[ Later, the hour rounded, nibbled by candle light at frayed ends. When they net and reel themselves and coax back fragments of their strength like bauble glass, broken, to their sleeves. The servant quarters might as well be a cavern, a confused meandering of nosing and limbs, where pups — do not speak the word, do not dare it, Wei Ying wears a hundred ears and all pinken for canines — circle each other to lick wounds and latch on the first teat that will yield pittance.
Words, warmth, explanation. There, in a bowl, honeyed congee. Another's cup, sediments of clotted tea, oversteeped. Acrid burn, singeing Lan Wangji's tongue by proxy. Scent stakes, scent does not stab. Ice, the howling wind distant outside, kills.
This was to be expected, but his lips don't part. Force of cold-stiff fingers smoothens the base clay of his own cup, tighten cruelly. He sees her early, seeks her late. Thinks, more the fool, if he is first, if he is ready — if the heavens tally and are satisfied to absorb all laughter at their mockery, whatever its provenance — then Wei Ying's gasped debt of awe lessens. What difference, then? Foremost diplomat among the sects, the chief cultivator knows his duties. Let him be first before her, then.
Shuffled, the narrow movements of their knees syncopate, then deafen. No privacy, after the witch Karsa removes herself, no patience for prey. Knelt before the corpse roused as mistress Wen Qing, Lan Wangji is only the white of his silks and the silent thrum of late-night, bated anticipation. He raises his borrowed cup between them in a doubled grasp, follows the careful pale spill of it, from her right flank to the left. Wine, diluted. Dull smears on splintered floor, may the wood drink what this dead cannot take as her right of libation. Beneath, may old soil and rotted root and the chills of the land accept their due.
After, he sits back, back straight, cup discarded — the pull of one sleeve caught in his other, settling hand. Nerves: distantly, he knows the sickness — remembers it, from when it last struck, in early youth. He does not weather it well. Rasps — ]
Do we choose to greet, or to Inquire?
[ A spirit's aggression dictates the beginnings, the protocols. And this, a body roused — to puppetry and the craftsman's doubtless satisfaction. A young woman, befitting the image of what must have been her execution day. Could Lanling not spare the dignity of whites? The expense of a silk shroud for her, the high daughter of a defunct clan.
But then, mercy upon Carp Tower: what man could have foreseen revival? The Patriarch, perhaps, but this exceeds even his work. ( He will sour for it. Settle, Wei Ying, with the tea. )
Madam, you were returned, at least, a perfect revenant, to blaspheme in glory. ]
how did I end up second, wtf | brothel, where some might say this woman belongs!!!
Words, warmth, explanation. There, in a bowl, honeyed congee. Another's cup, sediments of clotted tea, oversteeped. Acrid burn, singeing Lan Wangji's tongue by proxy. Scent stakes, scent does not stab. Ice, the howling wind distant outside, kills.
This was to be expected, but his lips don't part. Force of cold-stiff fingers smoothens the base clay of his own cup, tighten cruelly. He sees her early, seeks her late. Thinks, more the fool, if he is first, if he is ready — if the heavens tally and are satisfied to absorb all laughter at their mockery, whatever its provenance — then Wei Ying's gasped debt of awe lessens. What difference, then? Foremost diplomat among the sects, the chief cultivator knows his duties. Let him be first before her, then.
Shuffled, the narrow movements of their knees syncopate, then deafen. No privacy, after the witch Karsa removes herself, no patience for prey. Knelt before the corpse roused as mistress Wen Qing, Lan Wangji is only the white of his silks and the silent thrum of late-night, bated anticipation. He raises his borrowed cup between them in a doubled grasp, follows the careful pale spill of it, from her right flank to the left. Wine, diluted. Dull smears on splintered floor, may the wood drink what this dead cannot take as her right of libation. Beneath, may old soil and rotted root and the chills of the land accept their due.
After, he sits back, back straight, cup discarded — the pull of one sleeve caught in his other, settling hand. Nerves: distantly, he knows the sickness — remembers it, from when it last struck, in early youth. He does not weather it well. Rasps — ]
Do we choose to greet, or to Inquire?
[ A spirit's aggression dictates the beginnings, the protocols. And this, a body roused — to puppetry and the craftsman's doubtless satisfaction. A young woman, befitting the image of what must have been her execution day. Could Lanling not spare the dignity of whites? The expense of a silk shroud for her, the high daughter of a defunct clan.
But then, mercy upon Carp Tower: what man could have foreseen revival? The Patriarch, perhaps, but this exceeds even his work. ( He will sour for it. Settle, Wei Ying, with the tea. )
Madam, you were returned, at least, a perfect revenant, to blaspheme in glory. ]