[ Wei Ying will have last laugh of it — how Lan Wangji stumbled, from chaotic possibility to certain disaster at a scattered stride. What did he know of the miniature coffin to which he entrusted himself? Only that the witches Lily and Hermione brokered the deed, and that sorcery, gravity and a haze of the mind propelled him within without question. Bone steeled, but body — lessened with each step, until his mind and his biology both compromise their clarity, sundered. He knows himself, a man grown to hearty measure. Feels, with intimate, itches and prickles, the shrivelling of his skin.
No matter. The sect Gusu Lan prides in proselytises confinement. One knee bent, the second follows. He bides his time in captivity on hard, plain ground that is splintered rough by what were once diminutive striations. The grain aches in punishments of friction. Now and then, tumult erupts in Lan Wangji's torture chamber, shifting it like roiling waters. He thinks, were he a man of more wine than meditation, he might take sick.
Time races itself. In a world of detail, each second dilates. Then, the token signals are exchanged, a staccato succession of what might be Lee Chang's fingers rapping the skins of the box, translating as tectonic vibrato within it — and Lan Wangji extricates himself..
He comes to in unfamiliar, if not unanticipated dark, in the dubious splendours of an insalubre location. Dust motes and angry scratches on wall posts and the looming, heaving pillars of halls that barely linger upright. They infiltrate the venue of 'an underground fight' — then, no doubt, Lee Chang has delivered Wangji after inserting him unseen on the premise, in the privacy of the first back quarter of their fine, hosting establishment. The place bears those marks: humidity, mould, rats scuttling at their feet. Briefly, Lan Wangji is a body recalling itself to scale, confused by dysphoria. Small, now great again, disoriented. His legs nearly give.
On a hunting dog's instinct, he raises Bichen before him, yet fettered — lowers the blade, gaze bright-white and barely blinked, once he sees and knows Lee Chang before him. ]
What do we face? [ And it burns him, the craving to kick at the box, if not for the private understanding that it has helped more than hindered him. ] What do you need?
release of lan zhan from the gd box!!! | lee chang
No matter. The sect Gusu Lan prides in proselytises confinement. One knee bent, the second follows. He bides his time in captivity on hard, plain ground that is splintered rough by what were once diminutive striations. The grain aches in punishments of friction. Now and then, tumult erupts in Lan Wangji's torture chamber, shifting it like roiling waters. He thinks, were he a man of more wine than meditation, he might take sick.
Time races itself. In a world of detail, each second dilates. Then, the token signals are exchanged, a staccato succession of what might be Lee Chang's fingers rapping the skins of the box, translating as tectonic vibrato within it — and Lan Wangji extricates himself..
He comes to in unfamiliar, if not unanticipated dark, in the dubious splendours of an insalubre location. Dust motes and angry scratches on wall posts and the looming, heaving pillars of halls that barely linger upright. They infiltrate the venue of 'an underground fight' — then, no doubt, Lee Chang has delivered Wangji after inserting him unseen on the premise, in the privacy of the first back quarter of their fine, hosting establishment. The place bears those marks: humidity, mould, rats scuttling at their feet. Briefly, Lan Wangji is a body recalling itself to scale, confused by dysphoria. Small, now great again, disoriented. His legs nearly give.
On a hunting dog's instinct, he raises Bichen before him, yet fettered — lowers the blade, gaze bright-white and barely blinked, once he sees and knows Lee Chang before him. ]
What do we face? [ And it burns him, the craving to kick at the box, if not for the private understanding that it has helped more than hindered him. ] What do you need?