metanoia [mdzs]

a hope for tomorrow, faith in goodbyes

Electricity courses through his veins, an acid that burns in his meridians as pain leaves his vision a stark white.

Unwittingly, a low groan escapes from his throat. A hand clutches at his own limp ones, entangling their fingers. It's gentle and yet, still too much.

"Lan Zhan..."

His voice slurs, tears welling and escaping without his control. The voices in his head are loud, colours of red, grey and death filling his sight.

The vividness blocks out any reply from his husband, sweeping him further into delirium.

The world burns, and the ground he lay on is tainted, with crimson seeping into barren soil. Wei Ying hears the whispers tempt him, taunting him of his failures and all his mistakes.

("everyone you love dies. who will be next?")

("didn't you say you could control it? look what happened, useless, useless-")

("madam yu. uncle jiang. wen ning. wen qing. jin zixuan. shijie- who else do you want to kill?")

He lets out another choked gasp, feeling ice in his chest even as his body burns and burns and burns.

His head is loud, wicked voices twisting, sneering his every flaw, at the weakness in his very bones, because he couldn't protect anyone in the end-

And yet, even through the agony, the static and the mockery, he hears the faint sounds of a guqin, feels a calloused hand grip at his own, and a kiss to his temple, sweet and painful and-

"Sleep, Wei Ying."

A low baritone cuts through the shrill taunts born from the demons in his head.

His body burns, mouth tasting like ash, and Wei Ying is tired, and so, he listens.

He rests.

--

The curse is not a particularly potent one. Not physically, of course.

Lan Wangji knows this from the countless scrolls he has pored over, gathering any information about the curse mark on his husband's arm; present in the three deep claw marks on pale skin, that had caused blood to seep into soil, and Wei Ying's veins to be dyed black, almost like a fierce corpse.

And now, as Wei Ying lies in the Jingshi, face pale and veins still visible, he knows it is only a matter of time.

The curse is not taxing on the physical body. It targets the mind, dragging out memories that only bring back pain, and carving out unhealed wounds, for three grueling days.

Memories that Wangji would not be able to protect him from, had failed to protect him from, once upon a time.

And he swallows, squeezing at his husband's limp hand, skin still overheated from a fever that has yet to be broken, looking haggard and not at all like the pristine image of a chief cultivator the world has grown to respect.

Here, in the privacy of his Jingshi, he is spared from pretence. And so, he presses a chaste kiss onto Wei Ying's cheek, praying, be strong.

--

It starts like this.

A hand clutching at his own, warm and loving, as someone ruffles his hair.

"Be good, A-Ying." His mother presses a kiss to his forehead, giving him a smile that seemed to light up the world. "We'll be back soon."

Standing beside her, his father nods easily too. "Soon." He promises, the word comforting as it falls from his lips, steady as a rock.