riddleofthebelow

"I see," he says. Curiously, "Are snakes truly so hated in your world, then? That being able to speak with them is enough to mark you as wicked?"

Honestly, Wei Wuxian finds it impressive. Conversing with an animal in its own tongue! What must that be like?

"Well, it doesn't help, for sure," he grins. "Not everyone hates snakes, but most avoid them."

And, uh, it's pretty cool.

"I keep several at the House. They have their own quarters; they aren't slithering about. Even if we had doors, I wouldn't allow them to run amok where they might get trapped or stepped upon by accident."

"A wise arrangement," he agrees. "But you say you don't have doors! Is your house simply open to the air, or is every door a painting such as this?"

He gestures to the rabbits, unable to stop a smile as one of them flicks an ear in response. So much better than those accursed (ugh) dogs.

"Well guessed, Wei Wuxian," he says, impressed. "Yes, it's an associative house, and it consists of rooms found all throughout the Underside, my wife's birth world, and linked together via paintings."

You know what might be easier than explaining this to him? Showing him!

"Would you like to visit where you're trying to break into? It might be helpful for your research, and I take great pride in what I've helped create."

Once upon a time, he had many friends coming in and out of the House from here, and it would also be rather nice to see that past repeat itself.

He brightens. "If you are willing, I would be honored to visit your home, Tom-gongzi. Only..."

And his expression falls, a little.

"I am afraid I am dead. I do not know how long I can leave the inn, or if I can leave at all. I cannot even see the door most cross through."

"Ah, you see, our home is in London Below, the Underside of the city of London, and it's where memories, people, and places end up when they fade away and are forgotten from the living city. In the past, that allowed the House to serve as refuge to many patrons who found themselves here after their deaths and needed a more home-like place to live than the rooms above the bar. Even for the bound, those like you who can't see a door, accessing the House of Arch was never a problem, and there's no reason it should be one now."

There will be a few things to let him know about if he visits because the House of Arch is a unique place, both in feeling and in navigation. Access, however, is not an issue.

Edited 2020-09-13 22:32 (UTC)

A home of forgotten and unloved things, outcast from the city above. It seems -- fitting. So much like the little home he carved out in the Burial Mounds, for himself and the Wen remnants.

His smile is wistful, now, a little aching. He says quietly, "I see. Then -- yes, as I said. I would be honored."

"Brilliant," he says, and if he notices the wistfulness of the smile, he attributes it to Wei Wuxian's situation, and nothing more.

"How this works, for residents, is that they are keyed magically to the painting through my wand's magic. I'm an Opener, now that I've married into the House of Arch, and I don't need magic any longer. I just open the portal. But since you're not keyed to the painting, you'll need to grab my arm in order to come along."

He crooks an elbow out to Wei Wuxian.

"Oh, and as we go through, you'll feel emotions or see flashes of memories of my family. We've had no tragedies in a long time, so hopefully there will be nothing but normal, pleasant images. But Door's family were murdered in the House, before I knew her, and sometimes other flashes of... bad times can seep in during transitions."

But now? There are enough memories of the joys of first steps and first words, of small celebrations of yet one more advance in uniting the squabbling factions of London Below, and of lots and lots of love and fierce pride and determination to outweigh the bad things.

But who knows what each guest may experience as they pass through? Tom certainly never inquires.

He exhales, and nods. "I will prepare myself, then."

Perhaps the bad memories of the House will be kept at bay by his own bad memories. It would be nice to think so.

He takes Tom's arm, faces the painting, and, on Tom's cue, steps forward. A part of him expects he will run face-first into the wall and earn a bruised face for his troubles, but all that greets him is a rush of magic breaking across his skin like cold, clean springwater. Trailing behind it...

His throat tightens abruptly as a wave of emotion washes through him.

It is a loved place. It is so loved; that is all he can think to say of it. There is such warmth, and contentment, and quiet joy, of the sort Wei Wuxian has not felt in a very long time, and he wants to drink it all in as if it were the finest wine. The images he sees aren't more than impressions -- a laughing toddler, a girl with blue hair standing fierce and proud in robes that nearly look like Lan Zhan's, Tom's hand entwined with a woman's as they gaze upon each other -- but each one cements the deep, abiding peace of a family crafted and maintained with the utmost care.

He blinks, hard, to clear the sting from his eyes. As the emotions fade, he looks up to take in the sight before them: dozens and dozens of paintings seemingly hung from midair, held in a simple white room.

"Welcome to the House of Arch, Wei Wuxian," he says, breathing deeply with the contentment he always feels when he is once again home.

"The common rooms are accessed through the paintings here, that show a visual representation of where they lead. We've a library and gathering space, a shared courtyard that leads to an outside for sparring and weaponry lessons, and we used to have school rooms when our eldest children were younger. The tutors all came from Milliways."

He points to an innocuous landscape painting. "This one takes guests to their own gallery of personal rooms and suites, and our family gallery has its own painting, as well."

Which he doesn't point out; there are other ways guests can chime the family rooms than through the main gallery. There are other paintings hanging still within their frames throughout the gallery. Some are traps for interlopers who may get this far; some lead to disused rooms. A few only Tom and Door know where they lead.

"I hope coming through wasn't unpleasant. If you'd like a tour, I can give you one. Would you like to visit the library?"

He thinks the answer may be yes! Or at least, he hopes it is.

"It was not unpleasant at all," says Wei Wuxian with a faint laugh. The tears have backed down by now; he studies the room with avid interest, grinning bright. "I will visit wherever you lead, Tom-gongzi. Show me as much as you wish!"

The library is from the 1970s, a decade Tom's pretty okay with not having actually lived through his first time round. It's a large rectangular room lined along the walls. It may not be as diverse as the library at Milliways but there are many works representing many worlds on the shelves and in the stacks that reach from the floor to the highest shelves.

They do not reach the ceiling! Tom has gotten so much better about that!

Children's books, both Muggle and magical, are scattered about on the squashy avocado green sofas that make the shape of a u in the middle of the room. They are also stacked on the floor. Portico and Egress are learning terrible book handling habits from their father.

The magical section takes up two large shelves, but the oldest and most interesting (or nefarious) tomes are in Tom's personal study, which has its own painting on the wall that may be chimed.

"Here we are. Oh. Erm. Please excuse the mess. We make use of this room on a regular basis."

He takes out his wand and waves it to straighten at least a few of the stacks into less haphazard towers.

"Not to worry," Wei Wuxian is quick to reassure him. "My room is often not fit for visitors, either. In a week's time, the walls will be more talisman than wood, I am sure!"

With a keen interest, he watches Tom charm the books back into place, then turns his attention to the shelves, hands folded behind his back. Many of the bindings are thicker, more rugged than other books he's seen, with prominent labels and no exposed sewing; as always, he waits patiently until the inn works its magic, the text blurring as if smudged by water and reforming in a legible language.

Lan Zhan would love this, he catches himself thinking.

A title catches his eye. Curious, he pulls A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration from the one of the shelves housing the magical books and flips it open.

"Oh, yes, that's an excellent choice," he says. "You can borrow it, if you like. There ought to be ways to make theories represented here work with written word instead of spoken."

He's pretty sure he's going to ask Wei Wuxian if he'd like access to the House of Arch once they go back to Milliways. He'll key him to this room in a heartbeat.

"You do not mind?" he asks, looking up in surprise.

Everyone who knew Wei Wuxian during his studies at Cloud Recesses would have no idea what to make of the eager light in his eyes. The difference, of course: Cloud Recesses was boring. Why read book after book about rules and tradition and every speck of minutiae when you could be learning about a whole new cultivation system?

"The books here are meant to be read, and I'll gladly share them with another inquisitive mind. That's the only way you keep learning, become more skilled. If you limit yourself, well."

He shrugs, because every book is a useful book, even the darkest ones, the ones that scream when you open them. So long as you treat them with respect and carry the darkness, instead of letting it carry you.

"It doesn't serve you, in my experience. I have even more magical content in my study. It's more restricted than what's on view here, because children and guests don't necessarily need access to it."

"Ah, Tom-gongzi," he sighs. "I wish more of my teachers had been like you."

He snaps the book closed.

"I will content myself with these for now, but if you deem me worthy to look at the restricted material as well, I would consider it a great honor."

"Yours were narrow-minded and tradition bound, too?"

He laughs. "Come and see."

Walking over to the painting, he offers an elbow to Wei Wuxian once again. When they step through the portal, they are in his 50's era study, in a room with stone walls and a view out the window into a cold winter morning long past. This room is no tidier than the library, from the stacked shelves containing the oldest books and scrolls to the blocky wooden desk that is covered in quills and parchments, open books with notes scribbled in the margins. But there is an organized chaos here; Tom knows exactly where everything is.

There's a sofa in the cozy space as well, and Tom's collapsed on it more than one evening researching here when he could no longer evade sleep.

His white owl, Galatea, perches on her post by the window, preening her feathers. There's a crackling fire in the hearth.

"I hope it's warm enough. We keep the fire going because this rooms tends to stay cold." He prefers it. It keeps his mind sharp.

It's more lived-in, more ornate than Wei Wuxian's own room -- only to be expected, considering he arrived at Milliways a mere month ago -- but the organized chaos is so familiar that it warms his heart.

"It is fine," he says. His eyes light up with wonder at the owl; cautiously, he approaches the perch. "Is she yours?"

A true owl for company, not the dire owl of the Wen clan -- this is fascinating.

Galatea dips her head, regards the visitor with care, and then huffs out a friendly hoot. Tom pulls open a desk drawer and hands Wei Wuxian a pouch of owl treats from Diagon Alley.

"Yes, owls are familiars in the Wizarding world, and carry our mail and messages. Do you have familiars? That is, animals that are magically significant companions?"

He laughs, accepting the bag from Tom. "Yes," he tells the owl cheerfully, "you do not have to warn for the dead. I am here."

Wei Wuxian fishes out a treat and offers it to the owl between pinched fingers.

"We do not have companions like these. Our messengers are spiritual constructs. One of the Great Sect leaders had a dire owl, but it was to a living owl as the moon is to the sun."

Oh, Galatea approves of this visitor. She takes the treat with a dainty nibble of her beak. She hoots again, and she shifts her weight from one talon to the other in anticipation of another nibble.

"She's carried messages between worlds and dimensions for many years now. She's quite exceptional."

His snakes are his true familiars, but he's very proud of his owl.

"A very good bird indeed. Aren't you," he croons to Galatea, and scratches the back of her head as one would fuss over a cat.

(To encourage her to put up with this indignity, he also gives her another treat.)

She will allow this. Because she is a very good bird, indeed, and she appreciates the fuss. And the treats.

"Yes, and she's clearly starved and deprived of any attention ever," he deadpans.

He's about to begin a run down of his current research, just in case Wei Wuxian might be even a little bit interested, when he's stopped by a movement out of the corner of his eye.

"Blast and damnation", he mutters under his breath as a rat with a message tied around its neck crawls out from under the corner of his desk.

"Excuse me for a moment, please. While the Wizarding world uses owls for messengers, rats or pigeons are the conveyance in the Underside. Duty calls."

He's not as fluent in his understanding of pigeon or rat speak as he'd like, and he's relieved when this rat sticks to formalities he can easily track - a quick series of squeaks followed by it rearing up on its haunches and watching Tom expectantly. He removes the message - which appears to be written on the back of a long grocery store receipt - from around its neck, reads it, and frowns.

"Well, this is a spot of bother."

As Tom tends to the messenger-rat -- Wei Wuxian wonders, briefly, if the rats of the Underside are the same as the rats who occasionally serve food and drink at the inn -- he continues to fuss gently over Galatea, murmuring cheerful praise and feeding her more treats. He smooths a hand over her white feathers and chuckles when she squinches her eyes shut in pleasure.

When Tom speaks, though, he glances up in mild concern.

"What is it?" he asks.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject