( We must do what we cannot. Was this woman so frail, mere heartbeats before, a tender addition of dust motes and tattered bone? And no more than the trodden wisps of illusion, she, a golden weight on the table that sighs her burden? She feels ephemeral, still in her chrysalis — as if, if only they wait and wait and wait, butterfly wings will tear and cannibalise her flesh, and push her birth-wide and wet open?
The spirit within her calls to Lan Wangji, half-mute, pale and waiting. He does not know which — gambles with the predatory tickling of one cord of the guqin, then the next, qi notes elliptical. What do you want? )
I am not of the Jiang.
( Attempt, and in the pale-tipped crown of their heaven-spearing mountains, the Gusu Lan only succeed. Lay stake, claim victory and glory. Attempt the impossible, but, Do not begin what you will not see finished.
How is it the men of Gusu Lan ever forgive themselves their own death? Red stains the inside of Wangji's eyes, rusts to starless dark. He wants to scream, but his jaws lock, young. )
Will the day come when you do not bleed me of the impossible?
( Past the gates of Cloud Recesses, where he is more than mere, sedate fixture and defender of the infant disciples, swarmed — he is abstracted to the print of his cruelties. Reduced like a drop of oil in a cup of water, rotating into the perfect form — a sphere of his own substance. Recalibrating.
He feels so often unfinished beside Wei Ying, who smells warm despite his death, lived-in. The sun trails after his nape — lands clean and crisp here, now, Wei Ying's hair briefly contracted by the headband's bind, then spilled. He plays, to avoid tickling the beam and its braid in Wei Ying's hair, resolute. )
You do not wish the spirit decimated. Then — ( And his palm passes the guqin strings, fingers pinch and dangle. ) Coax it free. I claim the girl.
no subject
The spirit within her calls to Lan Wangji, half-mute, pale and waiting. He does not know which — gambles with the predatory tickling of one cord of the guqin, then the next, qi notes elliptical. What do you want? )
I am not of the Jiang.
( Attempt, and in the pale-tipped crown of their heaven-spearing mountains, the Gusu Lan only succeed. Lay stake, claim victory and glory. Attempt the impossible, but, Do not begin what you will not see finished.
How is it the men of Gusu Lan ever forgive themselves their own death? Red stains the inside of Wangji's eyes, rusts to starless dark. He wants to scream, but his jaws lock, young. )
Will the day come when you do not bleed me of the impossible?
( Past the gates of Cloud Recesses, where he is more than mere, sedate fixture and defender of the infant disciples, swarmed — he is abstracted to the print of his cruelties. Reduced like a drop of oil in a cup of water, rotating into the perfect form — a sphere of his own substance. Recalibrating.
He feels so often unfinished beside Wei Ying, who smells warm despite his death, lived-in. The sun trails after his nape — lands clean and crisp here, now, Wei Ying's hair briefly contracted by the headband's bind, then spilled. He plays, to avoid tickling the beam and its braid in Wei Ying's hair, resolute. )
You do not wish the spirit decimated. Then — ( And his palm passes the guqin strings, fingers pinch and dangle. ) Coax it free. I claim the girl.
( Let each mind his mission. )