( A rite, an epiphany. An awakening. She was drips of shape and clusters of ambiguity, and she has ragged herself into chasms and decay on the blade Lan Wangji fosters, faint-pale, in her fetters partway.
There is shift beside him, electric. The groom. And did he wed in name, or in truth, or in expectation? All men played their game, but some footings faltered, some fortified — and he looks ill at ease by a door barely whispered open. Lost and wandered. Lan Wangji aches for the absence of words in him, like coins gleefully danced free of his purse, that he cannot alleviate hurts his skin cauterised against in his youngest years.
What is it, to regret slaughter? What is it to look upon butchery and attach sickly, yellowed values of emotion? )
For them, she is mercy. ( Look at him. Hear him. See the root of his sword, hilt and handle. See how he slides her in her cradle, for those last few fingers' breadths. How she sleeps. ) Apologies. You hand not slain before.
( And this is the toil of twinned two, for all only one hand bore blade. Murder is method; guilt is life's strong sip. Boy, have your first drink.
It stays with a man, the first killing: wrought or conspired. Lan Wangji can eradicate harm and hurt, but not awareness. Lies and deception befit the diplomatic. His tongue stays laden, at cost. )
no subject
There is shift beside him, electric. The groom. And did he wed in name, or in truth, or in expectation? All men played their game, but some footings faltered, some fortified — and he looks ill at ease by a door barely whispered open. Lost and wandered. Lan Wangji aches for the absence of words in him, like coins gleefully danced free of his purse, that he cannot alleviate hurts his skin cauterised against in his youngest years.
What is it, to regret slaughter? What is it to look upon butchery and attach sickly, yellowed values of emotion? )
For them, she is mercy. ( Look at him. Hear him. See the root of his sword, hilt and handle. See how he slides her in her cradle, for those last few fingers' breadths. How she sleeps. ) Apologies. You hand not slain before.
( And this is the toil of twinned two, for all only one hand bore blade. Murder is method; guilt is life's strong sip. Boy, have your first drink.
It stays with a man, the first killing: wrought or conspired. Lan Wangji can eradicate harm and hurt, but not awareness. Lies and deception befit the diplomatic. His tongue stays laden, at cost. )