Work Text:
Baixue Temple was true to its name, even more so during winter.
Snow would cover the courtyard and grounds of the temple and the glazed terracotta roof tiles of the structures, masking everything save for the lattice doors and windows that were the color of deep mud against the white walls.
The scenery was akin to a meticulously done ivory carving or a flawless painting of ink and slight color on silk.
The sight of it was impressive, but it was more than just its beauty that Song Lan admired and cherished.
Almost everything Song Lan knew in life, he learned under the tutelage and guidance of the temple.
It was where he first picked up a brush and dipped it into the oil soot ink he ground himself on the stone mortar.
“You only have one chance to make something perfect,” his shifu would say. “But as long as you act before the stain becomes a huge blot of ink on paper, you will always have a chance to turn your mistake into something beautiful.”
There was no time for hesitation once the inkstick was ground, once the pigment seeped into the brush, once he lifted his hand to write. Otherwise, the ink would dry and cake before making a mark on the world.
So Song Lan did not let himself waver once he dipped the brush and touched the rice paper. With great care, he turned each stain of ink into strokes until they became something. They were not beautiful, not at first, but he always made sure they were not pointless.
With constant resolve and practice, his small, ink-stained hands eventually stopped shaking and became stable that he was no longer making significant mistakes.
“The brush is an extension of you,” his shifu would remind the disciples. “Only with full control of your mind and body will you be able to execute each stroke with reverence.”
Before long, Song Lan became proficient enough to create beautiful and meaningful calligraphy.
Then, the time came for him to pick up the sword and the whisk.
“What you hold in your hand is not just a weapon; it is life,” his shifu would say. “Each move requires great deliberation and should be executed for a purpose, with honor and dignity, as each strike can save or take away lives.”
So Song Lan took his shifu’s words to heart and treated the world around him as precious and delicate, especially whenever he was holding a sword and a horsetail whisk. Without losing focus, he took notice of every slight shift and every little step that made a difference in the balance and flow of his motions.
The wooden sword was quickly exchanged for a heavier, blunt-bladed training sword.
It did not matter to Song Lan even when he was overcome with fatigue, or his breathing was labored, or his shoulder got injured. He did not let his hand tremble or his weapon waver, maintaining and perfecting his forms as well as the pacing and fluidity of his movements.
“The sword and the whisk are extensions of you,” his shifu would remind the disciples. “Only with full control of your mind and body will you be able to execute each strike with reverence.”
Before his voice even broke, Song Lan was already standing and moving with the resolve of an executioner, precision of a marksman, and grace of a dancer.
By the time his voice had gone deeper, he was skilled enough to be allowed to go on night-hunts on his own, aided by the semi-sentient sword forged just for him. He decided to call it Fuxue.
When Song Lan came of age, in the snow-covered courtyard of Baixue Temple that was soaked in his tears and sweat, his shifu bestowed upon him his courtesy name.
Song Zichen.
Like with every teaching his shifu imparted to him and with every memory of the temple, Song Lan would regard it with reverence. But it would take several years before he would meet someone who would honor and call him by that name.