[ In halls, the sound might be a betrayal of subterfuge, an inconvenience.
In the aqueduct corridor, where waters roil keen and the dragon's assault tremble the room, and the slosh of ice grounds their legs and coagulates steps — it is vibration, a danger of urgency.
Twice, Lan Wangji has crossed the rusting, rustlign intestines of the failing pipelines, each way to different purpose: a stick, a lost endeavour. The third time is to his own pleasure, to recapture the bodies strewn each way of the cage he'd seen savaged like the ripped ribs of a gutted bird. For burial, later. No matter their provenance, all men deserve better than stale waters rising, bloodied and thick with tar, above their heads.
If there is a charm, the third attempt neglects to activate it. Jinxes him instead with a raspily-gasped encounter of a shade that turns boy turns hindrance turns sound, in the midst of the tubes. Tick. Tock. Tick —
And the dragon, outside, howling.
Forgive, young man, the silvered length of cold, sharpened sword that teases the line of your neck in sweet greeting: ]
Still yourself. [ No. The boy barely breathes, hands bound to his mouth. ] Your sound.
escaaaaaaape
In the aqueduct corridor, where waters roil keen and the dragon's assault tremble the room, and the slosh of ice grounds their legs and coagulates steps — it is vibration, a danger of urgency.
Twice, Lan Wangji has crossed the rusting, rustlign intestines of the failing pipelines, each way to different purpose: a stick, a lost endeavour. The third time is to his own pleasure, to recapture the bodies strewn each way of the cage he'd seen savaged like the ripped ribs of a gutted bird. For burial, later. No matter their provenance, all men deserve better than stale waters rising, bloodied and thick with tar, above their heads.
If there is a charm, the third attempt neglects to activate it. Jinxes him instead with a raspily-gasped encounter of a shade that turns boy turns hindrance turns sound, in the midst of the tubes. Tick. Tock. Tick —
And the dragon, outside, howling.
Forgive, young man, the silvered length of cold, sharpened sword that teases the line of your neck in sweet greeting: ]
Still yourself. [ No. The boy barely breathes, hands bound to his mouth. ] Your sound.