Wei Wuxian holds himself impassive under the onslaught of words, the silvered dance of a trembling hesitance in bladework that isn't destined to spill he's life's blood today, or any day. Once he'd asked Lan Zhan to be his executioner, if that day came, because he could trust no one else to do it cleanly.
His fears were well founded. If his body had been found, if he'd died true, he would have been burned, cast as ash, cursed to never be whole, never reincarnate. Eradicated, like the plague he was cast to be.
He remains impassive, with the feathers shoved back to his knees, the hands that busy themselves with making the mess of his clothing smooth, and the words, still. Himself, rein clutched and forgotten in hand, fingers tightening in reflex when the horse tests the limits, and his eyes meet Lan Zhan's.
"Let me go." Quoting himself, centuries ago. Giving those words, as his gaze drops, and he fumbles the feathers and picks out the leaves, left to rot about his knees. Let it go. Let it rot. Let it decompose, like his intentions, sweltering and hot. Bothersome.
"You have it on my parents' grave, on condition. After you heal, you reach out to the Merchant. You learn what hold this world has on souls."
It's not a condition he thinks will be met now, in Lan Zhan's weakened state. He has to have belief somewhere, and so if spills into the antidote, the itch of him calling to Wen Qing now, to start her on the making of it. He has to hope when hope has broken him time and again. What's left, if he stops turning to hope?
He stands, heavy, and reaches his hand out to Lan Zhan, mud smeared and with leaf speckling his fingers. All the careful work of flattening, and his silks already stir, a living creature. The horse behind them, stamping feet and cropping at the precious little vegetation, one swiveling ear kept turned to them, listening, always listening. Prey animal aware that fight or flight or inbetween, one needs to know it approaches to make any claim to action.
It does not like their bleeding. It does not like this day, this evening, and it sets back ears for second mounting, when that comes.
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His fears were well founded. If his body had been found, if he'd died true, he would have been burned, cast as ash, cursed to never be whole, never reincarnate. Eradicated, like the plague he was cast to be.
He remains impassive, with the feathers shoved back to his knees, the hands that busy themselves with making the mess of his clothing smooth, and the words, still. Himself, rein clutched and forgotten in hand, fingers tightening in reflex when the horse tests the limits, and his eyes meet Lan Zhan's.
"Let me go." Quoting himself, centuries ago. Giving those words, as his gaze drops, and he fumbles the feathers and picks out the leaves, left to rot about his knees. Let it go. Let it rot. Let it decompose, like his intentions, sweltering and hot. Bothersome.
"You have it on my parents' grave, on condition. After you heal, you reach out to the Merchant. You learn what hold this world has on souls."
It's not a condition he thinks will be met now, in Lan Zhan's weakened state. He has to have belief somewhere, and so if spills into the antidote, the itch of him calling to Wen Qing now, to start her on the making of it. He has to hope when hope has broken him time and again. What's left, if he stops turning to hope?
He stands, heavy, and reaches his hand out to Lan Zhan, mud smeared and with leaf speckling his fingers. All the careful work of flattening, and his silks already stir, a living creature. The horse behind them, stamping feet and cropping at the precious little vegetation, one swiveling ear kept turned to them, listening, always listening. Prey animal aware that fight or flight or inbetween, one needs to know it approaches to make any claim to action.
It does not like their bleeding. It does not like this day, this evening, and it sets back ears for second mounting, when that comes.