Chapter Text
Lan Xichen is haunted.
It first started with a feeling. Like a pair of eyes following his every move. Watching him, studying him. Perhaps, even memorising him. Just a feeling and nothing more.
And then came the shadow. A presence.
The bamboo cottage he chooses for seclusion is small and personal. The way he likes it. It is unnamed and unassuming. But Lan Xichen is as familiar with it as he is with Shuoyue. This is not his first seclusion nor is this the first time he has locked himself in here. Thus, he knows every corner, every walls, every items stored within, and even the usual shadows that reside there.
It isn't hard to notice the new shadow that moved in. In fact, it is far too easy.
But Lan Xichen tactfully turns a blind eye.
Every shadowed corner he passes, every dark nooks behind him vibrates with a presence. Not unlike a curious kitten carefully observing from where it deems is safe.
The new resident is harmless, for which Lan Xichen can attest.
It does not try to interact with anything within the bamboo house at first; it merely exists, observing, calculating, waiting. For what exactly, Lan Xichen can not tell, yet. But it remains harmless and he is content to let it be.
Seclusion can be a lonely thing, even if it is self imposed. Lan Xichen hardly minds a company in his isolation, especially when it is one he does not need to acknowledge.
It is now the second year of his seclusion and the shadow starts to get bolder. It strays from the darkened corners, moving around places that are hardly fit to contain it. But it tries anyway. Blending in with the shadow of the door when it is opened on a sunny day, hiding among the clutter of brushes on the table when Lan Xichen feels tired enough to left them as they are. One time, it even tries to mimic a painting Lan Xichen has yet to finish.
It seems to find the act amusing.
It poses as the dark, rolling clouds covering the mountains surrounding the cottage; a poor imitation. Lan Xichen can imagine the snickers, the rows of teeth glinting behind a wide grin. He adds the dark clouds on the painting the next morning, in case the shadow wants to hide there again.
Lan Xichen is content to let it roam around the cottage. Letting his gaze fall whenever a new shadow appears behind an item that no light reaches; giving it privacy incase it is desired.
Then the shadow starts to interact.
Not with Lan Xichen. But with the things within the cottage.
Even then, Lan Xichen does not interfere.
Feigning ignorance when things are moved— a teacup straying from its tray, a brush rolling under the table, a shoe that vanishes without a trace just to turn up under the bed a week later. Lan Xichen turns a blind eye, as he always does.
Until he finds Liebing on the table.
At first, he simply puts the xiao back where he stores it these days— under his pillow, a place he rarely touches. But Liebing does not stay put.
It appears on the table again.
And again.
And again.
Lan Xichen closes his eyes as he sits down behind the table. Then he stares for quite a while, silent, breathing, pondering. He picks up Liebing.
Then he acknowledges the presence for the first time in two years.
"Would you like me to play you a song?" he asks the empty room.
A shadow dances in the middle of the floor, where sunlight cast a blinding halo. It mimics a nine petaled lotus bloom floating around the floor, then it transforms into hands clapping in enthusiasm.
Lan Xichen plays Liebing for the first time in three years.
Throughout the song, the shadow changes into different shapes. First the hands wave around as if guiding the music that floats gently from the xiao, stable and soft. Then it tranforms into a silhouette of a man dancing along to the tune. Next, it becomes a river flowing steadily betwix two mountains; an apt representation as the song takes inspiration from the small creek cutting through the backyard of the cottage. It continues to take on different shapes; a cloud, a steaming teapot, a child frolicking around the wooden floor. Eventually, as the song ends, it transforms back into a man but this time he is clapping and waving his hand around, as if in applause.
Lan Xichen huffs out his first laugh in two years. The shadow stills for a moment and then darts back to a darkened corner, blending in among the still shadows of the cottage.
The show has ended.
Liebing remains on the table from then on.
Routines are easily built, especially when one is locked away from the rest of the world.
At night Lan Xichen stands at the window facing his bed, watching the moon travelling its olden path across the sky.
By sunrise he sits at the front of the cottage, meditating. At least he tries. Peaceful mind does not come easy for him any longer.
By high noon he takes his first meal in silence. Always silence. But it is loud in its quietness. A void that screams.
Then he walks out the backdoor, into the backyard where his attempt at growing his own vegetables yielded uneven dirt and painted a poor picture of an island ransacked by thieves. There, he tries to empty his mind once more. He sits on a conveniently protruding slab of rock and closes his eyes and breathes. A mimicry, for his mind is tumultuous and his muscles are pulled taut no matter how many breaths he takes.
He comes to the cottage to reflect on his mistakes but how can he atone for his sins when he can not yet let go of the person who led him astray.
By evening, right around the time the sun has finished its journey through most of the sky and prepares itself to disappear behind the mountains, he sits at the table and plays Liebing for a shadow that dances to his tune. This is when he finds himself most clear headed.
At sunset, he attempts to feed himself.
By nightfall, he is already at the window, painting the very picture of a forlorn lover waxing poetry of lost love and bygone chances. He is not aware of this tidbit. Not at first. Not for a long time.
Another year passes yet again.
It is half way through the third year of his seclusion and Lan Wangji brushes off decorum and pushes his way through the door. Not quite literally.
One morning, Lan Xichen steps out of the cottage for his morning meditation and finds Lan Wangji sitting at the small table pushed against the right corner of the banister that guards the front porch.
"Tea, xiongzhang."
Lan Xichen sits across him and pour two cups from the teapot Lan Wangji brought.
"What brings Wangji here?" he asks, although he can guess the answer himself.
"To see if xiongzhang is doing fine."
"I am."
"It has been too long," his little brother says.
His face is impassive and his tone suggests no emotion, but Lan Xichen is well-versed in his brother's tune. He can read the worry, the questions, the reprimand.
"Almost, Wangji. Almost."
Lan Wangji takes his leave without finishing his cup with a demand Lan Xichen can not refuse.
"Answer the letters, xiongzhang. Or expect me everyday."
Lan Xichen forgoes afternoon meditation and instead read all the letters he has casted aside for the past three years.
But he never forgets to play Liebing for the mischievous shadow that dances for him.
Over the next few days, he writes back to the letters he deems important and tosses the rest into a fire.
New letters come every other day. His brother's are rare but those he never misses to answer.
It is now winter and the cottage once again becomes a block of ice. Lan Xichen cares not for the cold but his brother worries. And changes come for his sole companion.
One winter evening, Lan Xichen rouses from a fitful sleep he manages to snag for a couple hours. He is slumped over the table, having fallen asleep in the middle of painting golden silk and a cinnabar dot from memories that pain him.
Liebing is missing from the corner of the table where he knows he has pushed it to make space for the portrait he wishes he could stop painting.
There is a silhouette of a man leaning against the doorframe.
Cold wind blows through the opened doorway as a horrible imitation of Lan Xichen's latest composition flows from Liebing.
The silhouette keeps playing even after it knows Lan Xichen has woken up. Only after the song ends does it turn its head.
On the clear sky, the full moon outshines all the stars scattered around her; illuminating the silhouette, her silver beams highlighting the pale frost white of Liebing. But the silhouette has no features. It remains a shadow even though it does not stick to any surface.
The shadow can stand up now.
"That was wonderful," says Lan Xichen.
The silhouette jerks its head to the side, as if huffing in exasperation. As if saying, that was terrible and you know it.
It was terrible. But it was also wonderful. Lan Xichen tells it so. And in the next second, the silhouette rapidly fades into a wisp of black smoke and vanishes into the shadow. A wisp of dark mist leads down Liebing silently and it touches the floor achingly soft.
Lan Xichen spends the night staring at the moon once more.
Just as snow starts melting and the smell of spring passes through the forest, the silhouette regains its features.
First it is the face. A sight to behold, in Lan Xichen's opinion. Sharp eyes, sharp nose, sharp chin. All angles and no softness, and yet so beautiful. It rarely comes out nowadays, preferring its old shadowed corners. But Lan Xichen continues to play Liebing for it.
When spring settles in, it appears again. Shy and reserved but confident nonetheless.
By now, it has arms and legs, although the outline of his body blurs and shifts continuously. Like a mist or a fog. Or a drifting cloud changing its shapes every few minutes.
Lan Xichen can not bring himself to refer to him as an it anymore. For the shadow has now become a proper ghost. The ghost of a man, it seems.
The ghost has yet to regain his colour. Although, he has now become a gray mist rather than the pitch black shadow Lan Xichen once knew so well.
Most days he floats around the cottage, seemingly more comfortable with a tail of clouds than a pair of legs. Some days he uses his legs to take a walk in the surrounding area, but he never strays too far. Always within sight of the cottage.
Lan Xichen sticks with his routine but now many hours are reserved to simply watch in silence the ghost timidly exploring the secluded forest. And then growing bolder as colours appear.
Ironically, it starts with the hair. The gray mist slowly returns to black. But not the same untextured black, not the shadow that blends in with the dark corners of the cottage. They become individual strands that flow about the grayish man like silk on water. The colour too is not that of a mere shadow, not a common black one can find in any place where the sun can not reach. Rather, it is black to the point that when sunlight casts its brilliant gold just right, the hair shines in breathtaking purple.
Lan Xichen can not stop staring. And the ghost notices.
Sometimes he would look over his shoulder, catch Lan Xichen's eyes, and jump up and fly around the swaying bamboo just outside the cottage. A grayish, smokey torso has already been molded into the shape of a flowy, heavy robe. It seems Lan Xichen's ghost likes to twirl around in the fluttering fabric as he floats through rows of culms and thin leaves.
The ghost puts on a show for Lan Xichen every day and Lan Xichen watches each one with reverence.
The second colour is purple.
A unique colour Lan Xichen once knew.
The ghost's heavy robe is dyed whole with it; but apart from the vibrant purple and the black, leather sash around the waist, the robe is uncharacteristically undecorated.
The shape of the long sleeves that nearly touch the ground when the wearer stands with hands clasped behind the back in the sun, eyes closed, face tilted, nose flaring; the folds of the collar, wide enough to show the coarse inner robe, but if the wearer were to choose so, to show smooth skin and clavicle that entices, but not enough to scandalise; the cut of the shape, the waist slightly narrowed, curved, to accentuate the wearer's physique even without the sash; the hem long enough for the wearer to appear gliding across the floor, and wide enough to flutter around as the wearer turns and spins. All these suggest the robe is for an important occasion, a banquet perhaps, or an offical meeting.
Lan Xichen can only guess.
For a robe made to impress, it lacks any eye-catching embroidery.
As the ghost performs his routine dance through the forest of healthy bamboo that sway and turn with his every move, Lan Xichen amends that the robe needs not any stitching, any emblems or glittering pearls.
The man who wears it steals all the attention, after all.
Then, next, came the honeybrown.
One evening, as Lan Xichen prepares to play Liebing for the evening, a smoke of gray mist huffs past his back and circles around his head. He casts his eyes around to follow the movement but in the next second, the smoke darts forward and sticks itself onto the floor in front of the table.
From the opened doorway, the sun relentlessly pours in her golden showers on the ground. And from within that golden light, the gray smoke rises and twists around until it takes the shape of a man.
And the shape clears up as it transforms into a figure Lan Xichen knows so well. But this time, a new detail has been added.
Black hair, dark eyes, determined lips, purple robe, long limbs and now, smooth skin painted in honey brown. The image flickers and shifts but the man resolutely stands still, watching Lan Xichen.
Studying his reaction.
A hitched breath, a clenched fist, unblinking eyes and stilled chest.
Lan Xichen can not look away. Oh, the ghost is beautiful. Something inside his chest presses tight, like his heart grows bigger in size as his ribcage shrinks.
For the first time in his life, Lan Xichen breaks his carefully curated manners, and stared. Openly, unabashed, uncouth.
Silence passes for too long and the ghost grows self-concious.
But unlike an ordinary man, he does not look away in embarrassment, or scrapes his toe against the floor in a bashful conduct. Instead, he huffs soundlessly, clenched fists and narrowed eyes. Then he vanishes in gray smoke.
"I'm sorry," Lan Xichen rushes to say but the ghost remains hidden. Lan Xichen sighs and lifts Liebing to his lips. "You are beautiful," he professes and plays a tune to affirm his statement.
Although the ghost retains most of his colours back, he remains transparent, still. His image flickers and shifts and the sun shines right through him. But he exists, all the same.
And he has yet to make a sound.
Even though Lan Xichen initially accepts his companion's existence solely for the lack of necessity to communicate, he now looks forward to hearing the ghost speak.
Lately, sleep comes at night. Though the painful dreams remain, he no longer whiles his nights away staring at the silent sky that provides no comfort. These days his bed bears his weight, his pillows remembers the indentation of his head.
And the ghost watches him in his sleep.
Lan Xichen feigns ignorance once more. Pretending not to notice, staying still as he feels a sweep of phantom touch across his cheek, eyes shut tight as a formless mist hovers over him in curiosity.
Lan Xichen yearns for the mysterious voice.