( Look at her, a mother mourning. Deprived and her children detained, and this was Lan Wangji too for the better part of more than one sennight — adrift, consumed by the possibilities of agony that his son might taste, alone and isolated, divided from his father.
He remembers this moment, its midnight hour, its questions: how he sought the stuttered laughter of Wei Ying, the unflinching, mad dark beam of his gaze, how he buried his own grief in the familiar signs of another's confidence. How he would speak, He is well, then, We must not speak of the alternative, and, What difference, to wonder?
But thoughts stabbed and strained him, and nights sprawled bitter, gossamer and long. Doubt choked him. )
They are well. ( No. ) You must not speak of the alternative. ( No. ) What difference, to wonder?
no subject
He remembers this moment, its midnight hour, its questions: how he sought the stuttered laughter of Wei Ying, the unflinching, mad dark beam of his gaze, how he buried his own grief in the familiar signs of another's confidence. How he would speak, He is well, then, We must not speak of the alternative, and, What difference, to wonder?
But thoughts stabbed and strained him, and nights sprawled bitter, gossamer and long. Doubt choked him. )
They are well. ( No. ) You must not speak of the alternative. ( No. ) What difference, to wonder?