Let go. A lifetime of such brutal absences of ambiguity, of rejection writ in barked command. He releases Wei Ying as if he were bitten, and the snake still slithers before him, hisses with ivory shows of teeth. In this, they are harmonised: the action of Wei Ying's disgusted, given form. The reaction of Lan Wangji's cravenly withdrawal.
Leaves scatter on Wei Ying's knees, and if he could yet harm their martial arrangement, he would bat them away with broken fingers. This is what Wei Ying might have looked like, drenched in the filth of funerary ablutions, the final weave of rot and root and soot and stone, and how he means to say, eyes withered and tongue bound, Better bare among strangers than dressed in dirt, than buried.
But he has lost his step, his place. Whatever the congruence of their notes, they have failed, once more, to achieve melody. Earlier, in battle, they flowed like twin rivers coursing greedily to rash, if seamless confluence. And now —
Now, only the petty aches, the negligible agonies. He takes Wei Ying's hand, stabs Bichen in hard ground to serve him as pillar and crutch, and still nearly topples over when he rises. Then the walk on, joints stiff, arm locked over Wei Ying's shoulders, back a line of tense suspicion, distrusting his body yet holds the strength to preserve his balance. Harder, still, when they reach the horse. And bless the animal for its patience, allowing them to negotiate the minor compromises and cautions of logistics that perch Lan Wangji closest to the creature's strong, well-muscled neck once more. This time, when he leans, he remembers to pass hand gratefully on the side of the horse's long throat, to lean and follow with dry lips once after. Forgive him for the fright of earlier, the discourteous transition from honoured passenger to a hard, fainting well stone.
Were the mood not slaughter, and their tempers not shifted, he might ask if Wei Ying often allows himself to tarry when abducting chief cultivators. Instead, he waits — until Wei Ying returns to him, likely in disgust and frustration, but absent the alternative. One horse, and they mean a cruel pace. He cannot simply walk and lead the reins, condemned to Lan Wangji's presence — Wangji, who sequesters Wei Ying's arm, returns it to where it had fastened his waist before, only positioned to cross Wangji's core, precisely.
"There is time." Feel it. The warmth of it, volcanic, spanning. How a livened core breathes like a flower in spring's tender bloom. Mere days before, it might have scalded his bloodstream, but even a quieted flame still nips to inject strength in frailer flesh and galvanise it. Whatever sickness rests inside Lan Wangji, his core does battle even as the sleeper wakes. "I do not perish today. Trust in me."
As Wangji failed, bitter ginseng on his tongue, to trust in Wei Ying. He behaves, on the long ride, for it.
no subject
Leaves scatter on Wei Ying's knees, and if he could yet harm their martial arrangement, he would bat them away with broken fingers. This is what Wei Ying might have looked like, drenched in the filth of funerary ablutions, the final weave of rot and root and soot and stone, and how he means to say, eyes withered and tongue bound, Better bare among strangers than dressed in dirt, than buried.
But he has lost his step, his place. Whatever the congruence of their notes, they have failed, once more, to achieve melody. Earlier, in battle, they flowed like twin rivers coursing greedily to rash, if seamless confluence. And now —
Now, only the petty aches, the negligible agonies. He takes Wei Ying's hand, stabs Bichen in hard ground to serve him as pillar and crutch, and still nearly topples over when he rises. Then the walk on, joints stiff, arm locked over Wei Ying's shoulders, back a line of tense suspicion, distrusting his body yet holds the strength to preserve his balance. Harder, still, when they reach the horse. And bless the animal for its patience, allowing them to negotiate the minor compromises and cautions of logistics that perch Lan Wangji closest to the creature's strong, well-muscled neck once more. This time, when he leans, he remembers to pass hand gratefully on the side of the horse's long throat, to lean and follow with dry lips once after. Forgive him for the fright of earlier, the discourteous transition from honoured passenger to a hard, fainting well stone.
Were the mood not slaughter, and their tempers not shifted, he might ask if Wei Ying often allows himself to tarry when abducting chief cultivators. Instead, he waits — until Wei Ying returns to him, likely in disgust and frustration, but absent the alternative. One horse, and they mean a cruel pace. He cannot simply walk and lead the reins, condemned to Lan Wangji's presence — Wangji, who sequesters Wei Ying's arm, returns it to where it had fastened his waist before, only positioned to cross Wangji's core, precisely.
"There is time." Feel it. The warmth of it, volcanic, spanning. How a livened core breathes like a flower in spring's tender bloom. Mere days before, it might have scalded his bloodstream, but even a quieted flame still nips to inject strength in frailer flesh and galvanise it. Whatever sickness rests inside Lan Wangji, his core does battle even as the sleeper wakes. "I do not perish today. Trust in me."
As Wangji failed, bitter ginseng on his tongue, to trust in Wei Ying. He behaves, on the long ride, for it.