( Nor right his wrongs, nor walk his single-log bridge, nor claim his redemption. If Lan Wangji has learned the lessons of a life, they are two: that Wei Ying, Wei Wuxian, Yiling Patriarch has yet to encounter odds he will not spit the face of, until they improve from impossibility to probability at his whim. And that men are for the knowing, the pleasing, the worship, the mourning, the long and gutting hate — and never for taming.
What use are Anduin's apologies? No better than if he were to take the knee and, shrivelled into himself, wilting, offer a hundred alms and beg a thousands excuses and subject himself to ten thousand deaths, if only he were permitted to erase with a drenched cloth the stain of their visitor's brayed cacophony.
"Unnnnnnnclllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. You know some rope'em, the wives' mothers, and leave'em to drown in the river? Like cats, ahhh? Unnnnnnnnclllllllllllllleeeeeeeeee? Ahhhhhnnn? Should I be, me, I should — should I be drownin'er, me?
Arid, Lan Wangji's lips nearly tear. He wets them the once. Again. Another turn. Then, carefully, as if by way of explanation: )
He screams.
( As if, perhaps, Anduin may have failed to notice. As if they are not both possessed of the same gutting vulnerability to shattering screeches. As if Lan Wangji is the only man of this world susceptible to the terrors of a migraine. )
no subject
( Nor right his wrongs, nor walk his single-log bridge, nor claim his redemption. If Lan Wangji has learned the lessons of a life, they are two: that Wei Ying, Wei Wuxian, Yiling Patriarch has yet to encounter odds he will not spit the face of, until they improve from impossibility to probability at his whim. And that men are for the knowing, the pleasing, the worship, the mourning, the long and gutting hate — and never for taming.
What use are Anduin's apologies? No better than if he were to take the knee and, shrivelled into himself, wilting, offer a hundred alms and beg a thousands excuses and subject himself to ten thousand deaths, if only he were permitted to erase with a drenched cloth the stain of their visitor's brayed cacophony.
"Unnnnnnnclllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. You know some rope'em, the wives' mothers, and leave'em to drown in the river? Like cats, ahhh? Unnnnnnnnclllllllllllllleeeeeeeeee? Ahhhhhnnn? Should I be, me, I should — should I be drownin'er, me?
Arid, Lan Wangji's lips nearly tear. He wets them the once. Again. Another turn. Then, carefully, as if by way of explanation: )
He screams.
( As if, perhaps, Anduin may have failed to notice. As if they are not both possessed of the same gutting vulnerability to shattering screeches. As if Lan Wangji is the only man of this world susceptible to the terrors of a migraine. )