[ Fire, and time raw, and the dappled spill of moonlight, painting him. The better man would bow or thank. Jiang Wanyin carves himself of petty jade, unbending.
Literal, the blood between them, dark ache and the decks given to drink. He thought, the mermaid's eyes closed, Lan Wangji's duties might complete themselves; he lingers, instead, to pass a hand over the air of her, to feel out the ridges and bone and pores of her energy, to taste flavours that might overwhelm his palate, where Wei Ying thrives on discerning each nuance. Spice, of a kind. Alcohol. One day, it will wound him to understand how sensitive he is to all manners of excess, external stimulation.
And then, nearby, sits the most virulent allergen. ]
You do not wear your sword.
[ Ah, and does master Jiang remember? They spurned a man once, for this bloodless cause. Lan Wangji shared a roof with him, ghost reduced, and the troubled, confused eye of the cultivation world turned and blinked and missed him.
But Jiang Wanyin — Jiang Cheng, no? If they were classmates, once, colleagues of a generation? Wanyin, courtesy be blessed. Jiang Wanyin lacks, and the storms spool and roar, and there is everywhere the scratched whipping of hard, heaviness shifting, of sirens thrashing and throwing themselves at the vessel, climbing to deck.
He breathes with sudden, empty, corrosive understanding that brother chose well in Wangji — that he will wear his obligations handsomely. An arc waved: he turns Bichen, left to right, listening for a moment, between the gasps of wet wind, for the testimony of energies, violent. Monsters, absent their form. ]
Take rearguard.
[ The honoured place of emperors and cripples and women, to the humiliation of their pride. No matter. Jiang Wanyin delivers himself like a babe, defenceless. He will be afforded that courtesy. In war, before — ...ah, but they shared a war once, where their blades weren't turned on each other. ]
no subject
Literal, the blood between them, dark ache and the decks given to drink. He thought, the mermaid's eyes closed, Lan Wangji's duties might complete themselves; he lingers, instead, to pass a hand over the air of her, to feel out the ridges and bone and pores of her energy, to taste flavours that might overwhelm his palate, where Wei Ying thrives on discerning each nuance. Spice, of a kind. Alcohol. One day, it will wound him to understand how sensitive he is to all manners of excess, external stimulation.
And then, nearby, sits the most virulent allergen. ]
You do not wear your sword.
[ Ah, and does master Jiang remember? They spurned a man once, for this bloodless cause. Lan Wangji shared a roof with him, ghost reduced, and the troubled, confused eye of the cultivation world turned and blinked and missed him.
But Jiang Wanyin — Jiang Cheng, no? If they were classmates, once, colleagues of a generation? Wanyin, courtesy be blessed. Jiang Wanyin lacks, and the storms spool and roar, and there is everywhere the scratched whipping of hard, heaviness shifting, of sirens thrashing and throwing themselves at the vessel, climbing to deck.
He breathes with sudden, empty, corrosive understanding that brother chose well in Wangji — that he will wear his obligations handsomely. An arc waved: he turns Bichen, left to right, listening for a moment, between the gasps of wet wind, for the testimony of energies, violent. Monsters, absent their form. ]
Take rearguard.
[ The honoured place of emperors and cripples and women, to the humiliation of their pride. No matter. Jiang Wanyin delivers himself like a babe, defenceless. He will be afforded that courtesy. In war, before — ...ah, but they shared a war once, where their blades weren't turned on each other. ]
I shall escort you.