The Qin

The Qin: A Prose Poem of A Magical Instrument's Arousal

I am Lan Zhan's Qin.

I was fashioned for him and only for him.

I am his spirit's partner, and I sing for him alone.

I remember the first time I lay before my more than lover, waiting. Waiting for the first of a lifetime of touches. Waiting for him to, yes, master me.

To lightly stroke me

Pluck me with roughened fingertips.

Strum me with the back of his fingernails.

The first time he laid a hand on me, I remember I moaned. It was more than I could bear, that first time he woke my voice. He seemed pleased and as he moved lightly over me, I sounded more and varied notes, as he worked to evoke them.

Slowly at first.

Afraid to challenge me.

But I signaled that I wanted more.

He listened and responded, with plucking and caressing. Stroking with increased force until he teased a final, loud, and seemingly endless, scream from my once hollow core. Nothing and no one could have loved him more.

We traveled together.

I never left him, by his side,

Brought to the forefront to battle evil.

My shell has absorbed his sandalwood and I cannot exist without it. It brings out a sheen of unearthly beauty, and I feel its armor during our night hunts together. I feel protected, invincible, when it envelops me as we weave our spells and defeat darkness. And my music protects him in return.

He has taken me to a waterfall,

fed by the yellow Yangtze,

The longest river, source of all life and death.

There, he played me sweetly behind the water's golden curtain, forcing me to sounds of utter delight and abandon, bringing me to a place no other has ever reached in known history. Songs I could never have imagined.

Songs that made me soar.

Songs that made me weep.

Songs that made me dream.

I am not made of the usual material. Not made of watong and zi, or shan mu. I am not inlaid  white jade that glows like his skin, or faceted gems that shine like his eyes. Nor am I finished with daiqi or the finest silk strings. I am not fashioned from a single one of these priceless things, unlike his tool of cultivation, his weapon, Wangji.

I am nothing so grand.

I am humble flesh and blood.

I am his Wei Ying, and I too, was made for him.

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