He stills. In a moment, waters limpid, he drowns. What lies at the bottom of wells dried, mud caking, but the splendour of anticipation that streams might fill cupped hands again? In his lungs, the creaking start of simmered wet. On his lips, crackled salt — blood, and knows it his own only with the languished, drooled release of scissored teeth.
Smears of ink, or branches above them. The tepid relaxation of wind that, momentum of the passing horse stoked, eases its whipping. On his chest, the embers of flagellation, borrowed memento of the Wen. Southwards, the feverish brand of Wei Ying's arm, chaining. On his back, lashed calligraphy of his sect, each precept a bleeding. He breathes, the sum of pale, pretty parchment contortions his fleeting owners have braided him in, taut to fine points of tearing.
And now — resurrection — Wei Ying would weave him again. Rather have Lan Zhan. To have chased sixteen years, only to be caught first. More fool the huntsman.
"I shall not be your first resurrection. I pledge." Air shrieks of him, a breath, a heartbeat. Another. He cannot think, so close to his man, their scents combine to arson — shrugs Wei Ying's arm loose, but sets himself against the lethargy of sickness that governs his body to stand purposefully, unnecessarily prim in riding position. "Ease me to breathe."
Under the foam-spattered sky, stars exonerate him. They take the better road: he remembers this, from the coming. Shorter. Remembers, too, to make himself pliable, to lean as Wei Ying instructs — deeper, at forfeit of balance, and catch the sweaty musk of animal living, of speed and warmth in the horse's mane. What will you do, when I oppose?
Wei Ying, the dark cavern of locust threats, his mouth. Remember again, a banquet thriving, the gold and glitter of cups raised, If I, Wei Wuxian, wish a man dead —
Want is the enemy, his father its champion. And gravity, in love with itself. He waits: this is his mercy. Waits until they've fled the forest, until they've long strewn searing steps on the common road, until, gaze slanted, he sees blinked lights of smoke and homes ahead. Not the citadel yet, but the dread in him, a beast pacing its circle, unfurls strong claws between his ribs.
He waits, until he the world waits for him. And he moves. No easy feat to unsaddle a horse in its run, riding astride. At the first shift right, his left thigh singes, pain spearing. But he forces it in a sibilance of hisses, brings his leg up, crosses over, and —
does not look back
— casts himself off the horse with teeth gritting, one arm braced against his eyes, the second bearing the brunt of agony on the wrist, when he rolls and coils to break his fall. Blood pulses inside him, calls him attentive. The rush of his thoughts and the rush of coming storm. Bruises will bloom, bones rebel. He is ache, lifted. Nearly forfeits his footing and knows, even as he raises his sword, pebbles rained of him, Bichen horizontal and unsheathed — more token than threat, for the diffusion of qi that still haunts him, how it bleeds of him —
Knows he is no match for Wei Ying at the zenith of his art, each breath a calamity, but he will be heard. "...leave. My death is not yours. Leave."
no subject
He stills. In a moment, waters limpid, he drowns. What lies at the bottom of wells dried, mud caking, but the splendour of anticipation that streams might fill cupped hands again? In his lungs, the creaking start of simmered wet. On his lips, crackled salt — blood, and knows it his own only with the languished, drooled release of scissored teeth.
Smears of ink, or branches above them. The tepid relaxation of wind that, momentum of the passing horse stoked, eases its whipping. On his chest, the embers of flagellation, borrowed memento of the Wen. Southwards, the feverish brand of Wei Ying's arm, chaining. On his back, lashed calligraphy of his sect, each precept a bleeding. He breathes, the sum of pale, pretty parchment contortions his fleeting owners have braided him in, taut to fine points of tearing.
And now — resurrection — Wei Ying would weave him again. Rather have Lan Zhan. To have chased sixteen years, only to be caught first. More fool the huntsman.
"I shall not be your first resurrection. I pledge." Air shrieks of him, a breath, a heartbeat. Another. He cannot think, so close to his man, their scents combine to arson — shrugs Wei Ying's arm loose, but sets himself against the lethargy of sickness that governs his body to stand purposefully, unnecessarily prim in riding position. "Ease me to breathe."
Under the foam-spattered sky, stars exonerate him. They take the better road: he remembers this, from the coming. Shorter. Remembers, too, to make himself pliable, to lean as Wei Ying instructs — deeper, at forfeit of balance, and catch the sweaty musk of animal living, of speed and warmth in the horse's mane. What will you do, when I oppose?
Wei Ying, the dark cavern of locust threats, his mouth. Remember again, a banquet thriving, the gold and glitter of cups raised, If I, Wei Wuxian, wish a man dead —
Want is the enemy, his father its champion. And gravity, in love with itself. He waits: this is his mercy. Waits until they've fled the forest, until they've long strewn searing steps on the common road, until, gaze slanted, he sees blinked lights of smoke and homes ahead. Not the citadel yet, but the dread in him, a beast pacing its circle, unfurls strong claws between his ribs.
He waits, until he the world waits for him. And he moves. No easy feat to unsaddle a horse in its run, riding astride. At the first shift right, his left thigh singes, pain spearing. But he forces it in a sibilance of hisses, brings his leg up, crosses over, and —
does not look back
— casts himself off the horse with teeth gritting, one arm braced against his eyes, the second bearing the brunt of agony on the wrist, when he rolls and coils to break his fall. Blood pulses inside him, calls him attentive. The rush of his thoughts and the rush of coming storm. Bruises will bloom, bones rebel. He is ache, lifted. Nearly forfeits his footing and knows, even as he raises his sword, pebbles rained of him, Bichen horizontal and unsheathed — more token than threat, for the diffusion of qi that still haunts him, how it bleeds of him —
Knows he is no match for Wei Ying at the zenith of his art, each breath a calamity, but he will be heard. "...leave. My death is not yours. Leave."