The pendulum swings once in fall. Once again in rise.
He thinks, along the way it batters the precarious possibility that Wei Ying would not do this: return to haunt him like a ghost, between dregs of blood salt and petrichor. The horse neighs distantly, weakly, shrill. He will remember this: the fear a hundred men before him have seeded in their soul, of this beautiful monster who takes his step before Lan Wangji.
Yiling Patrirarch. No. No, but Wangji inches back first, nearly staggers again — keeps Bichen flat and lifted, the symbol of eroded defences, a battlement conquered. She does not waver, and Wei Ying pushes close, bares himself like a common whore, or a nymph, or a summer dream. ( This is the pallor that shares your bed, beneath silks. ) And Wei Ying rips of himself his quarry, setting it, slick and filthied and so very small in Lan Wangji's free hand, a gift of sweat and strain.
Qi pulses through him, without sustenance. In his hands, Bichen gleams with the dignity of a weapon that knows herself her master's better — in spite of him, and not for his pleasure. He swallows.
"Resurrection." Of him, of his body, the puppet returned to strings. Is he as Wen Qionglin, then? The sunset remains of a better day, drenched in chaos? Jasmine and tea and the silhouette of madness, and leaves dragging forlorn cuts of grass shape against his yielding legs. Is this what the man who best knows him would make of him?
"You would..." He feels himself wet-eyed for unspilled tears, frustration that spikes the tremors of his body, stings. "Wei Wuxian."
The ache, then, of double-edged swords: he bleeds himself the better for Wei Ying's name, tortured in his mouth.
"Not to me, should the brew fail, vow it. I cannot..." And Bichen's silvered languor pulls yet free of Wei Ying's throat. Lan Wangji cannot perch her there. "Jin Guangyao held wire to your throat, I cannot..."
He has spoken in the span of moments more words wasted than in the past shi. They strip his teeth, burn his lips, spill out, avalanche. What is he left but this: the weight of his sword in hands that no longer tell texture, returning the gift of feathers, thrusting it on Wei Ying's bent knees. With Bichen's fall beside Wangji, the world hollows, rattles. His hands wash over Wei Yings's layers to mend them, as if he stands the near-corpse between them. Look. Look how well Wangji does, spare him for it. Do not presume to go against the dignity of the sect, his wishes, his honour, do not condemn him to —
He has flattened the last of Wei Ying's silks on his person, and look how well they fall.
"On your name as Wei Ying. On your ancestors. On whatever you yet honour." Sizhui, but speak not his name in vain. "No resurrection."
no subject
He thinks, along the way it batters the precarious possibility that Wei Ying would not do this: return to haunt him like a ghost, between dregs of blood salt and petrichor. The horse neighs distantly, weakly, shrill. He will remember this: the fear a hundred men before him have seeded in their soul, of this beautiful monster who takes his step before Lan Wangji.
Yiling Patrirarch. No. No, but Wangji inches back first, nearly staggers again — keeps Bichen flat and lifted, the symbol of eroded defences, a battlement conquered. She does not waver, and Wei Ying pushes close, bares himself like a common whore, or a nymph, or a summer dream. ( This is the pallor that shares your bed, beneath silks. ) And Wei Ying rips of himself his quarry, setting it, slick and filthied and so very small in Lan Wangji's free hand, a gift of sweat and strain.
Qi pulses through him, without sustenance. In his hands, Bichen gleams with the dignity of a weapon that knows herself her master's better — in spite of him, and not for his pleasure. He swallows.
"Resurrection." Of him, of his body, the puppet returned to strings. Is he as Wen Qionglin, then? The sunset remains of a better day, drenched in chaos? Jasmine and tea and the silhouette of madness, and leaves dragging forlorn cuts of grass shape against his yielding legs. Is this what the man who best knows him would make of him?
"You would..." He feels himself wet-eyed for unspilled tears, frustration that spikes the tremors of his body, stings. "Wei Wuxian."
The ache, then, of double-edged swords: he bleeds himself the better for Wei Ying's name, tortured in his mouth.
"Not to me, should the brew fail, vow it. I cannot..." And Bichen's silvered languor pulls yet free of Wei Ying's throat. Lan Wangji cannot perch her there. "Jin Guangyao held wire to your throat, I cannot..."
He has spoken in the span of moments more words wasted than in the past shi. They strip his teeth, burn his lips, spill out, avalanche. What is he left but this: the weight of his sword in hands that no longer tell texture, returning the gift of feathers, thrusting it on Wei Ying's bent knees. With Bichen's fall beside Wangji, the world hollows, rattles. His hands wash over Wei Yings's layers to mend them, as if he stands the near-corpse between them. Look. Look how well Wangji does, spare him for it. Do not presume to go against the dignity of the sect, his wishes, his honour, do not condemn him to —
He has flattened the last of Wei Ying's silks on his person, and look how well they fall.
"On your name as Wei Ying. On your ancestors. On whatever you yet honour." Sizhui, but speak not his name in vain. "No resurrection."