[ No sect leader, this. No glory of the golden people. No Lianfang-Zun. No slayer of the Wen.
At least courtesy preserves itself in motes and tatters. At least, he earned garments and trinkets of manners past the slave wear of 'Meng Yao.' At least Lan Wangji holds himself, the weight of Zewu-Jun's grief hung taut around his neck, and breathes, but he breathes, he breathes.
And he —
— is.
A lone and quiescent fixture, white anger cresting on the bowed angle of his bending back. Infant disciples neglect their postures so, like willow trees, submitting. He aches in the way of tries dried, their skins crackled. Knows, decades from now, he will sprout branches of his back, a ribboned extension connecting him to the waiting sky.
If there is a moment when he transgresses, from brother's diplomacy to the cruelties of his heart, if there is a blinked-eye's decision, he cannot name its scope. Only feels the tenuous partitions between that which is, independent and whole, and that which Lan Wangji stitches seamlessly from ether: the silence spell, ground and growing garden on the smoothened land of Jin Guangyao's lips. ]
Hear me. When I enter a room, flee it. When I speak, silence your snake hiss. Where my family live, you withdraw bite, scent and venom. Do you grasp? [ A pause, then, to acknowledge the fruit of the silence spell: ] Nod the once in affirmation.
no subject
[ No sect leader, this. No glory of the golden people. No Lianfang-Zun. No slayer of the Wen.
At least courtesy preserves itself in motes and tatters. At least, he earned garments and trinkets of manners past the slave wear of 'Meng Yao.' At least Lan Wangji holds himself, the weight of Zewu-Jun's grief hung taut around his neck, and breathes, but he breathes, he breathes.
And he —
— is.
A lone and quiescent fixture, white anger cresting on the bowed angle of his bending back. Infant disciples neglect their postures so, like willow trees, submitting. He aches in the way of tries dried, their skins crackled. Knows, decades from now, he will sprout branches of his back, a ribboned extension connecting him to the waiting sky.
If there is a moment when he transgresses, from brother's diplomacy to the cruelties of his heart, if there is a blinked-eye's decision, he cannot name its scope. Only feels the tenuous partitions between that which is, independent and whole, and that which Lan Wangji stitches seamlessly from ether: the silence spell, ground and growing garden on the smoothened land of Jin Guangyao's lips. ]
Hear me. When I enter a room, flee it. When I speak, silence your snake hiss. Where my family live, you withdraw bite, scent and venom. Do you grasp? [ A pause, then, to acknowledge the fruit of the silence spell: ] Nod the once in affirmation.
[ There can be only that between them. ]