boy wince and Lan Wangji’s eyes narrow, but the task is otherwise completed without further issue and he backs away quickly.

“Wangye,” he says with a low bow. Lan Wangji inclines his head.

“Thank you, Jingyi, please leave us.” He turns back to Wei Wuxian as the boy leaves the room quietly. “Please excuse him, he is…excitable.”

Wei Wuxian laughs softly. “He is still very young, Wangye.”

“He is old enough to learn the values of restraint,” Lan Wangji replies with a frown. “And he carries the name of the Imperial family. He would do well to learn the lesson early.”

A twinge of sadness passes through Wei Wuxian at those words and for a moment he looks at Lan Wangji and sees the seventeen-year-old boy behind the man, tall and proud and so very lonely. Once upon a time he had hoped to chase away the loneliness in those eyes, had promised to never leave his side—but the promises of children have always been foolish, and they are so very different from who they once were. But regret is an emotion he prefers not to dwell upon, so he laughs again and rises from his seat to inspect the guqin.

“This is a very fine instrument,” he says admiringly. “Is it yours, Wangye?”

The instrument is carved from the finest paulownia wood in the simple, elegant Zhong Ni style, with blue clouds curling across the smooth, dark lacquer on either side of the strings. There is the tiniest of dents in the lacquer just above the bridge, no bigger than the tip of a hairpin, that catches his eye—a pang of recognition makes his heart clench, and he passes over the spot quickly in favour of plucking the first string. A clear, mellow note rings out from the guqin.

“Yes,” Lan Wangji replies, watching him carefully. “It has been passed down in my family for generations.”

But you already know this, goes unsaid.

“I have long heard the qin of the Gusu Imperial Family are unmatched in all the kingdoms,” Wei Wuxian says, feigning ignorance with the lightness of his tone. “Er-wangye especially. I confess my own skills are sub-par in comparison.”

“You play?” Lan Wangji asks, surprised. Wei Wuxian looks at him with a playful little smile.

“Only very little,” he says with a hint of embarrassment. “I would not dare to compare myself to someone as talented as yourself, Wangye.”

“I would love to hear you play,” Lan Wangji tells him. The sincerity in his voice makes his heart ache. “If you are willing, of course.”

Wei Wuxian inclines his head. “If that is your wish, Wangye, then Xian-er will display my inadequacy and play a piece for you.”

He shakes out his sleeves and takes a seat in front of the guqin. He adjusts the tuning quickly for his chosen piece, his fingers darting over the strings and the hui with practised ease, each harmonic ringing loud and clear. When it is properly tuned to his liking, Wei Wuxian takes a deep breath and places his hands in position.

The piece he chooses is slow and sorrowful, a song of parting, and he plays each note with careful deliberation: lingering with each downward slide, ending each phrase with a trembling note. It is a piece he knows well and plays often, pouring a little of himself with each new interpretation of the score, coaxing the yearning of the original poem from silk strings against fine wood. When the last note fades into silence, he releases the breath he had been holding, the ache in his chest petering with the music. Only then does he dare to look up at Lan Wangji.

“Yangguan Sandie,” Lan Wangji murmurs. There is an odd light in his eyes Wei Wuxian cannot place. “Why did you select this piece?”

“It is one of my favourites, Wangye,” Wei Wuxian says, resting his fingers lightly on the strings. “I will admit it is one of the simpler pieces, but the merit of a song should lie in the feelings it evokes in the listener rather than the complexity of the technique—wouldn’t you agree, Wangye?

“‘The fragrant wine is limited, but this regret is boundless’,” he continues, when Lan Wangji does not answer. “‘Boundless grief, grief, and grief again.”

He lowers his eyes and draws his hands back into his lap. His chest feels hollowed out, empty, and he is grateful for the table’s edge that hides the way his hands tremble. Perhaps it had been the wrong piece to play, he thinks in the wake of Lan Wangji’s silence, he should have picked something livelier instead of a song of the yearning, heartbreak and sorrow of farewell—

“‘After today’s parting, in both places our mutual yearning will grow’.” His heart stops at the sound of Lan Wangji’s voice, deep and warm and gentle as he murmurs the words. “‘But to whom can we speak them?’”

The words hang in the space between them, weighted with meaning. Wei Wuxian stands up, heat rising to his cheeks as his heart thrums in his chest; he moves over to the open window in a bid to hide his face, careful to keep his movements casual despite their swiftness. Lan Wangji remains by the guqin table, watching him silently, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

“The song is one of your favourites,” he says thoughtfully. Wei Wuxian curses himself internally for giving even that little fragment of information away. After a pause, Lan Wangji exhales. “It has also brought me great comfort over the years.”

Wei Wuxian forces himself to laugh, turning around to face Lan Wangji again.

“Now that I have demonstrated my mediocre abilities on the qinin front of a great master such as yourself,” he says, pitching his voice higher as he smiles. “I believe it is your turn, Wangye.”

Lan Wangji hums.

“I am no master at the craft,” he disagrees, taking the seat Wei Wuxian has vacated. “Merely one who is dedicated in its practice.”

“Begging your pardon, Wangye, but I have heard very differently,” Wei Wuxian tells him with a teasing smile. The flirtations come easier now that his heart has settled again, and he is able to meet Lan Wangji’s eyes with his usual humour. “I am very honoured to be able to have Hanguang-wangye play for me personally.”

Lan Wangji smiles, his eyes already turned to the guqin.

“If it pleases you to hear it,” he says quietly, “I will play for you every day.”

Notes:

hui - the note scales on the guqin (similar to frets on a guitar), marking places of positive integer dividends of the string length

Zhong Ni style - one possible shape of a guqin. It is the one I’ve found most similar to Wangji as it is drawn in the donghua

Yangguan Sandie (阳关三叠) - Three Refrains on Yang Pass, a song inspired by a poem by Wang Wei that laments the parting of friends [ WATCH ON YT: / watch?v=nHNdgfoxvvo ]

Master Post is here: /shattered-mirrors-master-post

// buy me a ko-fi : besanii //