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Wen Ruohan woke up on the wrong side of the bed. He opened his eyes and realized that he had an headache and a strange feeling that gave him chills even in the hot summer weather. He scowled at his water bowl on the other side of the room, knowing fully well he couldn't go back to sleep and that he would not be able to actually fall back asleep even if he could. That worsened his already dark mood.
The feeling didn't go away, not even when the headache finally did. It made him restless. He hated being restless, he needed a clear mind to make the right decisions (or wait till madness crept back from were he left it the last time he had to use it). For the better part of the morning he had a meeting, something he dreaded even when he was feeling less murderous. At the moment he was ready to kill someone for real (and then he remembered that he actually needed these idiots, so they got to keep their life, even if they pissed him off more than he already was before).
By the time lunch rolled around the feeling was so strong he felt like a boulder was compressing his chest. He angrily shoved a piece of chicken into his mouth, chewing fast as if eating would make the feeling go away. It didn't make the feeling go away.
Right after lunch he had a short meeting with Wen Qing. The woman was a medical genius and he was happy to have her by his side (he ignored that the only reason she was loyal to him was that he could decimate her family with a single order). She reminded him that the other Sects were having the annual Conference in Qinghe before going her way, taking her medical equipment with her but leaving the tea leaves that she recommended.
That information, which he knew and conveniently forgotten, gave him more to think and also a possible explanation for the feeling (still there and still annoying). They were probably bad mouthing him, confident that he was ignorant of their complaining. He relaxed a little. For all their words the other Sects wouldn't do anything.
The Jins were under the command of a man who thought women were more important that his Sect (who was also, to put it simply, a coward).
The Lans would never attack first, content and still in the sanctuary of their three thousand rules (there must be a rule somewhere that forbade attack without proof, Wen Ruohan was sure, because for all self righteous they were they were amazingly skilled assassins).
The Jiangs shared a border with them, but he doubted they would move, Yu Ziyuan was fierce but the actual leader was Jiang Fengmian who was a lot tamer than his wife (Jiang Fengmian also loved his subjects and would do anything to protect them, even try and push war back for as long as he could).
The Nies under Nie Mingjue would surely love to fight, but as prone to battle Nie Mingjue was he knew when to pick up a fight and when not to (he was a lot like his father, but with more self-control, most likely inherited from his mother).
As the afternoon stretched into early evening he nearly fell over a flight of stairs when the feeling rammed into his chest like a rock thrown with the strength of ten men. He caught himself on the handrail, trying his very hardest to make it look like a natural gesture. The servant girl in the hallway didn't raise her head from her task and Wen Chao didn't even realize his father nearly went barreling down the stairs. He absently told himself to ask his private fighting tutor to add another lesson about spatial awareness, this lack of knowledge would probably get him killed. The feeling didn't fade away into the dull throb like he expected it to do and that made him stop.
He quickly dismissed Wen Chao and told him to not disturb him for the rest of the day. He repeated the order to the servant he met on his way to his chambers, knowing fully well that his son would forget about it in less than an hour. His sons were ruthless and cruel, but did not share his keen intellect. A pity, really, as the other Sects heirs and First Disciples had skills far surpassing the ones Wen Xu and Wen Chao had (Wen Ruohan tried to forget this everyday, he was not ready to face the fact that the only things his sons had that outdid the others were cruelty and dishonesty). He surely had to do something about it, just later when he didn't have that stupid feeling choking him.
He opened the door to his chambers with enough strength to shatter it against the wall had the handle not been in his hold. He closed it with a little more consideration, he needed that door to stay where it was. With long strides he walked to the biggest window his bedroom had. It surveyed the city, allowing him a clear view of the place. It didn't relaxed him the way he hoped it did, but at least he could spot any danger coming (he put everything under danger, from other Sects delegations to Wen Xu returning from his night hunt with more than a scratch. And then, rethinking about his son skills with the sword, or god forbid talismans, he erased that last entry from his list of dangers).
He stayed there, standing and attentive, until the intensity of the feeling suddenly went away with same notice it came. That puzzled him even more than the rise he felt halfway through (an equally sudden and even more violent rise that made his knees buckle and his legs quiver, he stayed standing only out of his own stubbornness). He hummed, displeased. The lack of explanations was slowly driving him crazy and not in the way he had started to appreciate (the madness that helped him make decision and that he left somewhere). The sun was still high or as high it was in a typical summer day at dinner time. He scowled, again, at the lazy sun like it was its fault his day started like shit and finished worse.
He barked at the serving boy that was passing in the corridor, most likely coming from or going to Wen Chao's quarters, to make sure someone brought him dinner in his rooms. The serving boy bowed low and scurried along the hallway. So, coming from, good, that meant his dinner would be there quicker.
He ate his food the same way he had eaten lunch. With large bites shoved into his mouth and barely chewing before swallowing. The feeling had gone away, but it left behind a nervousness he was not used to that was almost more annoying than the feeling itself (the almost was fundamental). He was unsettled, pissed off and beyond tired of everything. He tried relaxing in the bath that was prepared for him, but even soaking in the water did not help at all.
He went to sleep early, so early he was sure some Lans were still up, but he didn't care. He stared at the dark wooden roof of his canopy bed waiting for the sleep he so desperately craved.
He fell asleep two hours later and then wished he never went to bed.
Red eyes. Black robes.
Gold irises. White sleeves.
Long black hair dancing in the wind. A red ribbon playing in the air.
A tight bun in a silver hair ornament. A gleaming metal cloud around a pale forehead.
Slim fingers skillfully twirling a black lacquered dizi. A dark cloud of Resentment around the flute.
Elegant hands gently plucking a guqin. Chords vibrating to reflect the anger of the player.
Corpses rising. Arms out to kill.
Barriers forming. Rope deadly beautiful.
Lips blowing gently in the hole of the dizi. Mouth pushing air into the flute with a snarl.
Fingertips lovingly caressing the hilt of a white sword. Blade bared, flashing and covered in blood.
A smile, loving and warm. A smile, dangerous and crazy.
Shoulders, relaxed and serene. Shoulders, tense and still.
A lotus pond. A pool of blood.
A calm cold spring. An iced river.
Anger. Pain. Grief. Rage. Sorrow. Love. Protectiveness. Anger. So much anger.
Grief. Pain. Worry. Love. Protectiveness. Concern. Heartache. Grief. So much grief.
And revenge.
Wen Ruohan woke up with a startle, scream blocked in his throat. Cold sweat adorning his eyebrows and breaths barely pumping his lungs. Hands in fists and heart beating loudly.
The moon was still bright but low on the horizon. The night was silent, no birds singing and no wind rustling the leaves, no cicadas' song playing and no water's murmurs. It was eerie, the night was never silent, a summer one even less.
Without any memory of the dream that caused such a drastic reaction, Wen Ruohan laid in that unnatural silence and had the very distinct feeling he just escaped something terrifying.
Twenty-five years in the future a man with a red ribbon in his hair and a twirling dizi in his fingers complained, remarkably loudly, to his husband, a cultivator in white with a ribbon around his forehead and hands flying over a guqin, about their missed opportunity to storm in Wen Rouhan's Palace.